Heart pounding, I stared at the email preview illuminating the screen of my phone as if the devil himself had set it on fire.

My chair felt like it'd been liquefied. With me in it.

Jay Brodie PR PRESS RELEASE. Reunion of the...

The rest of the headline didn't fit in, but my gut told me this was big. And my gut had never wronged me yet. It was one of the main reasons why, out of all the music journalist wannabes who'd interned for Jay Brodie PR seven years ago, I was the only one still going strong in this brain, heart, and morals-corroding sex, drugs, and rock 'n' roll industry.

Jay Brodie just had one band on their roster that was long overdue for a reunion. Hall Affinity.

Gulping past the sudden tightness in my throat, I swiped my index finger over the preview and continued to read.

...Decade: Legendary Rock Band Hall Affinity Returning to the Studio to Work on New Material after a 7-Year Hiatus.

I skimmed over the announcement text, my gaze dropping to the bottom of the email. Jay Brodie was a high-end PR boutique and handled only the cream of the crop, the best and the biggest acts in today's rock music, and they were pretty picky about the outlets they worked with. Getting Rewired on their radar had taken us a couple of years.

Linda would make it happen, I assured myself. She'd been good to us when it came to hot exclusives and we'd been good to her when some of her clients needed an extra push. Although most of her clients' names were famous enough to push themselves.

I shook off the doubt and returned to the text.

Lead singer Frankie Blade and guitarist Dante Martinez will make an appearance at the Annual Douglas & Krueger Cancer Benefit that will be held at The Regency on September 28th. Mr. Blade will be available for interviews. Spots are very limited. All applications will be individually reviewed and approved by management. Please fill out the form below to submit the request.

That was six weeks away!

I sucked in a labored breath through my teeth and carefully evaluated every word. They felt rushed and unnatural, almost as if they were doing Frankie a disservice. This benefit show would be the man's first public appearance in years.

Yes, there had been some rumors about new Hall Affinity music, but those rumors had been going around for ages. Dante Martinez had politely ignored all questions regarding a reunion during his last interview.

Shit! I switched to my laptop, my face hot from the sudden surge of adrenaline. My fingers were clammy and stiff as my brain willed them to open the application instead of typing Frankie's name next to post-accident photo in the Google search bar. I was frazzled, but I managed to steer my concentration in the right direction, although I had to go up and fix the typo in my own last name twice.

What is wrong with you, Cassy? It's just a job. You've been doing this for seven years. You should know how to spell your own last name by now.

Unfortunately, Frankie Blade had that effect on people. Even I wasn't immune. Back when the band was owning all the charts and radio stations, he'd been titled the sexiest man alive by pretty much every site, magazine, and outlet that practiced grouping men into lists based on their looks and other assets more times than Hollywood had tried to reboot the Spider-Man franchise. Having a crush on someone like Frankie was inevitable. It was childish and silly, but I cherished my love for him and his music as much as I cherished my love for the real people in my life, my mother and my younger brother, Ashton, even though he'd sadly grown up to be a lazy video game-addicted douche.

My phone rang when I was finishing up the application.

"Did you see the email?" Levi yelled, his voice on the line sounding like he'd had a visit from a ghost. Which wasn't far from the truth. Frankie Blade was a ghost. No one had seen or heard from the front man of Hall Affinity in over seven years. Rumor was, the injuries caused by his motorcycle accident were too severe and he'd been tied to a bed ever since.

"Yes, I just sent in the application." I hit the enter button enthusiastically and my keyboard squeaked in response.

"This is a big one, Cass. I think it's time you utilize your connections." Levi casually threw it out there, but I knew exactly where he was going with it. It wasn't the first time he'd tried to push me into seeking out Dante Martinez for a favor.

Unlike the mysterious Mr. Blade, Hall Affinity's lead guitarist had always been easy to access. He was a child of the public, a lover of press, and a hopeless womanizer. Six months after Frankie's accident, Dante had announced a solo album and a possible tour. The fans were skeptic. Some got upset over the fact that Dante was moving on. Many didn't believe the guitarist had it in him. Frankie Blade and Dante Martinez were the Toxic Twins 2.0. One didn't work without the other.

In spite of that, the solo album and the tour were a success. Levi and I, still green back then, had pimped the hell out of Dante's venture after the three of us hit it off during the interview my friend Linda Schwab, an administrative assistant who was soon to become Jay Brodie PR's VP, arranged for Rewired. At that time, Levi was still running all magazine operations from his family's garage in Santa Monica. He hadn't met our go-to guys, Stewie and Carlos, yet. And hard rock's bad boy Dante Martinez, who'd finally stepped out from the shadow of Frankie's good looks and charisma, was fame-hungry and took every opportunity tossed his way, even an interview with an overly ambitious three-person operation called Rewired. The situation had turned out to be a win-win for all of us.

