One, having Jude and Connor on the same bus.

  Two, the coffeepot picking that day to refuse to work.

  “You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.” Connor pushed out a breath and ran a hand through his wet hair. “We just got the fucking bus fixed, and now this? Can just one goddamned thing work the way it’s supposed to on—”

  “Connor.” A.J. jumped in before he could talk himself out of it.

  The lead singer’s teeth snapped shut, and he turned to A.J., eyes narrow.

  “I’ll check with the facilities guy and the roadies.” A.J. kept his voice low and even. “It’s probably just the electrical hookup outside. The same thing that happened back in Charlotte, remember?”

  Connor pressed his lips together, glaring at the piece-of-shit coffeepot like he was about to do them all a favor and smash the damn thing.

  “There’s a Starbucks half a block from here,” A.J. went on calmly. “And if you go the other way, there’s a café that the roadies say has really good coffee. If you’ll go get us each a cup, I’ll make sure the facilities guys get the hookup fixed before tonight.”

  Connor eyed him, but then slowly released his breath. “Okay. I’ll . . . What kind do you want?”

  “The usual.”

  Connor nodded. “All right. Thanks, man.”

  “Don’t mention it.”

  Connor shoved his wallet into his pocket. “Guys, I’m going to Starbucks. Anyone else want anything?”

  Thank God—situation defused.

  As Connor and Shiloh headed across the empty lot, A.J.’s heartbeat gradually came down. Every time he ran interference and tried to calm Connor, even over stupid shit, he was sure this would be the time it blew up in his face, especially now that Jude’s presence was making Connor extra volatile. A.J. didn’t like confrontation, and he didn’t like engaging someone who was ready to lose their shit, but the alternative was letting Connor flip his lid until he’d worn his voice raw. That would fuck the whole band that evening, and anyway, God knew why, Connor always seemed to settle down when A.J. intervened.

  “That calming effect of yours is going to be even more crucial than ever. Trust me, A.J. You’re not going anywhere.”

  A.J. scowled. Well, at least he was good for something.

  And at least Connor was gone, and now Jude had stepped outside to have a smoke, so everyone else could finally breathe.

  Vanessa rolled her eyes. “God, when the hell did Connor turn into such a diva?”

  “He’s always been a diva,” Richie muttered.

  “Not like that.”

  Richie huffed. “Yeah. Not until Jude came back and Connor couldn’t blame anybody but himself.”

  “Jude played his part,” Vanessa said.

  “So did Connor, and you know it.”

  Vanessa scowled. “Well, karma’s a bitch, I guess.”

  “Yeah, well, it’d be nice if karma bitched somewhere else. This is a fucking tour, not the rolling Connor-Jude Shit Show.”

  A.J. bowed out of the conversation, muttering an excuse about needing to take care of the electrical issue, and got the hell off the bus. He hadn’t even had breakfast yet, and he’d already had it up to here with the drama.

  Eventually, he found a roadie who had the number for the facilities manager, and made the call. With that situation resolved—or in the process of being resolved, anyway—he headed back to the bus.

  He boarded it, left a note on the coffeepot for everyone to leave it off until the electrical issue was fixed, and then took out his phone to text his drum tech about setting up for tonight’s show.

  “Did I see you coming back with Jude last night?”

  Vanessa’s voice startled him, and he spun around. “Huh?”

  Her eyebrow arched, silently repeating her question.

  “I, uh . . .” He nodded, sliding his phone into his pocket. “Yeah. We grabbed dinner at the burger joint down the road.”

  The suspicion in her gaze made his skin crawl.

  “What?” he asked.

  Vanessa folded her arms, and he swore she had daggers in her eyes. “You’re gonna want to be careful with him. He’s in this and everything else for himself, and he’ll use you and fuck you over just like he did the rest of us. Remember, he’s the guy who almost broke all of this.” She gestured at the places where their bandmates usually sat. “I mean, he did break us, but thank God we found you.”

  A.J.’s stomach knotted.

  “Anyway.” Vanessa faced him. “Just watch yourself with him. He’s not someone you want to get buddy-buddy with.”

