That damn blush blossomed on her face again at the memory. It was one she planned to keep.

“You’re gorgeous always, but you’re fucking edible when you blush.”

His words lit her up inside. She wrapped her arms around him from behind as he put his boots back on.

“You know, I could, um, return the favor.” She slid a hand down his muscular denim-clad thigh.

Van leaned back and angled his head so he could kiss her. Softly at first. She wasn’t sure which one of them deepened the kiss, but soon she was straddling him on the edge of her bed.

He groaned. “As much as I’d love that, and as much as it’s killing me to walk away from your perfectly naked body, I’ve been gone a while. If anyone comes to check and sees I’m not at the barn, they might put out an APB or something. My manager’s supposed to drop by today.”

Stella slid aside so he could get up. She loved what he did to her, but she was done begging. For now. And he was probably right. He needed to go before anyone got suspicious. Wrapping her bed sheet around her body, she stood and walked him to her door.

“Thank you,” she said softly as he kissed her. “For last night and today.”

“My pleasure,” he responded with a wink.

“Not yet.” Stella let her hand caress him lightly over his jeans. If she wasn’t mistaken, he was rock hard.

“I better go before I can’t. See you soon, cowgirl.” Van kissed her once more before stepping out of her place. She closed the door and watched him glance around before heading across the property to his own residence.

Her mind couldn’t make sense of the situation they were in. Couldn’t conjure up a logical explanation for why they were risking so much when they barely knew each other.

But her body approved one hundred percent.

Chapter Twenty-Two

“Well I’ll be damned.”

Van had known his manager was coming to see him. He only had just over forty-five days left in rehab and it was time to start signing paperwork and discussing the deal with Epitaph. What he hadn’t expected was for his friend Drake Ellis, his band’s drummer, to come along with him.

“To what do I owe this unexpected honor?”

Drake shook his hand and clapped him hard on the back. “Fuck, man. Look at you. All not dead and shit. Last time I saw you, you were a corpse, dude.”

“And yet you never sent flowers. Cheap fucker.”

Drake ran a colorfully inked-up hand through his mohawk. “Yeah well. I only send flowers to the chicks who give the best head. Sorry, man. You didn’t make the cut.”

Van placed a hand over his chest. “That hurts. You cut me deep, Ellis. You heartless bastard.”

Sid cleared his throat to interrupt the bullshit. “You two can save your emotional reunion for when Van gets out of here. Right now we need to go over the stipulations from Epitaph.”

Van led them to a back table in the private section of the Atrium. “Okay, let’s hear it.”

Sid eyed both of them to make sure he had their full attention before he began. “So first things first. All members will attend all signing and record or tour promo events and will remain sober and not destroy anything.” He shot a pointed look at Van. Van shrugged. Man had a valid point.

There was more. A lot more. Stuff about drug testing, the label assuming a limited liability for anything Van fucked up or destroyed. There was even mention of a curfew while on tour.

A month ago, if anyone had tried to pull shit like this over on him, he would’ve laughed in their face and told them to kiss his ass. But with the taste of Stella Jo Chandler still on his lips, he couldn’t find much cause to get pissed about much of anything. They could’ve told him he had to donate a kidney and join the Teddy Bear of the Month club and the grin on his face would’ve remained as he signed.

She had looked so damn good all tied up and exposed to him. He hadn’t taken an actual picture like he’d teased her, but he certainly had a solid mental one that was going to keep him company for as long as he lived if he could help it.

“Van?” Sid cleared his throat. “Ransom, you with us?”

“Tune in, dude. This is the heavy shit.” Drake’s voice broke through and Van looked back and forth between the men, who were looking at him like he’d started humming show tunes.

“My bad. What?”

“You high right now?” Drake asked with wide eyes. “Or did they give up on the rehab part and give you a lobotomy?”

He shrugged. “It’s been a good day. That’s all.” Good didn’t even begin to describe it. If he were being honest, the past twenty-four hours had been the best of his life.

“Uh huh.” Drake side-eyed him skeptically, but Sid looked genuinely disturbed.

“I can’t be happy? What the fuck?”

Sid sighed and shoved some papers forward. “Of course you can. But if you could come down from cloud nine for a minute, you need to initial each of these X’s. This is the clause about not fucking up, Van. So read each one, please, before you sign.”

Van rubbed his neck and took the pen from his manager. The two of them all in his face had effectively faded the vivid memory of Stella screaming and begging. Well, mostly. He tucked it in the back of his mind where he could get to it later.

He looked down at the papers dotted with red X’s. It was all pretty much the same shit. No drugs, no hookers, no trashing hotel rooms or tour buses.

But the clause at the bottom was new.

Any breach of the contract could be proven, and Hostage for Ransom would have two options. Either be dropped from the label entirely or the member who’d fucked up would be kicked out and replaced.

Whoa. That was a dick move that no one had ever so much as suggested before. And he knew the shit was directed right at him. He could practically feel the target on his fucking forehead.

“So I screw up and my ass gets replaced? In my own band?” His voice was calm as he looked up at Sid and Drake.

Sid met his stare. Drake just drummed his fingers on the table and looked around.

So that’s how it was.

“We discussed this,” his manager began. “You’ve had more chances than anyone, Van. Enough is enough. No sense in taking down the whole band.”

He let out a harsh laugh. “My whole band, you mean. The one I started. The one named for me, because it’s my fucking band.”

“Van—”

“Ease up,” Drake broke in. “We’ll all get your face tatted on our asses if that’s what you want. This is why I came along on this visit. To tell you that the band already talked about this. You go, we all go.”

He let out a breath, but the tension in his chest didn’t leave. Not completely, anyways.

Van looked over at Sid for confirmation. Drake wasn’t a liar, but Van didn’t trust anyone really. Sid had been the only one to really come through when he’d needed him.

Sid nodded, and Van finished signing and initialing. He slid the papers back across the table.

“That it then? Meeting over?”

He felt claustrophobic as fuck in private corner of the Atrium that Dr. Ramirez had let them use. And he was aching to see Stella again. He needed to hear those sweet moans, his name on her lips. Even if all they did was talk and give each other hell down at the barn. He’d take what he could get.

“That’s it for now. I’ll check in with you in a few weeks. Behave yourself,” Sid said as he stood.

“I’ll be out in a minute, Sid.” Drake made no move to get up, so Van remained seated.

Once the manager had stepped out of sight, Drake’s wild blue stare met Van’s.

“Hey, man, seriously. All that pretentious shit with the label… You know none of us give a fuck about all that. You do what you do. We do what we do.”

Van leaned back in his chair. “Meaning?”

Drake lifted a shoulder. “Meaning this is all bullshit and we all know it. Epitaph jerking your chain like this is fucked up. You shouldn’t be stuck here.”