My interview with Dante had reigned the YouTube charts for months. The Rewired Facebook page blew up overnight. Hall Affinity's axman and his side project were on a hot streak, breaking hearts and making cash.

It had felt a lot like we were rewriting rock 'n' roll history. I loved the thrill of the challenge. I loved the people I'd met. Occasionally, I loved the attention. One of those impulsive moments had landed me an invite to a private and very impromptu dinner Linda's friend, who was the guest of honor, was throwing after a charity event Levi and I covered in Studio City. Dante was part of the group when I arrived.

He'd remembered my name. I was smitten. To me, everyone who'd appeared in a music video was a god. Dante, however, wasn't. He was the devil's son, who knew how to make two things melt in his presence—guitars and women. Or a girl, in my case. I was a twenty-one-year-old tomboy with too much drive, a big mouth, minimum makeup, a cute pixie cut, and fresh music-theme tats on my right arm. I fit in. I had the look, and I was smart and professional beyond my years. I smiled, played nice, shook hands, and never flirted. My goal was to write memories, real accounts about real people, not some manufactured bullshit.

I knew how to balance the questions—when to ask the right ones and when to back away. Everyone liked me. In some ways, the ability to predict whether the person interviewed would want to open up was my gift and my curse. During the dinner, conversations happened and numbers were exchanged. But nothing ever came of it, because Dante was way past the drinking point of no return when he punched his digits into my phone while complimenting my thoughtful interview questions. Sometime during the evening, he'd even called me a kid. I hadn't argued. He was in his early thirties. He'd lived and seen it all. I was just at the beginning of my career. We were worlds apart.

We'd bumped into each other later that year at a couple of charity events Levi and I were covering. He'd recognized me, despite the fact I'd filled out and dyed my hair. We'd had a short chat, which prompted Levi to think I could simply pick up the phone anytime and call Dante like I would an old friend.

Levi was obviously mistaken. I wouldn't gamble with my professional reputation and my integrity just to see if I could secure an exclusive with Frankie via my private channels.

"You need to drop it, Levi," I said, returning to Google and typing Frankie's name into the search bar. I was itching to see if there'd been any recent photos of him released.

"You know this is fucking big, Cass," he pressed, sounding anxious. "You know we need this interview. You also know there's a good chance Rewired won't make the cut."

"We will. We cover the Douglas & Krueger Benefit every year, for God's sake." I tried to calm him down, but I wasn't confident myself.

Chart topping, award-winning bands like Hall Affinity always came with stuck-up management who had no idea how to determine what a respectable publication was. Rewired was a small magazine with three contributors and two photographers, but it'd been going strong for over eight years. It was Levi's brainchild. He'd launched it a year before I met him and big things started happening right after we found each other. Helping him run Rewired was similar to raising a child. It gave us direction and pushed us to do better and think smarter. Levi's dream was to beat Rolling Stone's ratings. It was somewhat unrealistic, but he loved to entertain the idea from time to time.

I played along.

"This is the reunion of the century, the second most wanted reunion after Guns N' Roses!" Levi cried out. He was pacing around, the low thuds of his feet against the carpet reverberating against my eardrums like an intricate bass line.

"I'm not going to call, text, or email Dante Martinez. We've never communicated outside official channels." A groan of disappointment met my ear and I drew my phone away, just in case, as my finger hit the refresh button to reload the browser. The photos that littered my screen—blue-eyed, sandy-haired, dressed-to-kill rock star Frankie Blade with a body like sin and the smile of a saint—were all from before the accident.

"Besides, get your facts straight. It's not a reunion. Technically, the band never broke up. They were taking time off." This was my inner fangirl speaking. Frankie Blade was still my idol. Regardless of the fact that he hadn't given me a new song in over seven years.

"Why aren't you like other women, Cass?" Levi asked. His voice was a blend of plea and disappointment. "Why aren't you using what your mother gave you for the greater good of our magazine?"

"Mighty sexist of you, buddy," I retorted, slightly offended but mostly just amused. When I'd decided to stick to music journalism, I'd promised myself not to build my connections with my feminine charms. Of course, my looks were far from those of a Playboy model, but the mere fact that I was a pretty, young girl trying to make a career in a male-dominated industry had its perks.

"You know me. I'm honest to a fault." Levi chuckled.

I could feel his grin over the line. It was impossible to be mad at him for longer than a minute.

"Are you sure you're not adopted?" I laughed.

"My father's convinced I was switched at birth. He's not too fond of my undying love for rock 'n' roll."

"Does your father not know about Kiss?"

"You've met my father. His love of music doesn't extend past singing 'Hava Nagila' at bar mitzvahs."

We laughed at this notion together. How Levi had turned out to be so rock 'n' roll while growing up in such a strict Jewish household had always been a mystery to both him and me. His father had wanted him to take on the family real estate business.

"You need to relax. Linda will make it happen." I actually wasn't so convinced myself. She still had to run all the press requests by the band's management, and those guys were hard to predict.

