Page 45 of Filthy Rock Stars

She rolls her eyes. “Sure, Shadow. That’s exactly what’s on my mind.”

“I think the fans will like it,” Cutter pipes up. “It’s good not to get stagnant, right?”

“Oh, we’ll keep the fans on their toes,” Adrian says, and Elle laughs.

I arch an eyebrow, but honestly, I barely care. We’ll play the damn show and fly home, and next week, I’ll see Prince for a date.

It’s breaking the rules, but I figured out a way to make it work. I’m just going to rent us a fancy hotel so we can watch the show there, and when we’re done, we’ll be able to have our ways with each other without rushing. I’ll finally get to undress him and explore his body, taking my time with every lick and nibble. The fun of the kink will be gone, but we’ll get something different to enjoy, time that I’m craving.

Just the thought sends a shiver up my spine. I’m more fascinated by him every time we meet and finally ready to admit the terrifying fact that I want more.

That it might be time to tell him who I am.

An assistant waves at us, and Elle gives the nod that says we’re about to go live. We’re playing an old favorite, and I shift my weight and get in position, ready to blast into the song with an opening riff.

The curtain drops, falling heavily in front of us, and for a second, the bright lights of the studio are all I see.

Adrian pounds the drums, opening with a totally different song, one I don’t recognize at first. My fingers falter over the guitar strings, and when my eyes adjust, I realize we’re standing face to face with another band.

Not just any band. Kissing Dirt.

Kissing Dirt and Prince.

Prince. I’m looking at Prince.

His eyes are wide, and his mouth hangs slack. He’s at a keyboard, right beside Mare, staring at me. I’m frozen, not moving, but the rest of my band doesn’t have that problem. Adrian and Elle take the lead, launching into a blistering version of the diss song while a confused Cutter tries to keep up.

Adrian howls along with the song as Elle sings. My fingers are on the strings, but I don’t play. All I can do is stare at Prince and watch his reaction.

His beautiful, gentle face twists with pain and confusion as the cruel song fills the studio.

He’s hurt. The song is hurting him. We’re hurting him.

My chest rips open, an ache that weakens my muscles and steals my breath.

My brain tries to process, racing to keep up, to understand why he’s there and if this is even real. But with the lights and cameras shining on me, the truth is painfully clear.

I’m watching Prince’s faith in me die, and I’m dying right along with it.

CHAPTERFOURTEEN

NICO

Solo:I’m a piece of shit

Solo: I am so, so sorry

Solo: I understand if you’re not going to text me back, but I need you to know I had no idea the band was going to pull that

Solo: Also holy fuck you’re in Kissing Dirt?

Solo: I’m sorry

Solo: For everything

I rub my thumb across my burner phone, reading his messages again while my regular phone vibrates nonstop, everyone I’ve ever known trying to contact me after the show. We’re on the plane back to Seattle, and the band is still trying to process what just happened.

The second we recovered from the shock, before the song was even done, we left. Mare marched off the stage without another word, and the rest of us followed. My head was spinning, and I felt nauseous, like I just got off a roller coaster that malfunctioned and nearly killed me. I barely noticed the chaos erupting around us because all I could think about was him.

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