“Together this time. Oh, and Fawn?”

“Yes, Houston?” She batted her long lashes sarcastically. When she smiled, I paused, getting lost in it for a moment.

“Don’t think for a second that I’m not keeping tabs.”

Hours later, the three of us were standing in the kitchen in quiet contemplation as the sun set over Los Angeles. I let Braxton leave early today since she claimed she had to work tonight. I wasn’t thrilled about sharing her time, so the moment I was sure she could manage being one of us, she was quitting that job, whether she wanted to or not.

“She played like she wrote it that last time,” Loren announced. “So maybe it’s time we stop singling her out and get down to business?”

“I’m not singling her out. If one of us sounds bad, we all sound bad. We’ll continue like this until I can trust her judgment.”

Part of the guitarist’s job was to be spontaneous and original, which would allow her to improv when she needed to and keep the rhythm going. Bound’s entire sound and direction would be influenced by her abilities and style, which meant this next era of our legacy now belonged to Braxton fucking Fawn. She just hadn’t figured that out yet.

“Get the fuck out of here,” Loren snapped with a scowl. “Face it, she’s good. You’re just an asshole. Did you see how fast she caught on to ‘Flayed Alive’?” he asked no one in particular.

Jericho was busy scrolling on his phone, and I pretended not to have caught a peek of Braxton’s Instagram on his screen moments ago. She had endless thirst traps, making me feel like a kid in a candy store when I went through them last night.

“Calvin still couldn’t grasp it, and he’d been playing with us for years.” Loren stared at me for a moment before he grinned so wide that I thought his face would split in half. “It must have got you hard as fuck watching her master a Houston Morrow original.”

“Not particularly.”

“Liar.”

“Is there some reason why you think I care if you believe me?”

“Because I’m telling you both now before you get any ideas,” Loren began. There was revenge in his eyes when he glanced at Rich, who didn’t see it because his gaze was still glued to his phone and a photo of Braxton wearing a green bikini. When Loren met mine, holding my stare for a little too long, a growl rose in my chest at the apparent challenge. “Dibs.”

The sound of Rich’s phone dropping onto the counter stole our attention from one another. “What do you mean dibs? You can’t just call it.”

“That’s literally the entire purpose of dibs,” Loren shot back dryly.

“How do you know she’d even want you? You’re a dick to her.”

“It’s called flirting, Forrest Gump. Not all of us blush and smile and ask a girl how she’s feeling like you do. That’s why you don’t get laid as much.”

“There’s more to life than just sex.”

Tossing his head back, Loren made this sound that was a cross between a hyena and a donkey. “You sound like a fucking virgin.”

“Well, I’m not.”

“Oh, I know. I saw your pasty ass going to pound-town one too many times to think that.”

Red bloomed on Rich’s cheeks before he stood from the stool like he was ready to go to the ground with Loren. “You can’t just call dibs, Lo.”

“Why not?” Loren asked even though he didn’t seem to care too much about the answer or that Rich looked one wrong word from punching him.

“Because she’s our guitarist,” I answered for him. “No one is touching her. That would be unprofessional.”

“Says the asshole who was just dry humping her up the wall two hours ago.”

“That didn’t happen.”

“But you wanted it to. I claimed her, and now suddenly, morals matter? Who do you think you’re fooling, Morrow?”

I shot up from my seat and had my hand wrapped around Loren’s throat by the time the stool hit the ground. “You don’t like it?” I questioned after slamming him against the wall and pinning him there. “Do something about it.”

I barely got out the last word before Loren shoved me off him. I immediately braced for him to charge me. It’s been a few weeks since we destroyed an entire room, and I was salivating at the chance to see him bleed. The label would no doubt charge us for destroying another rental.

Worth it.

“Can you please fuck each other up later? I’m hungry,” Rich announced in a poor attempt to diffuse the situation. My glare was still locked with Loren’s when Rich asked, “What’s the name of that restaurant where Braxton said she worked?”

That got our attention.

First of all, dibs?

Is this what my attraction to Braxton has reduced me to? A fucking twelve-year-old? I knew why I said it—to fuck with my friends. Once it was out, I realized I meant it. I wanted to fuck Braxton, and I was too greedy to share. Fucking the same girls would have never bothered me before but mostly because they were groupies and wouldn’t be sticking around.

This was different. She was different.

Cue the goddamn violin.

I haven’t been this eager for a piece of ass since I learned what it truly meant to free willy.

“You ready?” Rich barged into my room without knocking. “Or do you need another couple of hours to get ready?” he deadpanned.

“I just figured I’d give you time to actually be hungry, chickenshit.”

“How does stopping another fight between you two make me a coward?”

“Because you’re afraid of the day when Houston is no longer able to protect you.” I peered over my shoulder in time to see Rich swallow past the lump in his throat.

“I can protect myself.”

“Right.” Turning around, I regarded my best friend. “Is that why you can’t look me in the eye?”

Rich forced his gaze to meet mine. To fuck with him, I let him see everything I was thinking. Like so many times before, he looked away. I let out a quiet laugh to dull the roaring in my head.

“Get out of my room before you faint, Rich. I wouldn’t want you feeling scandalized.”

“I need help with my tie.” He gestured to the slip of deep purple silk around his neck.

We looked it up, and the restaurant Braxton worked at required the men to wear ties like eating food was ever that serious. Unfortunately, the glitz and glamour of fine dining was nothing new to me. My upbringing had been entirely different from Houston and Rich.

“How are you twenty-seven years old and still can’t knot your own tie?” Grabbing his collar after he shrugged, I yanked him into me before getting to work on his tie. “I think you’re full of shit, Noble.” He didn’t say anything, and he wouldn’t. Not when we were this close. I could feel his unsteady breath even through my dress shirt. I took my time sprucing him up, and the moment I was finished, I grabbed a handful of his jet-black hair and yanked his head back before he could thank me. “Do not use me again for your little thrills, Rich. I don’t like being teased.” Before he could lie and deny it, I shoved him out of the door before slamming it in his face.

Twenty minutes later, after I was finally satisfied with my appearance, we found Barry in the driveway waiting. Another forty-five minutes and we were walking through the back door of Succulent and into a private dining room. Our assistant had called ahead and managed to bypass the six-month waiting list once she told them who had inquired.

My ass had barely warmed my seat before we were swarmed by the gushing team the manager selected to wait on us.

“Is Brax working tonight?” Rich’s thirsty ass inquired.

The manager frowned in confusion. “Braxton Fawn,” I insisted when he simply gaped. “Red hair, banging body, terrible attitude? Ring a bell?”

“Oh, yes! She is working tonight, but unfortunately, she’s our hostess. She doesn’t wait tables.”

“She does tonight. We want her.”

“I’m sorry, Mr. James, but—”

“But what?”

His mouth opened and closed like a fish, and I could tell he was torn between pissing me off or just doing what the fuck I asked. “Right away,” he eventually decided.

I watched him hurry to the front where Braxton was as I absently sipped water from a glass meant for wine. Our table sat on a raised level. The short stairs were roped off with red velvet, so it was only semi-private, allowing me to see the dining room below. Since it was a Tuesday night, it wasn’t as packed, which was a goddamn relief. Still, we’d already been recognized, and I could see the debate in the other patrons’ eyes whether to come over and ask for an autograph. I hoped the “fuck off” written on my forehead kept them at bay.

Any other night I would be at the world’s beck and call, but tonight, I simply wanted to be a man on the hunt for a woman. Houston and his rules could suck my dick.