"She better. All those margarita's I bought her at the Kipling album release party..." Levi never missed an opportunity to complain about the bill he raked up once while trying to make friends with Linda. It was probably the only stereotypically Jewish thing about him.

"No one was forcing you."

"I was trying to show my appreciation."

"You want a tip? One drink is usually more than enough to show your appreciation. Doesn't have to be six. Six means you're trying to get a woman drunk, not thank her."

"She didn't say no."

"Will you take my advice for once?" Levi had no clue what to do when it came to charming women. I didn't remember him ever having a girlfriend. Not that my love life was any better. My last relationship had lasted a whopping two months before it went up in flames like a box of matches doused with gasoline.

My gaze slid down the screen of my laptop. The entire web was buzzing. The news had spread like wildfire, which was both scary and fascinating.

Even after seven years of silence, Frankie Blade made headlines.

"Okay," Levi's voice boomed in my ear. "Text Linda and check on your boy, Dante. I need to post this ASAP, before Pulse Nation comes up with a massive write-up on the band's history."

While working on beating Rolling Stone's numbers, Levi was practicing beating the numbers of other competitors. Pulse Nation was his guinea pig this year.

"We can do one too," I offered.

"Can you run a poll on our Facebook page? Ten best Hall Affinity songs. Or something along those lines?" Levi's brain was working overtime. He pitched five more engagement post ideas before we finally said our goodbyes.

Heat creeping up my cheeks, I set my phone on my desk near the keyboard and spun in my chair several times. Adrenaline simmered beneath my skin. It'd been ages since I'd been this excited about a press release.

After years of picking the brains of people whose faces decorated everything from coffee mugs to billboards, the excitement had become routine. It was part of the job and it had to be relegated to the background to give way to competence and reliability.

My mind was the definition of a hot mess. It wondered and scrambled, dozens of scenarios playing out inside my head. My gut simply told me to stay put and wait.

Linda would make it happen. The Douglas & Krueger Cancer Benefit was one of the hardest events of the fall to get credentials for. It was a high-end, celebrity-stuffed concert and auction. The tables cost five thousand dollars each. Jay Brodie only approved outlets that had print issues. Rewired had a quarterly one, which didn't sell great, but it'd opened up a lot of doors where just a handful of magazines, like Rolling Stone, AP, and Pulse Nation, could get in. Rewired was also on the list of Linda's favorites. And that list was very short.

* * *

The first post-accident photo of Frankie Blade surfaced on the web the morning after the press release. I woke up at the ass crack of dawn to the maddening rattling of my phone against the nightstand. There was one missed call and two text messages with TMZ links from Levi.

"Crap," I muttered, staring at my phone through the blur in my eyes. At moments like this, I hated this job. Sleep had been secondary for me ever since I met Levi. The blazing headlines were ridiculous. Whoever came up with those must have been doing some hard drugs or had an unhealthy addiction to Mary Shelley's literary work.

"Frankie Blade: Back from the Dead, or is He?"

"Frankenstein of Rock 'N' Roll: Rock Singer Spotted Leaving Beverly Hills Doctor's Office"

I rolled my eyes at the last one and clicked on a photo below it. The image wasn't from the best angle and must have been taken in a rush, because one of the two bodyguards escorting Frankie toward the building was turned toward the camera, his expression mean and menacing, eyes like two rocket launchers. Big guy obviously took his job seriously.

The man in question was wearing a baseball cap that hid his face and a hoodie that disguised his physique. An outfit that, in this particular case, didn't do a stellar job of concealing his celebrity status. I had no doubt it was Frankie. The tips of his sandy locks grazed his cheeks and fell down the back of his neck, just like they did in dozens of other pre-accident photos. His rigid posture gave away his unease, but the way his hands hung loosely at the sides of his body told me he'd been ready for the ambush and didn't care.

A strange flutter tickled my chest as I zoomed in on the photo to study it, trying to make out the face, to no avail.

Frankie Blade was an enigma. A mystery. A man who was worth seven years of scars, and the entire planet wanted to see what those scars looked like.

After checking a couple more websites to get a better idea of what was going on, I texted Levi.

You just made it to number one on my kill list.

Levi: I wasn't already?

Are you upset?

Levi: Very.

A lazy smile stretched across my lips. I dropped my phone next to me on the bed and stared at the ceiling absentmindedly, praying to the universe to make this interview happen.

A text message alert yanked me out of my daze. I fished the phone from the blankets and looked at the screen.

Levi: Who was number one before me?

Laughing, I tapped out a reply.

My alarm.

He responded with an eye-roll emoji.

Unable to go back to sleep, I dragged myself out of bed and resumed working on my summer write-up, but my head felt heavy and my tired brain was scrambled for words.

Levi called around noon when I was on my third cup of coffee.

"Did you see it?" he asked. The tone of his voice could be described as perpetual shock and was accompanied by the sounds of slurping and chewing.

