Chapter One

I could tell it was going to be bad by the way Dave smiled.

Not his ‘congrats on the Pulitzer’ smile. His ‘brace yourself’ smile.

He stood politely, waving me to one of the two empty chairs before his desk. One might expect courtesy from one’s Editor-in-Chief, but in Dave’s case, it meant he wanted something—and that didn’t bode well either.

“Great work on the airline exposé.”

“Thank you,” I said carefully, wishing he’d skip the pleasantries and drop the shoe.

“Do you have anything else on the go right now?”

He knew I didn’t. “No… Looking for something new. Meaningful. A challenge.” Hopefully, that should dissuade him from asking me to cover a local ‘hero’ or some such crap. Feel-good social pieces really weren’t my forte.

“Grand! I have just the thing.” He was far too enthusiastic, as if trying to instil the same fervour in me. I knew him too well; it had the opposite effect.

I folded my arms. “Okay. Lay it on me.”

He reclined back in his chair, resting his elbows on the arms and steepling his fingers.

“You know Tyler Stone, I presume?”

Oh, crap. “I know of him, of course. Songwriter and lead vocalist for Wicked Resonance. Why?” I already knew why.

“He’s on tour across the States, and I think we should write a profile on him for the annual special in December.”

“Oh, that’s interesting,” I kept my tone apathetic. It probably wouldn’t make any difference, but I could at least try to get out of this.

He smiled again. “I’m glad you think so.” He knew I didn’t. “You’d be the perfect person for the job.”

“It’s a kind offer, but—”

“It’s not an offer, Miss Mitchell.” The smile had gone, and he’d used my surname. Crap, crap.

“Come on, Dave. Why don’t you give it to Mike? He’d love to do a bio on some pop druggy. It’s really not my thing. Isn’t there a war somewhere you could send me instead? Or a dodgy corporation that needs exposing?”

“There’re always wars and dodgy corporations that need exposing, but you’re doing the profile. The magazine wants it done, and you’re the best person to do it.”

I strived to hide my irritation. “I’m not a music groupie. We both know I’m your best journalist. Put me on something challenging. Hell, even somewhere I could be shot at! Something worthwhile. Please?”

For a moment, his face showed some sympathy. For a moment. “This has come down from the highest levels, Victoria. It’s not just the magazine. Universal Media Group has commissioned this. In other words, we’ll be getting paid twice. And they requested you.”

“No way,” I said, trying not to snap. “I am not writing a fucking PR piece!”

“They haven’t asked for one. They want an honest profile.” He was all mollification and smug authority.

I sighed. “And if I refuse?”

His chair rocked forward. “If you refuse, there’re some wonderful tweets I’ve recently seen that I could have you cut-and-paste into an article. With some of your own thoughts added, obviously. I’m sure your commentary on what Mrs. Taylor has said about her cat would be so inspiring. The Stone gig will take eight weeks. Just think how many tweets you could cover in that time.”

“That’s blackmail.”

“No, that’s your job.”

“It’s cruel and unusual.”

He smiled. “Okay, you’re right. It’s blackmail.”

I stood up. “For fuck’s sake! What would I know about rock music?”

“You’re an investigative journalist. Investigate. Besides, you said you wanted a challenge.”

Crap. I’d walked right into that one. “But a profile? Tyler Stone is about as interesting as white powder on a Senator’s collar. No one is going to give a shit.”

“You’re an expert on him now?”

I glared across the desk at him.

He sighed, leaning back again. “I knew you’d react like this, Victoria. But the truth is, the magazine needs this article. With UMG funding it, this would clear our revenue concerns for this quarter and the next. I know you don’t want to do it, but it’s only eight weeks. Get this done for me, and I’ll find you an opportunity for that second Pulitzer. Somewhere to go where you might get shot at, if that’s what you really want. Okay?”

“Eight weeks,” I said through gritted teeth. “Not a day more.”

“Thank you.”

“That wasn’t a ‘yes’.”

He chuckled. “It was. And I’m serious on this one, Miss Mitchell—if you refuse, there’ll be egg on a lot of very senior faces. Career limiting egg. Suck it up and do what you do best.”

