Stop it!

I reach for the green room's door handle and pause. I had wondered what I would do if he was in there with the other members of Roadkill, but now I'm terrified that he's in there without them. By the surge of adrenaline that pumps into my system, I know I won't be able to resist him if he makes a move. Maybe it would be better to not take the chance. The last thing I need is for the rest of the band to walk in on us in a compromising position. Word would get around and eventually Harry would put my head on the chopping block.

Then I hear a noise from inside, and several voices laugh. I relax and poke my head in the room.

"Hi guys, I'm Lauren Raines from Harry Stephens Productions," I say brightly, quickly scanning the room for Drax. I pretend I'm not disappointed he hasn't shown up yet. "All good back here?"

"Sure thing, darlin'," says a stocky young guy in a black Metallica t-shirt that looks like its sleeves were chopped off with a chainsaw. I mentally scroll back through my research on the band and recognize him as Frank Swat, Roadkill's drummer.

There's nothing that irritates me more than a guy I don't know calling me 'sweetie', 'honey' or 'darling'. I smile sweetly but there's an edge to my voice.

 "Sorry, you must have misheard me. My name's Lauren, not darlin'. Where's Drax?"

I catch myself holding my breath as they all look at each other.

"Last time I saw him," says a younger guy whose hair is gelled up in crazy red-tipped black spikes, "he was talking to some hot little groupie outside the bus."

Huh. Whaddaya know. There apparently is something that irritates me more. Pure white jealousy flares through me at his words. My gut twists into knots, my nostrils flare and my fists clench. I try to tell myself it's no big deal, that Drax never promised me anything but I'm clearly trying to reason with an idiot.

"You're Jake Ward, right?" I ask. The lead guitarist. He grunts agreement. "Any idea where he might have gone?"

He shrugs and diddles on his unplugged guitar, twanging the strings aggressively. "I know where I'd take a tasty morsel like that. Nearest bar."

Did I mention I hate rockstars?

The bassist, Savory Fines -- what a name, am I right? -- is scrutinizing me pretty hard. His kohl-outlined eyes seem to be looking into me, where his bandmates are looking through me. "Why you looking for him, Lauren?"

He knows. I don't know how I know but I do. My heart beats a little faster but I smile brightly again to mask my anxiety. I need to get out of here, and fast.

"Just want to be sure he makes it in time for the sound check, is all. Thanks, guys! Break a leg!"

I try not to slam the door but fail miserably as I nearly run down the hall toward the back entrance. I stop a hard-looking roadie who's rushing by on some important mission or another. If anyone knows the answer to my question, he will.

"Where's the nearest bar?"

The Squid and the Ink is located a few blocks from the amphitheater. It pretends to be an old-fashioned British-style pub but it's really just a dive bar for concert-goers and college students. I vaguely recall coming here once with friends during college, but I never returned.

And I don't want to now, but something compels me forward. 'Something', that's rich. It's jealousy, pure and simple. I have to know if he's with another woman.

I have no claim on him, I know that, but if he is with someone else, especially so soon after rocking my world with a freaking kiss, I'll know he's really just another two-timing, man-whore rockstar. I almost hope that's the case.

No, you don't, says a little voice inside my head that sounds suspiciously like Pepper. That's a lie. You want to marry him and have a thousand of his beautiful babies.

NO!

I really am pathetic. Taking a deep breath, I steel my nerves and push my way through the heavy wood door. It's dark inside so I pause to let my eyes adjust. The entryway smells of stale beer, piss and decades-old cigarette smoke. Doesn't matter that smoking in bars was banned nearly twenty years ago, that stink won't come out unless the owners tear the place down to the studs.

The alcove I'm in is somewhat hidden from the rest of the bar by a big, ugly ficus that's seen better days, so I take the opportunity to scan the place from relative obscurity. I can't see all the booths, but I have a full view of the bar itself, which is in the shape of a giant U.

It's pretty crowded for being so early in the afternoon, but Drax is easy to pick out in a crowd. He's slumped over an empty highball glass on the far side of the bar, facing me but oblivious to my presence. Breath whooshes out of me in relief as I realize he's sitting alone.

I'm suddenly aware I'm chewing on my thumbnail like it's Thanksgiving dinner. Shoving my hands behind my back, I stay hidden and watch. It's kind of creepy, I admit, but I can't quite bring myself to walk up to him yet.

I have to wonder what he's thinking about so hard. He's staring into his glass like the answers to all the world's questions can be found there. He's also swaying slightly, like maybe that wasn't his first drink. Oh, man, the last thing I need is for Drax to show up to the concert drunk. Maybe if I get him out of here now, we can pour enough water and Red Bull down his gullet to get him through the night.

I'm about to round the ficus and collect him when he lifts his eyes and looks right at me. I freeze, unable to move a muscle. Does he see me? I have no idea. The look on his face is blank but he keeps staring this way. I have no choice but to stare back.

Even at this distance, I can see sadness in his eyes. Something must really be troubling him if he's here getting drunk the day of a show. My heart lurches and I have this sudden and ridiculous urge to cradle his head to my chest and rock him like an injured child.

Then another thought occurs to me. He could very well be sitting there trying to figure out a kind way to let me down. He is leaving for the rest of his tour tomorrow, after all. A sweet fog of sorrow settles on me. It was inevitable, I suppose, but I was hoping to have one night with him. I'm torn between going to him and letting him think in peace.

My decision comes in the form of a skin-tight pink Band Aid -- I mean, dress -- that sidles up next to him and drops a kiss on his cheek. His gaze drifts in her direction, then drops back to his empty glass. The Barbie-wannabe from the bookstore leans in and whispers something, to which he nods. Well, it's not so much a nod as a bob. He's definitely drunk.

And I'm definitely angry. Irate, even. A big, pissed-off part of me wants to storm over there and give him a piece of my mind -- and maybe a little of my knee, to boot. But if making out with a client isn't actually against the rules at Harry Stephens Productions, I'm guessing beating the living shit out of one is.

I'm literally choking on rage and humiliation but I finally listen to the pragmatic side of my brain and run out of the bar. I won't cry, I won't!

Hatefire burns in my chest as I try to catch my breath around the corner, which I'm finding hard to do. I'm not sobbing -- yet -- but I can tell I'm on the edge of hyperventilating. Dad was always able to calm me down when I got overly upset as a kid and I think back to his words.

"Shhh, honeybear," he'd coo, rubbing big, soothing circles on my back. "You'll get through this. You're stronger than you know. Now let's take a breath and see how long we can hold it, okay?"

We would do that a few times and I would eventually relax, so I try it now. Just like when I was young, it takes a few breaths but I finally calm down enough to think straight.