The ink here is smeared. Condensation dripping from her glass, perhaps. A tear, more likely.

  “Harmony,” I say after a minute.

  “Hm?”

  “You missed something.”

  She blinks. “I did?”

  I gesture for her pen. She hands it over. “I know exactly what you did wrong,” I say.

  I flip to a blank page and write it out in big capital letters.

  Harmony eagerly takes the notebook back, her breath catching as she reads the word.

  NOTHING.

  “You did nothing wrong, Harmony,” I say. “Sometimes we win. Sometimes we lose. Sometimes we get lucky. Today wasn’t your day, that’s all.”

  She smiles, but it doesn’t reach her eyes. “Maybe you’re right.”

  “I know I am. In fact...” I sit forward. “I am uniquely qualified to say that those judges were full of shit.”

  “Oh, yeah?” she says, playfully skeptic. “What makes you so qualified?”

  “Well, I’m a musician, too. That’s why I’m in San Francisco tonight. My band is on tour.”

  “What’s the name of your band?”

  “Criminal Records.”

  Harmony squints in thought. “That sounds familiar.”

  “Down down baby, all the way,” I sing. Her jaw drops. “Down down baby, whadya say?”

  She gasps. “That’s you?!”

  “That’s me.”

  “No, it’s not!”

  “Yes, it is!”

  “Prove it!”

  “I did! You think a man can just fake that voice?”

  She gasps again and my stomach flutters. “I love that song!”

  “Thank you.”

  “Mama hates it, though.”

  I grin. “Good.”

  “She says it’s crude and suggestive.”

  “All part of the plan, I assure you.”

  “Good,” she says, laughing. “So, why did you name your band that?”

  “Ah! That’s a fun story, actually.” I sip my drink to wet my throat. “A few years ago, Jonah and I — Jonah’s my bassist — he and I kidnapped my little sister, Katrina.”

  Harmony arches a brow. “Why?”

  “Cult,” I simply say.

  “Oh.” She nods, understanding. “Go on.”

  “After we liberated her, my parents had us arrested. It didn’t stick, obviously. Kat was close enough to legal age and Jonah’s got that rich white kid privilege, so the judge immediately threw it out. But all that didn’t stop Jonah’s dad from making us spend a few nights in jail, anyway.”

  “Why did he do that?”

  “To teach us a lesson. He’s always been kind of a hard ass. And he wasn’t too happy with Jonah for choosing music and shirking his responsibility to the family business.”

  “What’s his family’s business?”

  “You’re sitting in it.”

  Harmony glances down at her chair in confusion.

  “Jonah Botsford,” I explain. “Botsford Plazas. His family owns ‘em.”

  “Oh.” She blinks again. “When you say he’s got rich white kid privilege, you mean...”

  “He could get away with first-degree murder with a slap on the wrist.”

  “Wow.”

  “Yeah. Anyway,” I continue, “we spent a few nights in jail. When his dad finally came to get us out, he looked at us and said, ‘Boys, you’ll never amount to anything with criminal records,’” I say, giving my best Kingston Botsford impression. “Jo and I looked at each other and we knew. That was our band name.”

  “Criminal Records,” Harmony says.

  I nearly shudder. Those words from her lips. Pure heaven. “It’s fun. And rebellious. It’s a mood. Also, music. Records. It’s a pun.”

  “Very punny.”

  “Not as punny as a singer named Harmony, but it’s up there.”

  “Wow…” She plops back on her seat. “How did I end up at a hotel bar with Criminal Records?”

  “Just lucky, I guess.”

  “I thought today wasn’t my day,” she says, the sadness long gone from her eyes.

  “It’s not. It’s my day.” I lean in, throwing on my best smirk. “Today’s the day I met you.”

  Her smile grows. “You’re very sweet, Knox.”

  “So are you.”

  She looks down, her cheeks as red as her drink. “So...” She clears her throat. “Do you need to get back to your band? I’m sure I’ve taken up enough of your time tonight.”

  “Nah,” I answer. “They can manage without me.”