“Oh, fine,” I gave in, but not with good grace. It had been inevitable since before I even walked in.

“Eight weeks, eight sessions booked in, and you’ll be travelling with the band.”

Yay, the hits just kept coming. “Whatever.”

I turned to leave, wondering if a flounce was justified. It felt justified.

“Hey,” he said as I walked out, “look on the bright side. Maybe there’s a real story in there to uncover. You never know.”

I showed him my middle finger and left his door open.

* * *

“Victoria Mitchell. I’m here from Empire Pulse.”

The security guard ran his eyes over my skirt suit, glanced at the bag I carried, then fingered his earpiece. “I have Ms Mitchell, from Empire Pulse.”

He listened for a moment, then dropped his hand from his ear and pulled back the red cord that served to mark the entrance, the doors wide open beyond. The rope was clearly inadequate as a barrier, more symbolic than preventative, but with the constant foot-traffic coming in and out, it made practical sense.

“Please go on in, Ms Mitchell. Mr Stone’s personal assistant will be along momentarily.”

“Thanks.”

I took a few steps past security and into the building proper, watching the bustle of activity with interest.

A dozen men were arranging equipment on the stage, while others were removing the seats in the stalls. Large boxes of equipment were being unloaded, and elsewhere heavy-looking lighting rigs were being lifted to the ceiling on steel cables. There was a lot of work and a lot of people, and it was quite fun to watch.

“Miss Mitchell?”

I turned toward the voice to find an attractive woman about my own age. She wore a tight pair of ripped jeans and a cropped t-shirt that showed just a hint of her midriff. If this was Stone’s PA, then I was overdressed.

“Yes. Please call me Victoria.”

She offered her hand, and we shook. She had a firm, confident grip. “Debbie Rosings. I’m Tyler Stone’s PA.” Yep, overdressed. Called it.

“Nice to meet you.” I turned back to the activity on the stage. “Is it always like this?”

She came to stand next to me. “Oh no. This is quiet. There’s a lot less to do here at the Ryman because they’re already so well prepared. Usually it’s ten times worse than this.”

We watched for a few moments in silence as the men worked.

“I’m a huge fan of Empire Pulse,” Debbie said. “Been reading it for years.”

“Thank you,” I replied, as if it were my magazine. I’d learned this was the correct response.

“I read your exposé on SkyLink Airways,” she said, her eyes still on the activity about us. “Pretty dodgy stuff. I imagine it turned quite a few stomachs—and put a few people off flying for life.”

I glanced at her, my eyebrows rising. It hadn’t been published yet. I hadn’t expected her to check up on me, let alone to get access to something not yet in the public domain. “It’s still statistically the safest way to travel.”

She turned to me and smiled, “Didn’t Superman say that once?”

I laughed. “Why yes, yes, I believe he did. How did you come across the article?”

She smiled again. “I think Empire Pulse was only too happy to cooperate when Universal Media Group was footing the bills, Miss Mitchell.”

“Makes sense.” I knew Dave would do quite a lot for a paycheck. “Where is Tyler Stone?”

Her smile faded. “I’m sure he’ll be along soon.”

She didn’t know where he was. I glanced at my watch in reflex. “Our appointment is in three minutes.”

“Yes, Miss Mitchell. I apologise for that.” To her credit, she did sound apologetic. And embarrassed. “He’s an artist. A little eccentricity goes with the turf.”

Eccentricity I could handle. Bad manners, on the other hand… It wasn’t a promising start.

“Right. Well, I’ve just flown in, and I’m still on London time, so hopefully he won’t be long.” That was as polite as it got. Next time, I’d be blunter. “Since I’m here, I suppose it wouldn’t hurt to take a look around while we wait. And please, call me Victoria.”

“Oh, I’d be delighted to give you the tour—Victoria. Have you been to the Ryman before?”

“No, I’ve not had the pleasure.” Read about it, though. On the plane.

“Well, shall we go backstage?”