"What are you talking about?" I opened my browser.

"TMZ just released an entire Frankie Blade gallery."

"Any decent photos, at least?" I tried to mask the sudden wave of anxiety with a joke.

"Don't worry. Your teenage crush has still got it," Levi said, a pinch of amusement in his voice.

I pulled up the TMZ page and flipped through a gallery of freshly uploaded photos. There were clear professional shots of Frankie, taken somewhere in Malibu while he was dining. He looked good. There were no scars or any facial deformities, contrary to popular hearsay. I took a moment to study the shots. Frankie wasn't alone. Dante and Johnny Z were with him in half of the photos.

"You think Carter's out?" Levi pondered.

"Why would he be out?"

"I don't know. Maybe they wanted Quin on it. Probably would sell more tickets. The original line-up."

"Nonsense," I countered.

Right now, Frankie could probably sell out an arena on his own and people would pay crazy money to hear him sing a phone book backwards or an instructional manual from Ikea.

Besides, the only two band members that really mattered were Frankie and Dante. They brought the chemistry on stage. Carter and Johnny Z were merely a nice backdrop. Everyone knew that.

Levi didn't pursue the subject further, because this wasn't something Rewired would post anyway. TMZ speculated. We created original content.

"Will you have anything ready for me today?" Levi inquired.

"In a couple of hours," I lied. The article wasn't anywhere near done. "I'll upload it when I'm finished. Can you prep the draft?"

"I'm on it... Hey, check this out! They just updated their website."

The iMessage window popped up on my computer's screen with the incoming link from Levi.

I clicked on it and pulled up the band's page, my heart beating a little faster. The signature red and orange flame logo on the homepage had been replaced by an all-black background with a burning butterfly. Nothing else. I stared at the artwork for a good minute, reveling in its intrigue and listening to Levi's speculations about what Frankie had possibly been doing during his long sabbatical.

The imagery was dramatic...and sad. It made my chest twist a little when I tried to imagine what being dragged by a motorcycle across a quarter-mile-long spread of the freeway might feel like.

I remembered the day very clearly. It'd happened a few weeks before I started my internship at Jay Brodie PR. The news had broken early that morning, and I'd spent an entire day staring at my phone and waiting for updates on Frankie's condition. My weak teenage heart barely held it together.

Levi's voice was a muffled noise in my ear as he went on with his theories, slurping some more. He had this stupid habit of eating while talking or doing other things. He was a class-A workaholic. And the condition was contagious as hell.

"Hey, I really need to get this finished, okay?" I interrupted him.

My gaze swept over the digital clock on my laptop screen. I had four hours to put something coherent together. For a second, I thought of using my writer's block as an excuse to bail on dinner at my mother's, but my conscience told me to suck it up and go. I didn't want to be another kid who was a letdown. Ashton was a huge disappointment and I felt obligated to try to change that, although my attempts to talk some sense into him hadn't been successful. He was still undecided on everything. College, job, life. His music.

"Fine. Talk later, Cass," Levi said and hung up.

* * *

My mother's apartment was in the heart of Hollywood, a few blocks north of Franklin, which just strengthened my hate toward the family dinner tradition. Looking for parking near her building on Wednesday afternoon was like looking for a needle in a haystack without a flashlight. The blasts of music inside my car muffled the noise of the traffic surrounding me as I circled the block in search of a spot for my Honda. Seeing the photos of Frankie Blade had triggered a wave of nostalgia. I was on Hall Affinity's third album by the time I hit the gridlock near my mother's place, and Frankie's voice was the only thing that managed to keep me sane.

My summer recap had been finished and posted in draft on the website for Levi to review, and I felt good about today.

The apartment smelled like the kitchen of Fig & Olive. My nose picked up the faint scent of cumin and rosemary all the way from the courtyard and my taste buds screamed with delight. Our mother was a great cook. Her hot homemade meals had been a desperate attempt to give our family some sense of normalcy after our father left us, and while it hadn't always worked, I'd appreciated the efforts.

Despite the lack of desire to visit the home that'd harbored so many miserable memories, I still looked forward to our mother's culinary creations.

Ashton's room sounded like a battlefield. I knocked twice before entering. He didn't respond, which added more fuel to my burning irritation.

"Incoming," I warned, peeking inside. The air was stale and the curtains were shut. The place was reminiscent of a bunker.

My brother was sprawled on his twin bed like an amoeba, his eyes staring unblinkingly at the chaos happening on the huge plasma monitor mounted to the wall. The only sign of life was his twitching hands holding the game controller.

"Hey!" I called, surveying the piles of dirty clothes and empty soda cans.

"What's up?" Ashton muttered. His gaze never left the horde of animated people who were dressed in camo and running around with guns on the screen.

Pop, pop, pop! The shots sliced through my head like a hacksaw.

"Could you turn this down?" Wincing, I gestured at the monitor. "Please?"