  “Buddy-buddy?” A.J. shrugged. “It was just a bite to eat.”

  “Mm-hmm.”

  He gritted his teeth. He desperately wanted to remind her that he’d had nothing to do with the band’s preexisting drama, or the recent shit with Connor and Wyatt, and that he wanted nothing to do with any other shit that came up. He was here to be a musician. End of story. And if he decided to hang out with the only man within a hundred miles who he could talk to about drumming—well, when he could talk at all, since Jude seemed to evaporate his vocabulary with a look—it didn’t mean he was taking sides or stirring the pot. The road was a lonelier place than he’d expected. Fucking sue him if he wanted some goddamned human interaction between shows.

  But he didn’t say anything, and when Vanessa gave him a slight nod and headed off the bus, he didn’t stop her. Ironically, as much as he wanted to stand up for himself and defend his friendliness with Jude, it was Jude’s presence that made him keep his mouth shut. Rocking the boat wasn’t a good idea when there was someone around who could easily take his place.

  Not that Running with Scissors seemed all that keen on keeping Jude for longer than they had to, but if A.J. started stirring up shit, they might just decide that one jackass was better than two, and they’d probably hang on to the better musician.

  Might as well enjoy the ride as long as it’s smooth . . .

  Chapter 7

  Holy.

  Fucking.

  Hell.

  Jude had missed being onstage, and he’d been itching to get under the lights again, but this was nothing he’d ever experienced before. He’d played in clubs with Running with Scissors, and whatever moderately sized venues they’d been able to snag around Los Angeles. They’d even played a few outdoor festivals that allowed unsigned bands, giving them the most microscopic lines on posters and about four minutes of stage time in front of a few hundred stoners.

  Nothing like this.

  As the roadies set it all up, and Jude followed Richie and Vanessa onto the stage for sound check, he stared out at the empty seats. Literally thousands of empty seats, not to mention the floor, which would be standing-room only. The show had sold out. In a few hours, this place would be packed. There was already a line outside the gate, and he’d overheard someone commenting that the two main parking lots had been full since before noon.

  Okay, so they were mostly coming to see Schadenfreude, but still. Tonight, after eighteen months of believing this was all behind him, he was getting up on this stage in front of that many people.

  Goose bumps prickled beneath his guitar strap. This was going to be amazing.

  As he tuned his bass, the strings thrumming beneath his taped fingertips, he pulled his gaze from the empty seats and scanned the stage, which was currently packed with people, gear, and boxes. Several roadies wore Schadenfreude T-shirts and helped venue employees set up equipment, tape down wires, and adjust lights.

  At the rear of the stage, dead center, A.J. and his drum tech had finished setting up the drum set, and A.J. took a seat behind it. The tech was explaining something to him, and A.J. absently flipped his drumsticks over and over between his fingers, occasionally spinning them so fast they blurred.

  Jude’s fingers curled at his sides, the raw skin protesting sharply at the unwelcome motion. He could almost feel the unfinished wood against his palms and fingertips, and the way each beat echoed through his arms. The way the bass thumped beside his own heartbeat, and the snare and cymbals sent electricity crackling along his veins. God, he missed that.

  But it wasn’t just the drums or the sticks that held his attention.

  Oblivious to Jude’s gaze, A.J. made adjustments to his rig and directed his tech. He seemed perfectly at ease behind the instrument, like he didn’t even notice all the empty seats out there in front of them. Then again, this wasn’t his first rodeo.

  Jude still marveled at the idea of A.J. drumming for this band. The guy was so timid, it was difficult to imagine him filling the role for any rock band, never mind Running with Scissors. The high-energy music, the aggressive percussion—it just didn’t seem like him.

  “Jude,” Richie called.

  Jude turned around. “Yeah?”

  Richie fussed with his earpiece. “You ready?”

  “Whenever you are.”