I followed her through the building as we wound past the seating and into the areas beyond. She talked animatedly about the history, some of the stars in whose footsteps we walked, and I half-listened as I wondered what kind of man Tyler Stone was. His public persona had him as a playboy, but I hoped there was more to him than that. He was undoubtedly talented, and Debbie seemed well-suited to him if her passion for music was anything to go by. She seemed nice enough, and maybe that was a positive reflection on Stone—or perhaps he just paid her very well.

The Ryman had a built-in display for tourists, but I wasn’t interested in that. I asked Debbie to skip it and give her own version, and she regaled me enthusiastically while I mentally filed away the odd phrase here and there: ‘transcendent concert experience’, ‘very spiritual’, and ‘the birth of country music’, among others.

We’d stopped in a hallway for Debbie to show me some of the pictures of famous artists.

“You’ll recognise Elvis Presley, who played here in 1954, and—”

I jumped as a hand slapped into my ass, and beside me Debbie said ‘Oh!’ and jerked.

~*~

Chapter Two

“Showing our reporter friend the sights, Debs?”

I turned slowly, taking the time to school my expression from blazing rage to professional affront, seeing Tyler Stone in person for the first time. Beside me, Debbie grabbed her bottom.

Thin. That was the first impression. He had a wiry frame and stood tall. An unruly mop of dark hair fell loosely over a face more lined than I’d expected from his 32 years, and spoke to the degree of airbrushing and makeup in the magazine pictures I’d reviewed on the plane. Yet there was an easy charisma about his smile, and his eyes sparkled as he returned my gaze with a frank appraisal of his own. He wore a black T-shirt from Wicked Resonance’s tour last year, and a pair of black jeans, a gold chain serving as a belt, the loose end dangling down his hip.

“Miss Mitchell,” he said, his smile coming readily. “Nice to meet you.”

He didn’t offer me his hand; I was trying to resist rubbing my slapped ass cheek with mine.

“Mr Stone,” I said, my tone cool, if not cold. I might need to watch that. I had to work with the man for the next two months, and it wouldn’t do to start off on the wrong foot—irrespective of the fact that he just had.

He just flashed an easy, relaxed grin. “Call me Tyler, Miss Mitchell.”

“And I prefer Victoria.”

He certainly had a lot more charisma in person, but I guess no one becomes world-famous on talent alone. His smile had an infectious quality that I could imagine would be most effective—and perhaps would’ve worked on me too, were it not for the casual sexual harassment he’d just committed.

His grin widened, then he turned to Debbie. “Get Victoria a drink, please, sweetheart. Do you know where Will is?”

“Er… I think he’s in the tour bus, Tyler.”

“Thanks, babe.” He wandered off down the hallway.

“Mr. Stone,” I called after him.

He stopped, turning. “Miss Mitchell?” A subtle emphasis on my name.

I took a slow breath. This was not a good beginning. “Our first one-hour slot was due to start—” I made a point of looking at my watch, “—twenty-four minutes ago. We have thirty-six remaining. Perhaps there is a room around here we could use?”

He cocked his head to one side. “You’re staying with the tour, aren’t you?”

“…Yes.”

“UMG’s paying your fee for the full eight weeks, isn’t it?”

“Yes.” I clenched my jaw.

“Then you’ll have loads of time with me, darling. Don’t fret.”

He turned away, carrying on down the corridor.

Darling?

I stared at his back, aware Debbie was watching me and as I fought to keep my face neutral.

“Would you… Would you like a drink?” she asked tentatively.

I looked at her. “Where is the tour bus parked, out of curiosity?”

“Oh. Er… There’s three of them, and they’re still in the parking lot out of the east exit.”

“Where’s that?”

She was perceptive. I could see the realisation in her eyes. “Opposite where we came in.”

I smiled politely. “A drink would be nice. I might just go to the ladies’ room first.”

“Of course, Miss… Victoria.” She turned to point. “Third door on your left.”

“Thank you.”

I made my way down the corridor. I hadn’t heard her walk away, which meant she was watching me. I walked past the ladies’ room and kept going. Debbie wouldn’t have expected anything less.

It was easy enough to find the east exit, and the parking lot was impossible to miss. Just as Debbie had said, three large, sleek, black tour buses occupied the double slots in the lot, but only one had lights on inside. It was as good a place to start as any.

I pulled open the door and climbed the steps inside, finding a small but luxuriously appointed living area.

