The hatefire is still there, burning as hot as a bonfire, but now I'm not sure who it's directed at. The leggy blonde -- who is very clearly a big Drax fan now, if she wasn't earlier today -- can't be blamed. How could she have known about our little 'behind the scenes' makeout session?

Drax himself is an asshat, that's a given. Just another typical rockstar, out to seduce every woman he can find. I've been around musicians enough to know this, though. He never promised me anything -- in fact, we barely said two words to each other. The 'proposal' on his headshot was just a joke. Kinda cruel, really, but still just a joke.

My stomach clenches around a grapefruit-sized ball of reality. The only person to blame in this scenario is me. I had a visceral physical attraction to Drax that was so overwhelming it left me believing there was more to 'us' than there ever could be. That's on me. I should have known better, but I let my heart to get wrapped up in the schoolgirl fantasy of falling for a rockstar. Or rather, him falling for me.

Silly, Lauren.

That's okay, I decide. We're all allowed to have at least one unrequited crush, and I guess this is mine. It was fun for a few hours and now it's over, no big deal, no hard feelings. He's off doing his thing and I have a job to do. Which means going back in there and dragging his fine, firm ass to the theater, whether he likes it or not. No way am I going to mess up this job because my precious fee-fees were hurt.

And if it results in cock-blocking him, that's just a bonus.

Squaring my shoulders and taking a deep, soul-steeling breath, I round the corner. I'm just in time to see Barbie pouring Drax into the passenger seat of her -- I kid you not -- bubblegum-pink Beetle, then prancing around to the driver's side, her stilettos sparkling in the sun.

Before my brain can process what I'm seeing, the Beetle chirrs to life and speeds away. The last glimpse I have of Drax is of him dropping his head onto the woman's shoulder. The sweet little peck she gives his forehead brings up my lunch, right there on the sidewalk in front of the Squid and the Ink.

Wonderful.

"Where the fuck is that asshole?"

No, that's not me, believe it or not. It's Roadkill's manager but, of course, I'm wondering the exact same thing.

Marvin Harmony has quite the reputation in the industry. Even a lowly assistant knows that he's volatile, rude and downright brilliant. He's also a big man with crazy, grey, mad-scientist hair who won't hesitate to use his wild appearance to intimidate others. In other words, the complete antithesis of his ridiculous name.

If it wasn't for him, Roadkill would still be playing at abandoned warehouses and random raves. Now they're selling out large venues and only gaining in popularity, and most of that's due to Marvin's savvy management. Bands across the country would kill for the chance to have him represent them, and they would probably wet themselves in ecstasy to know that he's thiiiiiis close to dumping Roadkill, creating a coveted vacancy in his client roster.

"Boys, I swear to God above and Satan below that, if he is so much as a minute late, you're all history. We've been together a long time, but I won't hesitate to cut you out. "

By my watch, Drax is a good six hours late already, but I know what he means. Roadkill is slated to start playing at ten, and the opening band has just started. That gives him less than two hours to make it here or his career -- the band's career -- is over.

My career, too. If Harry finds out I not only let Drax get drunk before the show, but also watched him run off with a groupie for some afternoon delight, I'll be shitcanned faster than I can say 'shitcan'. Which is, of course, why I'm really chowing down on all my fingernails. I don't even care. My stress level is in the stratosphere and it's only going up.

"Marvin, relax," says Savory, trying to calm the raging beast. Over the last few hours, I've come to appreciate his level-headedness. Nothing seems to rattle him. Can't say the same for ol' Marv.

"Relax?! Save, I've taken just about all the shit from that little bastard that I can take."

"C'mon, you have to admit he hasn't been much trouble at all the last couple years. I can't remember the last time he was late, really late."

Marvin isn't having any of it. One eyebrow pops up, then his gaze slides over to me. I try to melt into the wall but he pins me with his glare.

"Hey, you. What time did that prick finally show up to that thing this morning?"

My face burns so red that I don't need to answer.

"See?" Marvin spits, his arms flailing around madly. For a brief second, I'm grateful I took CPR because he looks like he's about to either have a heart attack or kill someone. Then Frank, the surly drummer, opens his big, fat mouth.

"It was only a stupid signing. He's never been late for anything important."

"Excuse me?!" I gasp.

Why am I getting in the middle of this? I have no idea, but apparently my pride won't let that little snub slide on by.

"Girl, please," Frank snorts. "Are you really comparing a fucking autograph signing to a concert?"

"Of course not, but don't act like it's nothing, or worse than nothing." I stand a little taller to prove I'm no pushover. "Do you have any idea how much work goes into a 'stupid signing'?"

I use air quotes, to which Frank huffs and drops into the nearest chair, resigning himself to the fact that a lecture is on its way. Boy, is it ever!

"Let's pretend everything goes smoothly, that the record store you booked months earlier doesn't cancel at the last minute, forcing you to scramble to find another venue. Let's say you don't have to call in favors and promise to name your firstborn after the owner, regardless of the kid's gender. And never mind about rerouting shipments of head shots to the new place. Forget all that."

I take a breath and see that every member of Roadkill is actually paying attention to me. Marvin is, too, but he's got a knowing smirk plastered on his round face. The man may be a hotheaded snake, but he knows his business.

I soldier on, ticking off on my fingers as many duties as I can remember off the top of my head. "You've got contracts that need signing, supplies to order, furniture to rent, signage to have made, advertising to buy, and a shitload of cranky fans to deal with as they wait around for their tardy hero. Some of those losers you call fans actually camped out on the sidewalk last night just to get the chance to meet Drax, if you can believe it. So don't go around acting like an autograph signing is nothing. I'll agree it's peanuts compared to organizing an actual concert, but it's still a helluva lot of work."

I'd love to say that you can hear a pin drop when I finish my little speech, but it would be a lie, what with the opening act pounding out something that sounds only vaguely like music. Pretend that awful band isn't trying to break everyone's eardrums and the cliche holds true.

"Huh," grunts Jake, shaking his spiky-haired head. "I'm exhausted just hearing about it. You, darlin', deserve a beer."

Before I can object, or gripe that he called me 'darlin' again, he pulls two bottles of fancy microbrews from the bucket of ice sitting next to the hospitality buffet and tosses one to me. Cracking open the other, he grins. "Can't let a lady drink alone."

"Um, no, thanks."

He shrugs when I set the bottle down and continues to chug the beer. Savory grabs a couple bottles of water from the same tub of slushy ice. I can't help noticing his sly glance at the wall clock -- 8:19 and counting.