"Hold up." His hands jerked along with the controller. He wasn't present. The assault on my ears continued.

"Ashton!" I raised my voice. My frustration was about to reach the point of no return. "Come on!"

"I said hold on!" A low growl carried over the noise of the video game.

This, right now, reminded me of the time preceding my father's departure. He'd been withdrawn, lost in his own world. Getting a reaction from him had seemed almost impossible.

One day he'd gone to the store to get cigarettes and never come back.

Rage racing through my blood, I walked over to the monitor and yanked at the cord. The gunfire stopped and the screen went dark.

"What the fuck is your problem?" Ashton cried out, tossing both hands in the air.

Good, I thought triumphantly, at least that made him move. But part of me still crumbled. I hated arguing with my brother, but sadly, he didn't understand any other language.

"Since when has 'fuck' become a word in your vocabulary?" I stomped over to the chair and went through the pile of dirty T-shirts, examining them one by one. I wasn't sure what I was looking for. Drugs, maybe, or an explanation why my brother had been ignoring the outside world for the past four years.

"Since whenever I want. Get out of my room." Ashton slid from the bed with the intention of turning the game back on, but I intercepted him before he got to the power cable.

We stood in front of the monitor, his lanky six-two with a messy mop of California sun-kissed curls against my rigid, dainty five-four, staring at each other like two sworn enemies.

"You need to check yourself," I started, trying to keep my voice steady. "If you don't want to go to college, you can't stay here after you graduate."

He laughed in my face. "I'll stay here for as long as I want to. Mom said I can."

"Mom's going to lose her housing assistance the day you turn eighteen, asshole. You need to start looking for a job." My rage grew stronger with every second.

"I'm not moving out." Ashton's lips twitched with irritation. "End of story!" He rolled his eyes for good measure.

Arguing with him was like beating my head against a brick wall.

I blew out a breath, then I lost it. "You can't do this anymore! There comes a point in every person's life when he has to man up and take some responsibility. And your responsibility is to make sure Mom doesn't have to work two jobs to keep this apartment while you're wasting away in your room playing dumb video games and waiting for a miracle to happen. Nothing's going to happen if you don't get your lazy ass out of bed!"

There was a mean side of me that wanted to bring our deadbeat father into the conversation, because Ashton was living proof that the apple didn't fall far from the tree, but something, maybe respect and empathy for our mother, stopped me from saying it out loud.

"You two need to stop!" Her voice drifted at me from the hall. From the corner of my eye, I saw her small figure appear in the doorway.

"She started it, Mom," Ashton whined.

"He hasn't cleaned his room in months." I gestured at the pile of dirty clothes on the floor by my feet and spun around to face our mother.

The air in the room became heavy with invisible threat. "Both of you!" Her finger bounced between me and my brother. She looked ruffled and disproportionate. Her face pale, jaw clenched. "Wash your hands! Dinner's ready." There was a certain level of creativity in the way she ignored obvious problems. Just like she ignored my commentary on the condition of Ashton's room. Sometimes I wondered if my brother's lack of enthusiasm and incapacity to handle simple day-to-day tasks had been inherited from her side of the family.

We gathered in the dining room a few minutes later. The silverware and plates were put out in grim silence that seemed to drag on forever, and sticking around for dinner seemed pointless, but I forced myself to behave.

"I'm not going to tolerate this anymore," our mother said when we finished setting the table. Her arms fell to her hips and she gave us a long, exasperated stare. "You need to stop fighting."

"I'm not even doing anything," Ashton grumbled, dropping into a chair.

"Okay then"—I took my seat across from him—"why don't we talk? Why don't we have an adult conversation?" I tried hard not to sound like a cynic, but it didn't work. My voice was a perfect blend of harsh, mean, and bitter.

"Yeah, why don't you tell us what your problem is, sis?" Ashton tore his gaze from his plate and flashed me a classic go-fuck-yourself smile.

My problem is that you're a lazy douche who doesn't think about anyone but himself.

But I choked back the words and decided to be smarter this time. "Did you hear from Scott?"

No response.

"Honey?" Our mother perked up.

"Not yet." He shook his head.

"Really?" I pressed, "Last time I checked, Scott was still hiring."

"Oh yeah?" Ashton leaned back in his chair, arms folded across his chest. "I guess he didn't like my application." A shoulder shrug.

"I believe you didn't care to fill it out," I countered. "I talked to Scott a couple of days after I picked up the application. He said you never came."

A frown carved into my mother's already distraught face.

"It's not fair!" He looked at her, probably hoping for some sort of support, but none followed. "Why does she get to do whatever she wants and I don't?"

"How the hell did working twenty-four seven turn into doing whatever I want?!" The nerve the little bastard had. I was ready to strangle him right there and then.

"No screaming at the table." Our mother lifted both hands in a placating manner and closed her eyes. The vein in her temple pulsed madly.