Stone was directly opposite me, lounging on a sofa behind a low coffee table. I recognised Will Stanton, Wicked Resonance’s lead guitarist, sitting in a chair nearby.

Judging from the flurry of activity as they tidied the surface of the table, I’d clearly disturbed them.

Stone looked up. “Miss Mitchell. What a pleasant surprise.”

I glanced down at the table, and it didn’t take long to find traces of the white powder I’d expected to see.

“You have some on your shirt,” I said.

He peered down at his shirt, brushing it with one hand in reflex, then shrugged and simply pulled it off. He balled it up and threw it across the bus.

Will chuckled. “You didn’t, you know. She was messing with you.”

Stone grinned at him, then looked at me, his smile still easy.

He was nude from the waist up, and I had to reassess my original impression of him. He was thin, after a fashion, but he had well-defined muscles, too. Strong shoulders. Nice arms, if you liked such things. Fit, like he worked out, but not for bulk. I’d watched some of his concerts on the plane and knew how much went into them. I guess his job required him to be in shape.

“We have thirty-two minutes, Mr. Stone,” I said, not bothering to glance at my watch.

He cocked his head as he met my gaze. “You don’t give up, do you?”

“I just want to do my job.”

My reply seemed to amuse him further. “Will,” he said, not taking his eyes off mine, “mind if Miss Mitchell has your seat? Just for thirty-one-and-a-half minutes.”

Will barked a laugh and rose, offering me his chair, then waited until I’d sat before offering me a drink.

“No, thank you.”

“Tyler?”

“Beer. Thanks.” His eyes were still on me. “What do you want to know, Miss Mitchell?”

“Aside from whether you own another shirt?”

He raised an eyebrow. “It’s my bus, and you barged in here.”

Well, that was true, I supposed.

I took Will’s vacated seat and undid my case, pulling out my MacBook Air and opening it on my knees. The table was too low.

“I’ll skip the introduction in the interests of lost time,” I said pointedly. “Let’s start with some basics, Mr Stone. Why do you do what you do?”

He shook his head. “Nuh uh. I’m not answering a single question until you call me Tyler.”

His expression was playful, but I saw the steady gaze in his eyes. He’d dig his heels in on this, I could tell at a glance. It was hardly as if it mattered. “Why do you do what you do, Tyler?”

“Why do birds fly? Why do fish swim? Why do politicians lie? I’m just a product of my nature… Victoria.”

My question had been simplistic, designed to get the ball rolling. I cared less for the answer than the way he answered it, and there’d been a certain poetry about his response. Not wholly unexpected, given who he was. His deliberate emphasis on my name seemed to take our relationship to the next level. Whatever that meant. One small step up from mutual animosity, perhaps.

“What is your nature?” I asked.

Will had returned with Stone’s beer, and, irritatingly, answered for him. “Heh. Capricious lightning in a stormy sky. Ain’t that right, Tyler?” He passed Stone a bottle, condensation covering it.

“Yeah, that’s right.”

I glanced dismissively at Will, hoping he’d take the hint, then looked back at Stone. “And in your own words?” It was never the same when it wasn’t spontaneous, but I had to try.

Will took the hint at least, making his way down the tour bus steps and out the door, leaving us alone.

“In my own words…” He took a sip of the beer, looking thoughtful. “It’s all about the music. That’s what it started with; that’s the only thing that really matters. The rest…” He waved a hand, taking in the Ryman, the expansive tour bus, and I didn’t miss the slight prod in my direction that emphasised my own presence. “…That’s just frippery. My nature is music; music is my nature.”

At least he was engaged. If he kept this up, we’d be able to work something out.

I changed tack. “And the cocaine?”

He grinned his easy grin. “It’s not like I’m addicted,” Of course not. Addicts always say that. “It’s just for some fire, you know? Gives everything an edge. Makes the performance better.”

“So you can’t play unless you’re high. Got it.” I pretended to make a note on my laptop, letting my provocative statement hang in the air.