  She seems surprised. “You said you’re on tour. Are you guys back on the road tomorrow?”

  “We actually have a day off.”

  “Yeah?” she asks, excitement in her gaze.

  “A day of rest tomorrow, then back on the road...” I pause, unsure, “Friday?”

  “Today is Friday,” she whispers.

  “Right.” I chuckle. “Sunday, then. Hard to keep the days straight on tour. If it weren’t for my manager, I’d never know where I’m supposed to be.”

  Harmony laughs, then goes quiet, our eyes in close contact.

  “Do you need to get home?” I ask.

  “I probably should,” she says. “Mama is no doubt waiting up for me... and my notebook,” she adds, glaring at it.

  “Should I call you a cab?”

  She pauses, a subtle smile tugging on the edge of her mouth. “No.”

  “Do you want to go home?” I ask carefully.

  “No,” she says, her eyes playful. “Suddenly, I’m feeling... fun and rebellious.”

  Sweet Jesus Christ, yes.

  Please, let this happen.

  “Then do you have a room?” I ask.

  “Uh...” She licks her lips. “Nope. I don’t.”

  I lean forward an inch. “Come upstairs with me,” I say, the words quiet. For her ears only.

  Harmony swallows hard, second guessing herself. Which would be fine. Just getting to meet her has been the highlight of this tour so far.

  “I just met you, Knox,” she says.

  “And I just met you, Harmony,” I reply.

  “So we’re both stupid, then,” she jokes.

  “Dumb as rocks.”

  She chuckles softly, biting her lip as she considers it again.

  Please…

  Finally, she nods. “All right.”

  “All right?” I ask, my chest clenching.

  “Yeah. All right. Let’s go upstairs.”

  “You’re sure?”

  Harmony laughs, her cheeks so pink. “Yes, I’m sure.”

  Oh, Mama’s really gonna hate my music now.

  Good.

  I stand up, my nerves on fire with anticipation. Harmony takes a moment to shift her skirt beneath the table before rising. I offer my hand to help her up and she takes it, her rose-pink cheeks the brightest thing in the shadows.

  “Thank you,” she says.

  “You gonna take that with you?” I ask when I notice she picks up her handbag, but leaves the notebook.

  “Uh...” She bites her lip, unsure. Then she squares her shoulders. “No, I don’t think I will.”

  Damn.

  Am I in love already?

  I might be in love already.

  We walk together across the lobby. It’s late now, nearly one in the morning, but there’s still plenty of activity in the lobby. Luckily, we slip right past them, making our way onto the golden elevators at the far side.

  Up on the thirtieth floor, I swipe my keycard through the door with shaking fingers. It’s not like me to be this nervous when bringing a hot groupie back to my room, but there’s something different about this one. This ain’t no regular groupie. A kindred spirit, like I thought before? A soulmate? Even a...

  I shouldn’t say it. Not yet.

  Aw, fuck it.

  A muse.

  “Oh, wow,” Harmony says as she walks into my suite.

  For a moment, I assume it’s because of the room — Plaza suites are luxury with a capital L — but she crosses right through the room in the dark, her focus on the large windows ahead.

  “Isn’t it crazy how you can live in a city your whole life and never see it from certain angles?” she asks.

  “Never seen this side of San Francisco?” I say, standing behind her.

  She shakes her head, the soft light from outside illuminating her delicate shape.

  I don’t bother turning on the lights. We’ll be turning them off again soon.

  “It’s beautiful,” she whispers.

  “Yes,” I say, not looking away from her. “It is.”

  If she noticed the line, I can’t tell. Her gaze remains on the city. I inch closer, the edge of my leather jacket rubbing against her arm.

  Still, she doesn’t react.

  I pinch the clip holding up her hair, and it tumbles down her back.

  Finally, she turns her head, the city lights reflecting in her pretty eyes as she smiles.

  “You have beautiful hair,” I say as I run my fingers through it.

  “Thank you,” she whispers.

  Our eyes connecting, I take another step closer. Harmony doesn’t look away. I push her hair to one side, exposing the bare skin of her shoulder, and lean down to kiss it. Only once. Just to see what she’ll do next.