"You get to hang out with all the bands and party while I'm supposed to wash dishes in some lame ice cream shop?"

"First of all, I don't hang out. Second, I don't party. This is work. We don't have days off, Ashton. I think you're disillusioned about what I do."

"I could help out at an event."

"No. You can't." My palm slapped against the tabletop. I heard my fork rattling, but all of it—the clanking of the silverware, the frustrated gasps of my mother, my brother talking under his breath—was just background noise. "I busted my ass to get where I'm am. For years. I filled out more applications than you can imagine." I stood up from my chair because anger was boiling in my blood. "Not once has anyone granted me anything because I was someone's friend or a relative. I earned it. You need to earn it too. Levi and I aren't going to give you any gigs until you understand what a work ethic is and how to do what we do. And for that, you need experience, and experience doesn't come to those who sit in their room all day."

Blind rage washed over me. I knew what my mother was going to say next. This was the part where she always took Ashton's side because, in her head, he'd suffered the most when our father bailed. He was the youngest and the sensitive one. I was the old, mean sister who blasted rock music all day in her room and worshiped Satan. Even when Ashton picked up a guitar and hit the black emo hair and crappy attitude phase, I was still the bad kid.

"I don't understand why it's so hard for you to let him go with you a couple of times." Mom's voice squeaked to my right.

"Because he has no manners and because he doesn't understand how to behave around the kind of people I work with."

An embarrassing memory blazed through my brain like a torch. Ashton was fourteen. He'd begged me to take him to The Deviant event Levi and I worked. After the show, we all ended up in the VIP area. A treat from Linda. Justice Cross was doing rounds and talking to guests when Ashton asked me to introduce him. We stood, facing each other, shook hands, and briefly exchanged a few words. The entire night was surreal. At that time, Justice Cross was the biggest name on the list of musicians I'd chatted with.

My heart dropped to my stomach when I heard Ashton telling the internationally acclaimed singer I'd interviewed four hours ago that I had his poster up on my wall. And not just any poster. The kinky one. That's what my brother called it. I felt humiliation of the worst kind. All the hard work I'd put into making sure rich, famous, arrogant men like Justice Cross took a music journalist my age seriously had been ruined in a matter of seconds.

It stung, even after all this time, and I wasn't going to risk seven years of labor that earned me my respect in the industry to humor my brother.

There were some lines that didn't blur. A very distinct one between them and us. And Ashton crossed that line the moment he tossed me into the fangirl zone.

My appetite disappeared. "I'm not hungry." I was on my way out, fed up, drained, and angry. What started as a promising day had ended in total disaster.

Mind racing, I sat in my car with the music on. Heat burned in my chest as my finger skimmed over the contacts list on my phone. The realization that, despite knowing so many people, I had no real friends I could talk to hit me hard. Like a mallet. Of course, there was always Levi. And that was the number I called, but deep down, I was lonely. Lonelier than I'd ever been.

Once I called him and unloaded my frustration, we fell into a short stretch of silence.

"You want to know what I think?" Levi grunted.

"Sure." I fiddled with the volume control button to hear the music a little better. The song playing was from Hall Affinity's last album, Chasing Memories.

"Is that Frankie's voice I'm hearing?" A chuckle.

"I need a refresher on the back catalogue," I deadpanned. "I'm going to rock that interview." I didn't feel like adding "if we get it," because at that moment, I needed the universe to know what I really wanted. I needed the universe to hear me.

"You will, Cass," Levi assured. "You're the fucking best. No one else knows how to take all these people apart without them even noticing it."

"Thanks. At least someone has faith in me."

"I have to. You're my locomotive."

"So what was it that you were thinking?"

"You need to get laid."

"Like my list of potential booty calls is very long." There was no list, and that made me sad. I was a pretty, young woman who talked to and occasionally appeared on camera next to celebs, and I had no one to turn to for a round of mindless sex.

"You've got a lot of anger, babe." I heard a stifled laugh on the line.

"Any other suggestions on how to let steam off?"

"Get some ink?" Levi offered.

I let the thought settle in my brain. Tats were my weakness. I'd wanted them as far back as I could remember but waited patiently until I turned eighteen and had enough money to see a good artist. My first one was a small rose on my left calf. My second one was on my wrist. The third one was slightly bigger and took up a good portion of my right shoulder. I never planned on having too many or getting full sleeves. I liked them sparse and delicate with plenty of skin in between, but the idea of a new tattoo was alluring.

"You know what I think?" I said, glancing at the street. "I'm going to take your advice and go see my buddy Hank."

"Have fun. Use a condom." Levi laughed.

"Thank you for reminding me." I laughed too, then ended the call.

* * *

I stood at the counter and absently flipped through the portfolio of a new tattoo artist while the shop attendant scanned my ID and checked my paperwork.

"When did Hank leave?" I was conflicted about letting someone I'd never met touch my skin.

"Hmmm." The attendant handed me my driver's license back. "Let me see." A line on his forehead deepened from concentration. "Six months ago at least."