I expected him to deny it. To argue. People often said more when they were arguing than they did when they were questioned. He didn’t, though. He let it stand, not giving a response, his charmingly boyish grin widening, like he’d seen straight through my ploy. Perhaps he had; but if so, he was a lot more perceptive than I’d given him credit for. I wasn’t convinced yet.

“And the girls? The booze? Do they make the performance better?” I still wanted to provoke. Not only was it where I’d get to his real emotions, but… he’d riled me up. Perhaps it was too early for this angle, but I was pissed off. Tired from the flight. Irritated at being kept waiting. And I hadn’t forgotten the slap of his hand on my ass. I let it drive my questions, even as I kept my tone neutral.

“Sex, drugs, and rock ‘n' roll,” he said, shrugging.

“Oh. So you’re a walking stereotype. How nice.”

His eyes flared at that. The first true reaction I’d had.

“Are you going to continue being a bitch, Miss Mitchell?” His tone was casual, even though his words weren’t. His gaze had hardened.

I’d gotten to him, and he’d turned it into a question of his own. He hadn’t gone on the defensive; he’d come out on the attack. Interesting.

“Nuh uh,” I said, shaking my head as I made another meaningless note on my keyboard. “I’m not answering any questions until you call me Victoria.”

“Victoria,” he said, as if tasting the name. “It’s very… you. Do you answer to ‘Vicky’?”

“Only my friends call me Vicky,” I said, looking at my screen, wondering where I wanted to go with my next question.

“So that’s a ‘no’, then.”

I glanced up at that. Had he just implied…?

He was grinning again, like he’d got a rise out of me. And maybe he had.

I felt a hint of a thrill. Perhaps this would be more fun than I’d thought…

“The degree to which I am a bitch, Mr Stone, depends entirely on how much you intend to cooperate.”

“Quite a lot of a bitch, then.”

…Or perhaps not. I internalised a sigh.

I thought for a moment as an idea occurred. He might respond well to it… though there was a chance he wouldn’t. And maybe I was still letting my mood, perhaps unwisely, drive my reaction to him.

But the hell with it. It felt right.

“Let me be candid, Mr Stone. I don’t want to be here. I don’t have any interest in your music. I don’t have any interest in you. But Universal Media Group wants this to happen, and they’re the paymasters for both of us. Can we find a way of… if not being nice to each other… coexisting for eight weeks?”

“Until you can go and do something more interesting?” he asked, inoffensively.

“Mmm. Quite.”

“Somewhere you can get shot at?”

I blinked in surprise. That was the line I’d given to Dave back in London. It was a quip, just to emphasise that many of the stories worth telling came with violence. I didn’t actually want to be shot. Journalists died pursuing those stories; the risks were real, and I knew that. I’d already seen my fair share of violence and come close enough to death. It came with the job. But the very fact that he’d used those words wasn’t a coincidence.

Someone had done their digging, and I was pretty sure he wasn’t the type.

Of course. Debbie Rosings. She was more competent than her ripped jeans suggested… not that I’d judged her purely on her fashion sense. Well, not entirely. Evidently, he listened to her, too. That was interesting. Perhaps she had some influence over him; perhaps I could use that.

“I think we’re all bound by our natures, Mr Stone. The only question becomes whether we ignore it or embrace it. Let it control us, or whether we control ourselves.” I fixed him with a stare. “Which do you do?”

“It’s just shades of light and dark,” he said.

An enigmatic answer. My brow furrowed.

He glanced at his watch. “Your thirty-one minutes are up.”

I looked at my own in reflex. “No, they’re not.”

He rose from the sofa, his jeans tight across his thighs. He’d kicked his shoes off at some point; his feet were bare. “I’m playing tonight. I’ve got a lot to do.”

I sighed, closing my laptop. Hardly any progress, and we only had seven sessions left. This wasn’t the sort of ‘challenge’ I’d been looking for.

He paused beside the table, turning to me. “Are you going to come and watch me play?”

“Not tonight. Like I said, I don’t have much interest. And I’m still on London time. I’m going to head back to my hotel.” I closed my case and stood.

“Come for the after party?”

He didn’t ask casually; he seemed to want me there. I hesitated, wondering why. “I’ll think about it.”

“You’ll get to understand me a lot faster if you see how I live.”