  She tilts her head away and leans back, an obvious invitation to continue.

  I kiss her again. This time, she inhales sharply. I rest one hand on her side, the hard edge of her corset creating a perfect shelf for my palm. “You’re beautiful,” I whisper, my lips pressed against her warm skin as I move the kiss to her neck.

  “Th-th-thank you,” she says again, her voice high pitched, nervous.

  I let the tip of my tongue touch her, tasting her with a deeper kiss.

  She shudders, her hand reaching to the back of my head. “Knox?”

  “Yes?”

  “Do you... do this a lot?” she asks. “With girls, I mean?”

  “Yes,” I answer. No point in lying. “But you’re the only girl in this room right now.” I kiss her neck. “The only girl I’ve even thought about for the last twelve hours.”

  Thankfully, she chuckles. “It was just a stupid song.”

  I pinch her chin, making sure she looks at me as I tell her, “Nothing about that song was stupid. Your voice gives me chills, Harmony. Makes my heart race. Makes me hard.”

  She says nothing, her eyes straying to look at my lips. I do the same; her mouth open and inviting.

  I lean forward, desperate to kiss her, then pause. “Hey, you’re eighteen, right?” I ask.

  “Nineteen.”

  “Just checking.” We chuckle, our lips an inch apart. “Already got a record. Don’t want to make it worse.”

  She flashes a teasing grin. “That’d be criminal.”

  I kiss her, softly crushing my lips on her adorable smile.

  No.

  This.

  This is why I became a rock god.

  2

  KNOX

  Four Years Later

  There are many perks to being a rockstar.

  Women. Fame. Money. Women. But I think my favorite thing is the travel. There’s nothing better than going on tour, driving from city-to-city, seeing the incredible small towns this country has to offer.

  That said...

  There’s something about a private plane you just can’t beat.

  It’s not my plane. Or even our plane. Criminal Records is huge, but we aren’t branded private jet huge. Botsfords have money, though. A lot of money. The kind of generational wealth people have whipped out guillotines over.

  But Jonah’s my best friend. He sits next to me now in his token navy blue beanie, just like he always has. Across the aisle are Addison and Katrina, two best friends who couldn’t seem more unalike at first glance. Addison wears shades of black and dark lipstick, while Katrina prefers a brighter palette of sandals and sundresses. Behind them, Bronson lounges by himself in a thick hoodie jacket, occasionally drifting in and out of sleep.

  I can’t help but smile.

  Damn, we’re cool.

  Together, we’re Criminal Records. The rebels of rock. The best damn rock band in the world. No one tells us what to do. We⁠—

  “Knox, pay attention.”

  And then there’s Jordan.

  I look at our manager standing at the front of the plane with her clipboard. She’s dressed for business in blue slacks and a white sleeveless blouse, the jacket carefully draped over the back of a seat.

  “Hm?” I say, the grunt barely audible beneath the hum of the plane’s engines. “What’s up?”

  Jordan glares at me through her glasses balanced on the bridge of her nose. “I said we’re landing in San Francisco in fifteen minutes, so now’s a good time to prep for our meeting.”

  I shrug. “What’s there to prep? Your tour starts in a week. Here’s your itinerary, your set list, and your bus. Done. This meeting could be an email.”

  Bronson nods in agreement while the others chuckle.

  “It’s a formality, sure,” Jordan says, “but it’s a necessary formality. You all have to sign the liability agreements.”

  “We can do that electronically.”

  “And there’s a… small matter the label wants to discuss.”

  We go quiet. I lock eyes with the others one-by-one, but none of them show they know what she means.

  I raise my hand, pointing toward the back of the plane. “Is that why Stella is here?”

  We all turn in our seats to look at the woman sitting as far away from us as possible. She wears a black suit and don’t-fuck-with-me heels, the occasional hidden strand of grey in her blonde hair the only thing giving away her age.

  “I’m not here,” she mutters as she sips from a small coffee, her eyes never leaving the stack of paperwork on her lap desk.