"That's a bummer. I wish I'd known."

"Jax is great." The attendant leaned closer and whispered conspiratorially, "He was on a TV show last year. Guy's got a huge following. You're going to love his work."

Well, dip me in glue and sprinkle me with glitter.

Frazzled, I nodded slowly. The TV show tidbit didn't impress me as much as the attendant had been aiming for. I sat down with people who entertained stadiums and arenas for a living.

I caught a glimpse of my own reflection in the mirror wall on the opposite side of the shop. That young woman looked nothing like the skinny girl with a pixie cut who'd come here seven years ago wearing platform boots and a band tee. I'd learned how to take care of myself. Physically, financially, spiritually. I'd figured out what clothes worked for my body type, what hair length and color complemented my features, what shadow made my eyes pop, and what gloss made my lips fuller. I tried to go to the gym at least three times a week because keeping in shape was crucial with the workload Levi and I handled. I liked what I saw. Cassy Evans, successful music journalist extraordinaire who had her shit together.

Or did she?

Because I couldn't understand why I felt like a miserable blob of shit every single time after I saw my family.

I also couldn't care less if the new guy had tattooed the president himself. It was my skin and I was going to have his artwork along with his energy on me for the rest of my life, and I didn't want any energy that wasn't real or positive. I'd grown up with enough negativity to last me a lifetime.

Hank was a sweetheart. He'd come highly recommended and had done all my work ever since the needle bit my calf for the first time. Letting some other artist touch me seemed like cheating, and I seriously considered leaving, but my common sense told me Hank wasn't going to fly to L.A. from Miami for a session with me unless I could afford to hire a jet.

"There's a bit of a wait, so just make yourself comfortable," the attendant explained, ushering me toward the lounge area.

The soft leather couch dipped as I descended.

"You already know what you want?" he asked.

"Sort of." I had no clue. "But I'd love to look at some more designs." I smiled as he handed me a few booklets.

The soft hum of the background music and the distant buzzing of a machine started to lull me to sleep. I was beat and sleepy, but my mind still raced wildly after my confrontation with Ashton, and my ego hurt. Fighting a yawn, I peeked at my cell to note the time. It was nearly ten and I was the last client in the shop.

"Hey there," a warm male voice said as I yanked at the poly plastic page of the portfolio.

My gaze skated toward the sound and I saw a full-sleeved arm extended to me.

"You know"—a chuckle rumbled in his chest—"I can make you a copy."

I realized my fingers were pulling the plastic so hard, the page was about to fall off. "Sorry." Blood rose to my cheeks. Depositing the booklets on the table next to the couch, I pushed myself to my feet and shook the artist's hand. His grip was strong but welcoming.

"Jax. How are you?" He flashed me a lighthearted smile that hardly matched his edgy appearance.

"Cassy. I'm great. Thank you for asking." I was lying. Getting a tat on a Wednesday night usually meant the opposite. All I knew was that I'd craved the experience a needle against my skin gave me each time I'd gotten more ink. It was therapeutic.

Jax had a military-style buzz cut to show off the intricate artwork adorning his neck and shoulders. He wore an Ink Master T-shirt, a pair of faded jeans, and sneakers. His deep-set brown eyes ogled my existing tats as I settled in the chair at his workstation. He definitely was droolworthy. I could see why he had the big following.

"So what are we doing today?" he questioned, organizing his tools.

I took a deep breath and glanced up at the ceiling. "I'll be honest with you. This was a rash decision, so I don't know. But I'm open to suggestions."

Jax scanned me from head to toe, his gaze lasering through my light green summer cargo pants and my cotton top. My bra melted around my breasts. Levi was right. I didn't need a new tat. I needed to get laid.

"We can definitely come up with something neat that won't scream rash decision." Jax nodded, a glint in his eyes complementing his smile. "Do you know where you want it?" He looked over the length of my arms, inspecting.

"I don't want anything too obvious—" I stammered at the rise of his brow as soon as I realized I was talking to someone whose skin hardly had any areas that hadn't been touched by the needle. "No offense."

"None taken." He tilted his head and a playful smirk touched the corner of his mouth. "Your skin is great. I wouldn't cover it all if I were you."

"Are you sure you want the job?" I laughed at his selling skills.

"Are you sure you want more ink?" Jax was challenging me and I loved it.

"Just so you know, I like what you have going on." I motioned at the swirls of black, red, and blue ink sweeping across his taut chest muscles that his loose sleeveless tank didn't cover.

We chatted while skimming through more designs. The attendant had already locked up for the day, and Jax and I were the only two people left at the shop. He pitched some interesting ideas, but nothing stuck out to me and I felt bad for not being able to make up my mind.

The new Black Rain Coming single blasting from the speakers somewhere above ended and the intro riff of "Ambivalent" filled the room.