  Sound check took his attention away from A.J. He and Richie played a few bars from “I Never,” and then the entire second verse of “By and By,” pausing now and then to tune their instruments and adjust the feed on their earpieces. Vanessa joined in, and after a few clumsy verses—he wasn’t used to playing alongside the house mix anymore—Jude got the hang of it. Just like riding a bike and all of that.

  Once he was sure he could not only hear the house mix properly, but that he really did have a grasp on the songs they’d be playing tonight, his excitement began growing again. They were really doing this. Less than a week ago he’d been rotting in a cubicle, and now . . .

  He gazed out at the empty seats, his heart pounding as he flexed his tender fingers.

  Now this.

  He and Vanessa started to retreat backstage while Richie stayed to play alongside A.J.

  Jude paused and then backtracked, curious how A.J. would sound. While he watched, taping his fingers again with the roll he’d kept in his pocket, A.J. and Richie continued with sound check. Richie rested his foot on the platform beneath A.J.’s drum set and played the intro to “Hold Fast.” After two bars, A.J. came in.

  And Jude’s heart sank.

  Really? That was how he played “Hold Fast”?

  Come on, A.J. Come on. Play, man! Play it hard!

  He was holding back. He had to be. There was no way in hell they’d have hired him on if that was his style.

  During his own drummer days, he had held back during sound check sometimes—well, whenever they’d had a sound check—to keep his wrists and hands fresh. That must be what A.J. was doing now, much like Jude had carefully manipulated the strings so he wouldn’t shred his fingers quite yet.

  Except A.J. still seemed . . . out of place. Like Richie or Vanessa trying to play beside a classical symphony or Connor in front of a country-western band. The technique was there, and the music was there, but the vibe was all wrong.

  Presumably, the rest of the band had known what they were doing when they brought him in. As much as Jude liked the guy, though, he was dubious.

  Guess we’ll see how tonight plays out.

  After sound check, they waited backstage for their cue to go on. Schadenfreude’s sound check had been a lot longer, so everyone had to warm up again in their ready room.

  It was cramped back there—the headliner probably had better digs, but Jude wasn’t complaining. And at least Connor’s preshow vow of silence meant no sniping or bickering. Everyone was too focused anyway.

  Jude peeled the tape off his fingers and flexed them gingerly, knowing they’d be hamburger before the end of the night.

  Come on, callus. You can show up anytime now.

  Across the tiny room, like any drummer with half a brain, A.J. was doing some stretching to limber up his arms and shoulders. He was wearing a tank top, as Jude often had during his drumming days. Being onstage could get wicked hot, and besides, sleeves restricted movement. And damn, A.J. looked good like that. His arms were as powerful as any drummer’s should be, and surprisingly free of ink—unlike anyone else’s in the band.

  And just as Jude had suspected he might, he’d put on eyeliner, and damn but he wore it well. It brought out the blue of his eyes and intensified his gaze. When he glanced at Jude at one point, Jude almost jumped out of his skin—A.J. may have been a church mouse, but his eyes didn’t let that show tonight.

  Maybe that was the purpose of the eyeliner. The slim black lines were a mask of sorts, a degree of separation between the world and who A.J. was when the lights went down. Jude knew a lot of musicians who wore makeup, costumes, sunglasses—anything to put a barrier between them and the audience so they could perform without losing their sanity. As a friend of his had once described it, stage makeup and costumes were temple garb for worshipping at the altar of stage fright.

  Did A.J. have stage fright? Quite possibly, now that Jude thought about it. He struggled to hold eye contact during a one-on-one conversation. So maybe—

  “You guys ready?” Someone from the venue leaned into the tiny room. “You’re on in five.”

  The five minutes before a curtain went up always passed like five nanoseconds, and this time was no exception. The man had given them their five-minute warning, and just like that, Jude was onstage under the hot lights, the roar of the crowd vibrating beneath his feet. He couldn’t see much beyond the lip of the stage, and his earpiece drowned out most of the noise, but he could feel the crowd. He could feel their collective presence extending out into the shadows and up the sides of the immense stadium. The roof didn’t even seem to exist, and the crowd soared up, up, up as if they all went on forever.