  “No,” Jordan answers. “Ms. Walsh is merely hitching a ride with us. Or, actually, it’s the other way around. She’s on official Botsford Corp business and was gracious enough to give us a lift.” She waves at her. “Hi, Stella.”

  “Hey, Stella!” we all say, waving.

  Stella looks at us over the rims of her spectacles with a sigh, giving us the smallest of nods before going back to her work.

  “Best lawyer ever!” I say, winking at her.

  Jonah nods in agreement before turning back to Jordan. “What’s up with the label?” he asks.

  “Oh. Well...” Jordan clears her throat and adjusts her glasses. “They have a few... concerns about the tour.”

  Addison furrows her brow. “What kind of concerns?”

  “Well, one concern. Specifically. Basically, they’re worried about... The Electrics.”

  “The Electrics?” Katrina asks curiously.

  “Yeah, they are… uncomfortably popular. That’s the phrase they used in the email.”

  “The fuck they want us to do about it?” I ask. “Our tour is sold out.”

  “Yes, it is.”

  “Twenty-four shows in twenty-four cities. All sold out within an hour of tickets going on sale.”

  “Three hours in some cities. But all true!” Jordan holds up her hands. “All very impressive.” She pauses, swallowing hard. “But so are they.”

  Addison silently takes out her phone.

  Jonah shifts forward in his seat. “So are they?” he repeats.

  Jordan nods. “The Electrics are also going on tour this summer. They’re also sold out and their buzz is, well… more positive than ours.”

  “Well, that… makes sense, a little,” Katrina says carefully. “They are the cool new thing, right? The bright and shiny?”

  I scoff. “And what are we? Old news? That ain’t right.”

  “No, we’re Criminal Records,” my sister says. “We’re established. People know what to expect from us.”

  “And that’s a bad thing?”

  “No,” Jordan says. “I don’t think she’s saying that at all, Knox.”

  “The label clearly is,” Jonah mutters.

  Bronson nods.

  Addison clears her throat. “Katy Montag shared a picture of her tickets to our Portland show this morning,” she says, reading her phone.

  “Hey, that’s good!” Katrina says, forever the optimist. “Katy has millions of followers. That’s good buzz. Right?”

  “Eh, top comment,” Addison sneers as she reads. “CR is old news.”

  “Old news!” I say, vindicated. “See?”

  “I’m all about The Electrics now,” Addison continues. “Hashtag, their songs are better.”

  “All right⁠—”

  “Hashtag, Logan Shock. Hashtag, I wanna sit on his face.”

  “Okay, Addy,” I snap. “We get it.”

  She puts her phone away with a shrug.

  “This is exactly what the label is concerned about,” Jordan says. “Our tour will earn out. That’s great! But… that’s not enough nowadays. They want buzz. They want engagement. Excitement! Pizzazz!”

  “Clicks,” Jonah says.

  “Exactly! This can’t be just another Criminal Records tour. This has to be our biggest tour ever if we want to stay ahead of The Electrics.”

  “Okay.” Addison shrugs. “So, what are we supposed to do about it?”

  “Thank you, Addison. I’m glad you asked!” Jordan clears her throat. “The label has come up with a potential solution. Something hip and cool and exciting that may give us the algorithmic push we need to keep them happy while also having a little fun of our own.”

  “Like what?” Jonah asks.

  Jordan looks at me. “Knox.”

  I lean back in my seat. “What?”

  “They pitched an idea, and I immediately thought of you.”

  “Why?”

  “Because you’re the front man,” she says. “You’re the lead singer. Men want to be you. Women want to be with you.”

  The other girls scoff and roll their eyes.

  “Men want to be Jonah, too,” Addison says.

  “Women want to be with Bronson, too,” Katrina adds.

  “Of course they do!” Jordan says. “But Jonah is getting married in three months.” She pauses for applause as the rest of us cheer with glee. “And Bronson is, well...” She smiles at him. “Love ya, Brony, but you’ve got that strong, silent type thing going on. It’s not great for interviews and stuff. No offense.”