"Can you show me the butterflies again?" I asked meekly, music rush hitting my every nerve. Even after all these years, Frankie's voice still got to me. I took a moment to bathe in its deep, dark sweetness as I flipped through the plastic pages, this time knowing exactly what I was looking for. I missed everything Breathe Crimson signified—my last few weeks with my father before he left us. It was a voice of nostalgia, a voice of lost innocence.

It was the album that got me through some very tough times. It was the album.

"I'd love something like this on my shoulder blade," I said, showing Jax a small butterfly design.

"Great choice. This is the part where you strip for me." He grinned.

"Can I leave my panties on?" I went along with the joke.

A burst of laughter cut through the music. "You're dangerous, Cassy."

"So are you."

I wasn't sure where our banter was going anymore. Something told me we were dancing a careless dance, but I enjoyed it. Jax had a peculiar sense of humor that I credited to his work on whatever TV show he'd been on. He also had a nice touch and I felt relaxed and safe under the needle once we began.

I lay on the chair, listening to the playlist while Jax hummed along with the music. He had a decent voice. Not arena material, but he could carry a tune ten times better than I could.

I was curious. "Do you play any instruments?"

"I play guitar a little. Do you?"

"No. I wish I did, though."

"How come you never tried?"

I didn't know how to explain that my alcoholic father had spent all our money on booze. We'd lived from paycheck to paycheck. I'd worn one pair of shoes through the entire sixth grade, which had pushed me to be overly creative with homemade footwear accessories because I didn't want other kids to notice. An instrument would have been a luxury. Heck, my iPod was a luxury back then.

"Never got around to it, I guess," I muttered.

"You okay?" Jax switched off the machine to check on me. "We can take a break if you want."

"I'm fine. Not my first rodeo." I turned my head to face him and smiled. His eyes met mine and he did the same.

"I can put on something else. What do you want to listen to?"

"Hall Affinity." It was a reflex. I was obsessed with finding something new in the lyrics, something I'd failed to hear before. I wanted to learn everything there was to know about Frankie Blade so I could pick his brain apart.

"You got it." Jax set the machine aside and wiped down my shoulder blade. "Which album is your favorite?" My new tattoo artist was considerate and my disdain over Hank's absence had subsided.

"Breathe Crimson. Yours?"

"I like Breathe Crimson too." He took off his gloves and pulled up a Hall Affinity playlist on his phone. "You a fan?"

"I am. How about you?"

"I like them. I'm actually looking forward to hearing their new music. I hope they didn't lose their spark. My baby sister used to spin them for days back in high school." A corner of his mouth curved as he shook his head slightly. "You ever see them live?"

"A few times. My girlfriend won a pair of floor tickets from iHeartRadio right before Frankie's accident. We were in the front. I had so many bruises after. You have no idea."

"You really know how to throw it down, Cassy." His gaze locked on mine for a brief moment and we exchanged invisible smiles. He was light, like a feather, and I enjoyed talking to him. "Was that soon after they got inducted into the Rock & Roll Hall of Fame? 2012?"

"You have a great memory for someone who just likes the band."

Jax tapped the side of his head with his index finger. "There's a lot of information stored here that's absolutely useless unless you meet a fan of the band."

"Show off."

"Wanted to impress the lady."

I caught a flash of interest in his eyes. My stomach fluttered involuntarily. It was the weirdest thing ever because I'd never flirted with my tattoo artist before, but then again, Hank was pushing fifty and had a girlfriend. Flirting in general wasn't my strong suit. I just had a big mouth and said stuff that men apparently found attractive. Half of those men also wanted to go out with me in exchange for concert tickets and backstage passes.

"Are you ready to keep going?" Jax asked, retrieving a fresh pair of gloves from the box next to his tools.

"Sure." I shifted in the chair and made myself comfortable.

We chatted some more, mainly about music. By the time he finished, it was well past midnight.

"What do you think?" Jax was cleaning his area and I stood in front of the wall mirror in my bra and cargo pants with my neck twisted and staring at my new tattoo. Even through the plastic, I could tell the butterfly was exquisitely detailed. My skin beneath the ink stung pleasantly.

"I love it. Thank you." I adjusted the strap of my bra to ensure it didn't touch the tat and slipped my top on.

We moved to the counter with the credit card machine and Jax gave me the total.

I handed him my Visa. "I'm sorry I held you up."

"It's not a big deal. We get a lot of late-night clients. Hazard of the job."

I signed the copy of the receipt he gave me along with my card, then returned it to him. "I can understand why."

"You know how to take care of it, right?" Jax grabbed a small brochure from the plastic holder and topped it off with the customer copy of the receipt and his business card, which had something written on it. "Feel free to call me if you have any questions."

He walked me to the door and watched me get in my car. I slid behind the wheel and glanced at the stack of papers in my hand, curious what his business card said.

When I pulled it out and saw Cell and a phone number scribbled on it, a rush of excitement rolled through my stomach.