“They’re nobody,” he said.
“Excuse me?” one of them said, offended.
“Not helping yourself, man,” Brett muttered.
Milo ran his hand through his hair, clearly frustrated. “Mary, I swear to God, nothing happened. They’re label plants. Same as last night.”
I took a breath and finally walked up to him, running my hands down his shoulders. “Baby,” I began. “You told me you’re not fucking any groupies, and I believe you. Besides — it’s highly unlikely your enlarged prostate can withstand such a load, you know.”
The room erupted. Brett choked on his drink. Owen doubled over laughing. Even Killian cracked up, his shoulders shaking. Dahlia covered her mouth, eyes sparkling with barely contained amusement. Burgundy, who had been sitting next to Owen had her eyebrows shoot up.
“Enlarged—” Milo’s face went through several emotions at once. Shock, disbelief, then something else — something in the realm of relief. “I’m thirty-five, not seventy, you fuckin’ menace.”
I patted his chest condescendingly. “Sure, baby. Whatever helps you sleep at night.”
The two label girls looked thoroughly confused. One of them whispered something to the other, and they both grabbed their purses and left without another word.
“There goes our paycheck,” Brett said, watching them go.
“Who were they?” I asked, feeling Milo’s hands around my waist, pulling me close before I could dodge.
“Daughters of some label exec,” Milo murmured against my neck.
I rolled my eyes although I couldn’t say his touch was entirely unpleasant.
“I’m sorry about last night. The label’s been pushing hard on the PR angle for the new album drop.”
“The album you haven’t recorded yet?”
“Semantics.” He leaned down, his breath warm against my ear. “Forgive me?”
I pretended to think about it. “I don’t know, dude. Twenty grand is nice and all, but I’m thinking you owe me something more.”
“Yeah?”
I pulled back enough to look him in the eyes, making sure everyone in the room could hear. “How about you fuck me on that couch after the show?” I pointed where Owen and Burgundy were sitting. “On camera.”
The room went dead silent.
Milo’s eyes narrowed. “Here?”
“Right here. On that couch, against that wall, bent over that makeup counter — wherever I want.” I traced a finger down his chest. “Consider it penance.”
“Holy shit,” Owen muttered, glancing down at the couch. “We’re sitting on a future crime scene.”
Dahlia was grinning like the Cheshire cat. “I fucking love you.”
Milo’s grip on my waist tightened. “What about my enlarged prostate?”
My mouth curled upward. “Oh, I think we’ll figure something out.”
The wings backstage were hotter than the Louisiana night outside — thick with the smell of dry ice, sweat, and anticipation. I stood just off to the side of the stage, the bass vibrating up through my thigh-high boots and straight into my bones. The opening band had finished twenty minutes ago, and the crowd was feral now, chanting“Black Psalm! Black Psalm!”
Dahlia stood beside me, fanning herself with a laminated backstage pass. “You ready for this? They always go hard on hometown shows.”
I nodded, but my eyes were glued to the stage as the lights dropped to a single blood-red spotlight. Then the drums hit — I couldn’t make out Brett through the fog, just the blurry outline of his drumsticks — and then the rest of the band exploded intothe opening riff of one of their biggest singles.On Your Knees.It was exactly as filthy as it sounded.
The roar from the crowd on those first chords was deafening.
