Not needed.

Not wanted.

As the disheartening reality of that sank in, my gaze stalled dispassionately on War. Wet and plastered to his head, his brown hair looked almost black. I watched him throw the tail end of his long lavender scarf behind his sweaty back as he strutted confidently across the width of the stage.

He’d made it so easy to resume our old relationship. I didn’t know why he had wanted me back, but he had, and I was grateful. He seemed to want to pretend that the past two years with the RCA deal and Martin had never happened, and that was just fine by me. We were on the same page in that regard though our reasons were undoubtedly different.

With Bryan, on the other hand, I was afraid there was never going to be a way back to the close friendship we’d had before. We never talked about the night we had spent together, but it was always there, an awkward and unbridgeable gap between us.

My eyes followed him as he prowled dangerously around the stage with his guitar, by far the sexiest guy I’d ever seen. Lids lowered, face an intense mask of concentration, I watched his fingers flying over his Les Paul. His instrument screamed like a complex climax above the rhythm of the current song. My blood heated remembering those nimble fingers and the effortless way they’d played my body with strikingly similar results.

Long after the music ended, my gaze lingered on Bryan and the puzzle he represented. There was still much of the handsome playful boy I remembered, but now some additional things much beyond his age. I wondered at the faint lines around his mouth and the guardedness in his manner that had not been there before.

I guessed the past two years had put some hard mileage on all of us.

5

“Where you been?” Every spike of Dizzy’s bleached hair was gelled into place when I arrived for sound check the next afternoon in Boston.

“Working out in the hotel rec room.” I set my iPhone in the dock and started to tune up my guitar.

“Your mom and the girls go back to Seattle last night?” His barbell piercing rose as he lifted his brow.

I nodded. I’d hated saying goodbye to my family, but even worse than that was the thought of sticking around to see the lovey dovey morning routine with Lace and War. Watching the two of them play house within the tight confines of the bus was pushing the limit of what I could take. She and War had disappeared last night right after the show and though I tried not to, imagining what they were doing in that back bedroom with the door closed made me almost physically ill. It was just as bad as it had ever been. I didn’t know how I was going to get a handle on it.

“You must’ve been at it really early. You were gone before I got up.” Eyes the same whiskey color as his sister’s narrowed suspiciously. “You been working out for two whole hours?”

“Yeah.” I slanted a brow. It hadn’t been near long enough.

“Trying to avoid War and my sister, huh?”

My head snapped up.

“Wish I could,” Dizzy shrugged out of his trademark black leather jacket and lowered his head down over his Ibanez RG, completely oblivious to my telling response. “When I left this morning they’d already started arguing at the top of their lungs. It was just like old times.”

“She tell you anything about what happened with Martin?”

“No.” Dizzy ran his tongue over the silver loop in his lip. “She doesn’t do heart to heart chats with me anymore. Besides, that always used to be your territory.”

“Hmm.” I grunted noncommittally. That came to an abrupt end two years ago. “I’d like to kill the son of a bitch for what he did to her.” I stomped down on my pedal board so violently that it bounced off the black hardwood surface.

“Me too, man. I wish she would’ve taken my advice and stayed away from him in the first place. But the way I hear it, the dude’s days are numbered anyway. Word is he’s gotten himself into a real tight spot. Owes a lot of money to higher ups and doesn’t have the funds to cover it.”

Before I could pimp him for more information, the sound of War’s raised voice reached us.

“What’d I tell you?” Dizzy’s chin lifted as War and Lace came into view. “They’re still going at it.”

“No, Warren Andrew Jinkins. I don’t want to.” Lace looked beautiful with her hair pulled back from her face in a messy bun, loose tendrils curling all around her neck, but her blond brows were drawn together. “I haven’t sung anything in over a year.” Her sexy lips pressed flat into a tight line. “Not in public anyway, and your label sure as hell won’t like it if I get up on stage during your set.”

“Come on, Lacey. Just do a number here at sound check.” War blocked her path, his tone turning coaxing. “I wanna hear that sexy voice of yours over the speakers.”

She shook her head, sidestepped around him, dropped down into an abandoned folding chair, and threw her coat on the floor.

Hands on his hips, War continued to glare daggers in her direction as King and Sager came strolling in side by side, the same height, though King weighed about twenty pounds more than Sager now, all of it muscle. He’d taken to drinking protein shakes and lifting weights with a religious fervor since his dad had the heart attack. He had his cell held out in front of Sager, the screen turned sideways. Sager bent his head to watch, his brown eyes hidden beneath unruly strands of inky hair. The bassist snickered at whatever King was showing him. Probably some YouTube video. Whenever he found something funny, he couldn’t wait to share it with Sager.

Smiling widely, Sager clapped King on the shoulder before they separated to get set up.

“War, come on, dude,” I cajoled, pulling his attention away from Lace. “We gotta get outta here by one, so they can change the set up for BS.”

“Alright,” War muttered after lobbing one more loaded glower at Lace. “We’re not through discussing this,” he warned her.

“Yeah, yeah.” She shot him the finger.

I hid my smile.

“You guys haven’t changed a bit. Two of the most stubborn people I know,” Dizzy observed. “Can’t you compromise?”

“Not when I’m right, and she’s wrong,” War explained with his usual arrogance, grabbing the center mic and turning his head back to look at me. “‘Truth.’” He dipped his chin. “Hit it, Bullet.”

I fingered the three string riff repeatedly to set the pace for the frenetic opening. Hips swaying back and forth to the beat in a serpentine pattern, War began the opening lyrics at the same time that King came crashing in with the drums, Dizzy with the rhythm, and Sager with his steady bass line.

I moved to stand between Sager and Dizzy, all three of us leaning back as a choreographed unit, instruments held pelvic level, jamming away together.