“You’re scaring her,” Owen said, and covered her eyes with one hand. “Don’t look directly at it or you’ll turn to stone.”

She laughed and elbowed Owen in the ribs. She was grateful he’d given her a moment to collect her wits. Gawking at Gabe’s head was a pretty crappy thing to do to him, especially since she knew what a great guy he was. She adored his quick wit and intelligence, even if she couldn’t stomach his ruthlessness on the opposite side of a backgammon board. And she didn’t hold his ink-work against him; she’d just been stunned, was all. She’d had no idea he had dragons tattooed on both sides of his head.

“Sorry for staring,” she said, forcing her eyes not to wander to the flames and the scaly hide inked on his scalp. “I just didn’t realize…”

“If he didn’t want people to stare, he wouldn’t style his hair like that,” Owen said.

“It’s not the hair, it’s the…” Caitlyn reached up and grabbed Gabe’s head between her palms and forced him to bend over so she could inspect the tattoos. “Damn, Gabe, didn’t that hurt? It looks damned painful!”

“Yeah, it hurt,” he said. “I swear I saw God that day. But the tattoo artist assured me that the unexplained sparks and the tunneling in my vision were due to the pain, not a higher power.”

“I bet it hurt worse than when Owen had his cock pier—” Caitlyn slapped a hand over her mouth. She couldn’t believe what she’d almost said to Gabe.

Gabe snorted and burst out laughing. “You know what I like about you, Caitlyn?”

“My dashing smile?” She smiled so wide, her cheeks hurt.

“That is special,” he said, “but no. You have a naughty mind. You might try to censor it, but I know it’s there.”

“I like that about her too.” Owen pried her hands off Gabe’s head. “Here, hold on to this.”

Owen wrapped Caitlyn’s arms around his waist and placed her hands on his ass.

“Oh yes,” she said, giving Owen’s firm ass cheeks a squeeze. “This is much more fun to hold on to than Gabe’s head.”

When it was time for Owen to work with his instrument, Caitlyn reluctantly released her hold on his firm backside. She noticed the bulge in his jeans before he shifted his bass guitar in front of it. So she wasn’t the only one in need of a quickie. A long, drawn-out lovemaking session would work too. She was game for anything with Owen.

She did her best to stay out of the crew’s way as she watched.

She was surprised by how well Owen played. For a moment, she thought he was showing off his skill for her benefit, and then it dawned on her that he was playing some of the band’s songs.

When the low tones of his riff throbbed through her body, she was suddenly completely astounded by his musical skill. To her way of thinking, music was an auditory expression of mathematics, mostly fractions—flats and sharps changing tones by halves, the lengths of notes in quarters and thirds. She’d always admired anyone who could play piano, and she was starting to feel the same admiration for a certain bass player. A man who had that much skill in music was a genius in her book.

There was also something to be said about the way Owen’s fingers moved on the strings, about knowing that’s what caused those thick calluses to form on his fingertips. About remembering what they felt like against her swollen, achy clit.

She was suddenly on fire for the man—no touching required.

Caitlyn’s original intention had been to watch the logistics of preparing equipment for a live show, but somehow all the machinery and technology—which usually fascinated her—was far less interesting than the man stroking four thick strings. The technicians were talking to Owen and he was nodding, but she couldn’t hear what was being said over the din of hammers banging against steel pipes. After several minutes, Owen smiled at her and then lifted the strap of his guitar over his head and handed it off to one of the crew. Her heart thudded faster and faster as he approached her. He never took his eyes off her face.

“Are you finished?” she asked.

“I haven’t even started,” he said.

“Oh.” She couldn’t keep the disappointment out of her voice.

“But I’m done with sound check.”

“That was quick.”

“Technically, they could do the sound check without us, but Shade insists that we all play a part in it. If we sound like shit, it’s not the technicians who get booed off the stage.”

“I guess that’s true,” she said. “So what do you usually do to waste time before the concert starts?”

“Depends. Sometimes we hang out on the bus. Other times we hang out in the dressing room. Occasionally there are VIP groups that hang out with us backstage, and I have to pretend I’m charming for several consecutive hours. We might do a promotional signing here or there but no matter what’s on the agenda, there’s usually a sandwich involved. Are you hungry?”

Her stomach rumbled at the thought of food. She’d enjoyed a large breakfast but had turned down a tour bus lunch consisting of beef jerky and Spanish peanuts. “Yeah, I could use a sandwich.”

“I think I need to earn mine first.”

She was in perfect agreement.

“Are we going back to the bus? I need to change clothes before the concert.”

“You’re changing again?”

“Aren’t you going to change for your performance?”

Owen looked down at his baggie, distressed jeans and smoothed both hands over the belly of his navy-blue T-shirt. “Nope. This will work fine.”

She was surprised he didn’t dress better onstage. He was wearing what most guys would wear to spend the day on the couch watching football and eating nachos. She wasn’t sure what to expect from the show. Apparently the band didn’t wear suits when they performed. Would the flirty red cocktail dress she’d borrowed from Jenna be appropriate attire?

“What should I wear, Owen? I’ve never been to a rock concert, remember? I don’t want to make an ass out of myself.”

“I have to admit I’m interested to know what you were planning on wearing.”

“Why? So you can make fun of me?”

“I would never make fun of you.”

She offered him a reproachful look.

“Not in a hurtful manner,” he added. “So why don’t you change into what you’d planned to wear and if I think it’ll make an ass out of you, I’ll let you know.”

“It’s not a tweed jacket,” she said.

She laughed at the disappointed look on his face.

“Well, I still want to see it.”

“Fine.” She didn’t much care if her wardrobe wasn’t metal-concert appropriate. It wasn’t like she was going to see any of these people in her real life. Though since they were in her home town, it was possible that someone would recognize her wearing a cocktail dress at a rock show.

They started toward the bus. Out of the corner of her eye, Caitlyn kept catching the profile of the same surly-looking stranger. She didn’t think it was a coincidence.

“Owen,” she whispered. “I think that shady-looking character is following us.”

Owen glanced over his shoulder and laughed. “Hey, shady-looking character. Follow us out of her peripheral view. You’re freaking her out.”

“Will do,” the man said and slowed his pursuit to allow them to walk farther ahead.

Caitlyn lifted a questioning eyebrow at Owen.

“That’s Frank, one of our security team. He’s making sure you don’t attack me.”

“You need security?”

“Obviously.”

“You didn’t have security following you around last night,” she pointed out.

“That’s because the chances I’ll be recognized when I’m not at a venue are relatively small. No one is looking to see me. But here, if I’m recognized, almost everyone knows who I am and then it becomes a mob situation. Ask Adam about that. He about started a riot a couple nights ago because he was stupid enough to roll down the limousine window in front of the stadium.”

“It’s sort of weird to think of you as famous,” she said. “Do people really try to attack you?”