  That presence, the unavoidable reality that thousands of people were watching and listening, was like lightning through his veins. All the drama between him and Connor, all the side-eyes and uncertainty from the other band members—it was gone. Out here, there was nothing but music and lights, and Jude was dizzy from it all. Giddy, even. Nothing had ever made him as high as playing onstage, and this was like taking a deep toke of the strongest weed he could find after abstaining for too many years.

  And goddamn, but he’d forgotten how much he loved being onstage with this group. Exchanging glances with Richie. Shiloh dancing, singing, working the crowd. Vanessa powering through riffs that gave Jude goose bumps.

  And Connor. Jesus. Though Jude and most people could say a lot about him, the guy could bring a standing crowd up onto their toes. He had even more charisma to burn than Shiloh.

  Yes. Yes, this was right. Whatever drama they all had offstage, they had their collective shit together here, and it was magic just like in the old days. For better or worse, Running with Scissors was back, and Jude was almost overwhelmed by adrenaline and emotion as the past simply disappeared.

  Three songs into the set, the lights above them went down, and Richie and Jude backed off, playing in the background and making way for the drum solo.

  Jude turned around, and his fingers slipped off the strings for a beat.

  He could’ve sworn he’d seen A.J. on the throne behind the drum set when they’d taken the stage, and he’d heard and felt the powerful percussion since the opening number, but . . . that couldn’t possibly be A.J., could it?

  Beneath the blinding spotlight, A.J. was lost in the intense drum solo, his hands and drumsticks blurring as they beat and tapped and crashed. Droplets of perspiration flew. The percussion line reverberated through Jude’s bones. It was like he was looking at a whole new person. Drenched in sweat, with muddy smears of eyeliner emphasizing his blue eyes, his skin flushed and his shirt gone, A.J. wasn’t the shy kid who’d waited beside Kristy back in Nebraska, or who’d blended in with the upholstery on the tour bus, or who’d nearly disappeared into his own hoodie while they ate last night.

  Holy shit.

  There was nothing shy or timid behind that drum set. The stage brought out a side of A.J. that made Jude’s fingers fumble on the strings and his mouth go dry. Yeah, A.J.’d been holding back during sound check, but he sure as fuck wasn’t holding back now.

  It was like the stage was a parallel universe, one in which Connor was fun and happy, where Jude fit seamlessly into the band he’d founded, and where A.J. the church mouse exploded out of his shell and beat the crap out of that drum set like his life depended on it. Maybe the real world and all its shyness and drama would still exist when the lights went down and the instruments went back into their cases, but here on this stage, it vanished.

  A.J.’s solo wound down, and as Richie, Vanessa, and Jude started playing their hearts out once again, Jude vowed to savor every moment of this other world for as long as they let him play in it.

  As the set continued, he couldn’t get A.J. out of his mind. Whenever possible, he stole glances over his shoulder as if to remind himself that, yes, that really was A.J. back there. That those sounds, those powerful beats, came from the hands of the kid who could barely hold eye contact.

  And who was he kidding? The music held his attention, but so did the man himself. Sweaty, passionate, lost in the beat—A.J. was hot. He personified everything that could turn Jude on.

  Right then, eyes locked.

  The corner of A.J.’s mouth rose.

  And Jude forgot what song they were playing.

  The bass line completely derailed—fuck. He stopped, listened for the beat and the guitar, and fell back into sync with them. All told, he’d only lost two or three bars, and he doubted anyone even noticed, but damn, he sure did.

  He didn’t dare look at A.J. again. Not unless he wanted to fumble his way through the rest of the set. Not that he could get the hot drummer out of his head, but he’d damn sure try.

  And somehow, despite A.J. playing just a few feet away from him, Jude made it through the set without fucking up again.

  Barely.

  After their set, the band retreated backstage while the fans chanted for Schadenfreude. Kristy shoved water bottles into everyone’s hands, and despite the sweat they high-fived and even embraced. Jude knew damn well it was just the postshow buzz, but he took it, though Connor still cold-shouldered him. He was too high and happy to let his ex bring him back down.