I didn’t need him to tell me how to do my job. I had intended to immerse myself in the whole shebang, I just didn’t feel I needed to start tonight.

“I’ll think about it,” I said again.

“Grand. I’ll have Debbie get a VIP all-access pass delivered to your hotel.”

He danced down the steps ahead of me, opening the tour bus door, holding it for me. So gentlemanly… except it left hardly any space to get past him. The stairway was narrow. I knew he knew that. Hell, he probably knew I knew he knew that. Bastard.

I smiled sweetly. “Goodbye, Mr. Stone.”

I stepped down the stairs carefully, edging past him. He made no attempt to give me extra room.

My spatial awareness was fairly good. I’d seen where his bare feet were on the steps, and he hadn’t moved. The heel of my shoe landed almost perfectly, and I hadn’t even looked.

His breath came out in a hiss.

“Oh, so sorry,” I said, holding his gaze, my tone dripping insincerity. If he wanted to play games… Besides, I owed him for that slap on my ass.

We were nearly in contact. His bare chest, me with my back to the wall, a sliver of air between us. He moved imperceptibly forward, and our bodies touched. I gradually added some weight to my heel.

He held the position for a long moment, his eyes locked on mine, his easy smile showing no strain despite the pain he must be feeling.

“I’ll see you tonight, then?”

I got the impression I wasn’t getting out of there until I agreed. I sighed, not trying to hide my lack of enthusiasm. “Very well.”

He leaned forward another half-inch, his chest pushing against my breasts. “Promise me.”

Was it not hurting enough yet? I should’ve worn a sharper heel. I didn’t own any stilettos; wouldn’t have expected to need them if I had.

I hesitated, weighing the choice of capitulation against the benefit of escape. “I said I’ll think about it.”

He leant in further, the feel of his body growing firmer against my own. “Promise me,” he insisted.

Fuck it. “Very well, Mr Stone. I promise.”

He leant back immediately; I wasn’t so fast to remove my heel.

He held my gaze for a moment. The corners of his lips were curled in satisfaction, but his eyes were dark. Not with pain, with something else. I couldn’t place it.

“I’ll look forward to seeing you later, then.”

I gave him a fuck-you smile and continued down the steps.

“Nice ass, Vicky,” he said, by way of farewell.

I didn’t give him the satisfaction of looking back at him. “You’ve got a concert tonight. Get some ice on your foot.”

~*~

Chapter Three

I stood naked in my hotel room, contemplating the clothes I’d brought.

Yeah. I’d fucked up. I thought I could get away with something formal for the interviews, but that wouldn’t work for an after party. I’d brought nothing I could wear to a concert in the heat of the Nashville summer. I hadn’t planned to hang around for the whole thing, anyway—once you’d heard ten minutes you’d heard it all. I’d thought my credit card would cover everything I needed—but I’d had no chance to use it.

In short, my limited wardrobe offered only one option for tonight.

With a sigh, I picked up the black mini dress I’d brought.

He was going to think I’d worn it for him. Fuck.

Wistfully, I eyed my skirt suits. I could just imagine his derision if I turned up to an after party looking like Miss Moneypenny. No… the dress was the best of bad options.

I also only had one set of underwear for such a dress. Powder blue and lacy. Not that it really mattered; there was no way in hell anyone other than me was seeing it tonight.

My hotel was a short Uber ride away from the Ryman. The after party was, as I understood it, in the rooms at the back. I could still hear music playing when I climbed out of the car. I checked my watch: 12:20. The concert should’ve ended twenty minutes ago. I guess he’d had a good night if the encores were still going.

I made my way around to the Artist Entrance at the side of the building. No door but another red cord like the one they’d used earlier, held between two short poles, and a security guard standing on point. Behind the cord, stone steps led up into the building at the top of which there was an open door.

“No entry,” the security guard said in a bored voice, lazily holding up a hand.

I flashed the VIP all-access card Debbie had left for me at the hotel desk. The man inspected it briefly before stepping back, opening the rope that ineffectually blocked the entrance.

The music was even louder inside and I was still some way from the auditorium.

