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The kitchen door swung open, and Salvador walked through clutching a meat cleaver. The men huddled together, backing up and forming a wall of death, all eyes on Wes.

She slid off the table and panted through uncontrollable tremors. “Sir, don’t do this. He didn’t know.”

Roy leveled her with a look so menacing, she regretted opening her mouth. “One more word, Charlee, and this time, I will not replace your teeth.”

He grabbed the cleaver from Salvador, his other hand circling Wes’ wrist. Salvador slammed the man’s arm onto the table, stretching it as Roy pinned Wes’ bucking body and heaved the ax-like blade in a downward arc.

Wes’ screams shook the chandelier crystals. Blood soaked the white linen. He stumbled to the floor, convulsing and pawing at his fingerless hand.

Roy turned, his expression terrifyingly blank. His movements were so fucking methodical as he wrapped his fingers around Nathan’s arm.

No. No way in hell. She moved to them, driven by sheer purpose. Holding her mouth and cheeks slack, she tried like hell not to let him see how concerned she was.

For a fleeting moment, Nathan’s eyes narrowed on her. Disapproval? Then it was gone, replaced by a Marine with a raised chin, hardened jaw and rolled back shoulders. “You hired me to protect her.”

Wes let out a long, lamenting cry from the floor.

Roy pressed the cleaver beneath Nathan’s chin. “And you failed. What do you think, Charlee?” He didn’t want her to defend the Craigs. He wanted her to fear them. “I gave you permission to speak. Do so.”

She traced the edge of the table. “The truth, Sir?” His glare struck her like a fist in the chest. Deep breath. “I don’t give a shit about your Craigs. Do whatever you want. You’re going to anyway.” She sniffed for effect. “Sir.”

His laughter drowned out Wes’ moaning. Then it cut off and his dark eyes pinned her. “Apparently, my time would be better spent beating the impertinence out of my beautiful girl.”

A rush of air punched from her lungs.

He passed the blade to Salvador and gestured to Wes. “Take care of this.” Then he coiled her chain around his arm and prowled over to her. Hooking his arms beneath her thighs, he lifted her to straddle his hips and carried her out.

She looked over his shoulder. Nathan bent above Wes, talking to him, but she knew he was aware of her gaze. It was in that moment, clarity struck. The dinner, the maiming, it was all recorded. Roy would revisit the video feeds and scrutinize every detail, every glance. Nathan knew it and ignored her deliberately.

She dropped her head on Roy’s shoulder. Had she sabotaged Nathan’s efforts? As far as punishments went, maybe she deserved this one.

He carried her into the stockroom, and she assembled her shield. This time, she did it with hope, and all the messy emotions that came with it.

13

The crowd roared. “Encore. Encore. Encore.”

Jay clung to a shadowed corner behind the drum kit on a makeshift stage. His body trembled from exhaustion after playing a two hour set. Or maybe it was from the everlasting misery he struggled to mask.

They were somewhere in rural Texas, compassed by endless fields and a low hanging ceiling of clouds. The muggy atmosphere clung to his skin and the exhalation of cigarette smoke vied with the earthy aroma of loam and dug up peanuts.

Several hundred fans congregated on the acreage, keyed to a state of crazed anticipation. Sexy people. Ugly people. Posers. Punkers. All ages and stages of life rocked and bobbed beneath the temporary field lights and the haze of smoke. The atmosphere was buoyant, hearty, and energetic. All the things Jay was not.

The Burn’s popularity cast a blinding light on his future. Their impassioned fan base grew virally. Their newly signed record deal loaded their pockets. Their upcoming album promised more recognition, more fans, and more money. And after this show, their nights of playing in bowling alleys, bars, and peanut fields were over.

Yet the bright light also pitched shadows. A celebrity lifestyle didn’t lend itself to someone who fell apart under large crowds and intentional touching. For that, there would never be a treatment as effective as the two months he’d spent reforming himself for Charlee.

That remedy had died in St. Louis two weeks earlier. He remained committed to being the man she would’ve wanted, but he couldn’t ignore the terrible loneliness in never being able to hold her. That ever-growing chasm inside him consumed him more and more every night.

He turned, facing the nylon backdrop behind the stage, and struck anFm7chord on his Les Paul electric. The amplification pealed into the dark wall of night, and the crowd rallied with such thunder and force he couldn’t hear himself think. Didn’t matter. For this last song, he only needed to feel.

When they calmed down, Laz switched on his mic. “You fucking rock, Lubbock, Texas.”

The screams waxed with ear-stabbing intensity.

“One more song.” Laz waited for the hush. “This is the first time we’ve played this one live. And since Jay locked himself in his room for ten hours writing it, I think he should sing it front and center. What you guys think?”

Shrills and roars echoed hollowly in Jay’s chest. He scrunched his neck farther into the shelter of his shoulders. He respected what Laz was trying to do. The relentless nudging was backed with nothing more than good intentions. But Jay’s reason for performing from the isolation of the dark corner was beyond a sane person’s understanding. Triggers and traumas and murdered dreams. He was a walking manual on mental disorders.