There was hardly anyone around. I encountered another security guard who only glanced at my pass, and a couple of the guys in their ‘crew’ shirts that I’d seen doing the heavy lifting earlier. I wandered freely: finding the corridor where Debbie had shown me the picture of Elvis; verifying where the ladies was; locating the dressing rooms.

Debbie had said the after party would be in the bar at the back, which I also explored. It was largely empty, another cord-and-pole arrangement discouraging all but the most determined. I saw one couple seated at a table, either there legitimately or not caring that they weren’t, and a barman polishing glasses. He glanced up expectantly, but I just smiled and left.

I was walking back toward the dressing rooms when the music stopped and a final roar from the audience rang out through the building. That was that, then. He’d be coming out soon.

My stomach clenched, nerves I hadn’t felt in years catching me by surprise. Was he getting to me? Surely not. I took a deep breath, calming myself.

Doors opened everywhere at once, people spilling out. I realised how much I was about to be in the way, and swiftly retreated to the bar I’d found.

A security man arrived shortly after I had, encouraging the couple to drink up and fuck off, and again my pass kept him at bay. Another joined the first within moments, and together they carefully screened those that came in. The noise level rose rapidly, excited voices and laughter.

I sat at the bar, nursing a white wine, watching the room fill up.

Debbie entered soon after, looking resplendent in a short, sparkly, strappy dress. Given the fashion favoured by those here I’d have figured the ripped jeans would have suited better, but perhaps she was on duty and needed to look the part.

She saw me and came over.

“Victoria! Good to see you. I hear your first interview went well.”

I blinked, but couldn’t detect any sarcastic undertone. She either genuinely thought it had, or she was incredibly good at poker.

“It was interesting,” I said noncommittally.

“He is though, isn’t he?” she replied, misinterpreting my remark. Again, I wasn’t sure whether she’d done it on purpose or not. I’d have to watch this one; she was tricky. “He’s in his dressing room, by the way. He asked me to bring you over.”

“Er…” I glanced at my half-full glass of wine, but that was unlikely to serve as an excuse. “Is he not coming in here?”

“Oh, he will eventually. He tends to let the party build first. Besides, he needs to unwind too.” She lay her hand on my bare arm. “You really should come and see him now. It would be a great opportunity to learn what he’s like straight after a concert. He’s pumped, you know? Really pumped. Tonight went very well.”

“Oh, good,” I said, letting her pull me from my bar stool.

“Yes. Best opening night we’ve had for some time, actually. He was really in the mood for it.” She glanced at me sideways. “Was it something you said to him, perhaps?”

Well, I’d be surprised if he could walk without pain—but I couldn’t see that helping his performance, and if he hadn’t told her I didn’t see any reason why I should mention it. Instead, I laughed lightly, suggesting her comment was flattering but preposterous.

Debbie escorted me to his dressing room, passing the picture of Elvis on the way. My nerves were back and I had mixed feelings. I could see the value of meeting him while ‘pumped’, immediately post-concert, yet on the other hand I didn’t want to be alone with him again. This feeling surprised me: I usually sought out one-to-one time with my subjects. But it had been a very long day, and I’d started it over 4,000 miles away. Perhaps my reticence was no more than a product of my fatigue.

She didn’t knock, just opened his door, and went in. Was that her privilege, or was there no privacy?

“I found her.”

Hmm. Ominous.

I allowed her to show me in, walking past her, and the moment I had, she left, closing the door behind her.

The room was large. Extensive dressing tables spread along one wall, and at least an eight-seat corner sofa taking up much of the far side. Lots of lights and mirrors. Tyler Stone had been pacing in the room and turned when I entered. He was dressed in leather jeans with his signature chain belt looped through, and a black t-shirt that at least looked clean and fresh.

“Hey,” he said smiling.

A surprisingly amiable greeting, considering our earlier meeting.

“How’s your foot?”

He grinned immediately, his eyes crinkling. “Stimulating.”

Hmm. It seemed Tyler Stone liked a little pain. Why was I not surprised?

“Debbie said the concert went well.”

“Yeah… Yeah I think it did.” He started pacing again, radiating energy, his movements tense and slightly jerky, clearly still riding the high. Of adrenaline, or were there other substances in the mix?

“The audience seemed to like it,” I offered. He seemed somehow seemed more vulnerable than when we’d met earlier. Like he needed to hear some acclaim.

“Yeah,” he said again. “Yeah, they did, didn’t they?” He glanced over at me. “Fuck, I’m wired. Do you want a drink?”

Stone walked toward a fridge in the corner of the room with bottles on the table nearby, selected one, pulled the stopper out, and splashed a healthy measure of what looked like bourbon into a crystal tumbler.

“What can I get you?” he asked without turning.

“I’m fine, thank you.”

He looked at me over his shoulder. “Come on, have a drink with me.”

I regarded him steadily. “No wall to push me against and force me?”

He laughed uneasily. “Are you going to hold that against me?”

“No, we’re even. So long as your foot still hurts.” And you never slap my ass again.

His laughter came more naturally this time. “Have a drink with me? Please?”

I nodded my acknowledgement of his ‘please’. “White wine?”

He grinned, happy that I’d agreed, and turned back to the fridge. “What have we got… Californian Chardonnay? Marlborough Sauvignon?” He glanced at another shelf. “Bollinger?”

I smiled. “Alright then, a glass of Bollinger.” It was a favourite.

His grin was back. He pulled out a bottle and busied himself with it for a moment. The cork shot against the wall, the champagne fizzing over his fist. A waste, but I guessed he could afford it—assuming he was even paying.

Stone poured it into a flute and put the bottle back into the fridge, carrying my champagne and his bourbon past me to the sofa. It seemed he expected me to dutifully follow. Suppressing a sigh and an eyeroll, I did.

He sprawled across the leather, the bourbon sloshing in his glass, somehow not quite spilling.

“I fucking love the Ryman, you know,” he said, staring past me into space.

That was more interesting to me than his ‘follow the leader’ games. I sat on the end of the sofa and picked up my glass.

“Why?” Probably my favourite question of all of them.

“It’s just… I dunno… the atmosphere, you know? And it’s acoustically perfect. The sound just…” He waved a hand, showing the flow of music through the air. Then he proffered his glass toward me. “Cheers.”

“Cheers,” I replied, clinking glasses, and took a sip. He took a deep swallow.

“Everyone is so into it here,” he continued. “They go with the music. They’re not reserved, you know? They don’t hold back. They’re not stuck up, or…” he glanced at me again, “…conceited.”

Great. Thanks.

He chuckled to himself, perhaps amused by whatever expression I’d let slip. “I like your dress. Suits you better.”

Oh, so he had noticed. I hadn’t been sure for a minute there.

“Limited options when you travel light. I hadn’t had a chance to—”

There was a brief knock on the dressing room door before it opened, and I looked up, seeing Will enter. Behind him came a girl, barely dressed in a strappy top and short shorts. She didn’t look older than twenty.

“Hey Tyler,” Will said with a knowing smile. “This is Harper. She’s a fan.”

And with such a comprehensive introduction, Will left, closing the door behind him.

“Oh my gosh!” the girl cried, walking through the room with preening steps, exaggerated further by her platform shoes. She was a seedy imitation of a catwalk model, running her hands up her own body as she came. “That was amazing! I’m just… totally wired by it all.”

Stone sat up, his grin back. “You liked it, eh?”

“Liked it? I fucking loved it!”

She made a beeline for him. She hadn’t looked at me, or even around the room. I wondered if she’d been here before.

“Yeah? How did it make you feel?”

“God, it made me feel so… hot!” she fanned herself with one hand, and now she was almost at the sofa. “Made me feel like I just want to…” She reached up, pushing one strap off her shoulder, then the other, pulling it down until her breasts were on display. I glanced away. “…Get off, you know?”

She dropped to her knees between his legs, reaching for the button of his leather jeans.

“Okay,” I muttered, putting my barely-touched glass back on the table. “I’ll just… see myself out.”

I rose, walking toward the door, trying to ignore the giggles, the gasp, and the slurping sounds.

I opened it and glanced back. I shouldn’t have glanced back; not sure why I did. He wasn’t looking at the girl; he was watching me. Fuck.

I closed the door behind me.

~*~

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