I scan the crowd, playing Where Are the Bouncers?, and I quickly come to terms with the fact that there’s little security. I shift uncomfortably, watching the stage as the band is introduced. “Let’s hope this isn’t one of the crazy ones.” Still, I suddenly wish I didn’t wear such impractical shoes.

Fanning her flushed face, Heidi nods her head toward the teeming bar, and I groan. “It’s a mob. Do you really want a drink that bad?”

“Would you prefer to sit around thirsty all night? Besides, I hate to say this, but you look like you need a beer or two.”

Good point. After all the drama from earlier today, battling a mob of bargoers to get a drink doesn’t seem so bad. As we push our way through the crowd, the band starts the first song of their set. It’s a cover that I know better than the back of my hand, and when I start to hum along with it, amusement flickers in Heidi’s cornflower blue eyes.

“You think Lucas would shit a brick if he knew Hazard Anthem is playing ‘All Over You’?”

Because I don’t want thoughts of my brother and his overall stupidity to screw with my night, I shrug. “He shouldn’t be. It’s a compliment.”

Focusing her eyes on the stage, she cocks her head to the side. “Nate’s almost as good as him.”

“Nowhere near it, babe.”

There’s still a line for drinks when we finally push our way up to the bar, but luckily, it only takes a couple minutes before one of the bartenders—a woman wearing a vintage polka dot halter that I have in my closet—takes our order. “What can I do you for, ladies?” Her scarlet-painted lips drag up into a smile.

Heidi twists her mouth like she’s trying to decide, but of course, she already knows what she wants. If she doesn’t order beer, she always springs for a 7-and-7. Tonight is no different, and since we’re staying inside of our comfort zone, I ask for a bloody mary, triple shot.

The barmaid’s penciled-in eyebrows jerk up. “In the mood to fuck something up?” She supports her elbows on the bar counter, staring back and forth between Heidi and me.

“Nah,” I say. “I just like my vodka.”

She leans back, shaking her head and laughing. “Yeah, me too. I’ll make you a double, hon.” She gives me a look that screams I should have known better than to ask for more.

As soon as we have our drinks in hand, Heidi leaves the barmaid an incredibly generous tip, and then my best friend looks at me, mouthing something. It takes me a few tries, but I finally make out what she’s yelling over the deafening sound of voices and music. “Let’s move closer!”

We squeeze through the mass congregating around the stage, and I grit my teeth when someone jostles into me, causing me to spill a few drops of my drink on myself. Great, now I’ll smell like Betsey Johnson perfume, cigarette smoke, and Tabasco sauce for the rest of the night.

Heidi and I don’t stop moving until we’re near the front of the fray, jammed between a few people wearing T-shirts from Your Toxic Sequel’s last tour. Once the tall guy standing in front of me moves out of the way, my brown eyes instantly locate Wyatt. He doesn’t see me, but every few moments, his eyes flick around the crowd.

Cal manages to spot us though, and he gives us a wink that I’m certain is meant for Heidi. She must also see it because she grins like the Cheshire Cat before tucking a lock of her curly hair behind her ear.

I lean in close to her. “You’re disgustingly cute.”

She rolls her eyes, holding her hand in front of her defensively. “Trust me, it’s not even like that. He just likes to get a reaction out of me.” Her cheeks are tinged with color, and I’m guessing Cal’s getting exactly what he wants. Before I can say another word, she nods her head to the side of the stage. “There’s Terra.”

My gaze wanders over in the general direction, and I spot the blonde woman holding her phone up high, recording the show. She’s with some man, and every few seconds, she glances up at him and says something. I work my lip between my teeth, trying desperately to remember where I’ve seen the guy before. When it doesn’t come to me, I focus my attention on the music.

The band is halfway through a song they didn’t play in Houston when I feel a hand touch my ass. It’s not a brush or an innocent jab but a rough squeeze. Gripping my drink tightly, I count to three before I turn to face the guy who’s feeling me up.

If I were into backwards-baseball-cap-wearing douche bags who’ve had too much to drink, I might consider him decent-looking enough. Since I’m not, I tilt my head to the side. “I don’t like being touched,” I say loud enough to be heard by several people around us.

He grins down at me. At first, he doesn’t make a move to take his hand away, but then the guy with him says something in his ear. He shoots his buddy a sharp look as he drops his hand to his side.

“You’re empty.” He tries to take the clear plastic cup away from me, but I tighten my grip around it. “Hey, I just want to buy you a drink,” he says defensively.

“Thanks, but I’m DD,” I lie, lifting the corners of my mouth. “So, sorry.” I glance over at Heidi who’s already jerking her head in the opposite direction, her light blue eyes wary. I turn to follow her, but the guy grabs my wrist. When I confront him this time, I ditch the smile. Going about things the polite way with this asshole is getting me absolutely nowhere. “Get your hand off me.”

“I’m trying to be nice to you.”

I shoot a look at his friend and see his face is slowly turning red. “You should probably take him on home.” To the drunken idiot, I jerk my arm away from his grip. It hurts like hell, but I keep the badass expression on my face. “You can be nice by fucking off.”

Heidi practically wrenches me toward her, so we can get out of this situation, but when the guy grabs me again, I turn around and slam my fist into the first thing I can easily hit, his stomach. He doubles over, wheezing. As I open and close my hand by my side, I instantly regret punching him.

I should have kicked him in his balls.

“You fucking bitch,” he growls.

His friend instantly steps in. “Dude, Dillon, leave her alone. She said—”

Dillon shrugs off the other man. He’s about to say something to me, maybe even try to touch me again, but then two hands clasp on to his shoulders, spinning him around. I’m just now aware that the sound of the bass guitar is nowhere to be heard as I take in Wyatt standing inches away from me with all his features drawn into tight lines. I also realize how quiet the crowd seems despite the fact that the rest of the band is going on with the show.

“You want to put your hands on someone?” Wyatt asks Dillon, leaning close to him. “Try me, motherfucker.”

Over his shoulder, I spot a big bear of a man stalking toward them. He’s wearing a black T-shirt that has Security written in large bold print across the front of it.

“And I think I just wet myself,” Heidi hisses into my ear, holding on to my forearm.

“Well?” Wyatt challenges again. When Dillon flips him the bird, I hold my breath, hoping McCrae’s smart enough not to fly off the handle. Glancing at me for a second, he tells Dillon, “Yeah, fuck you, too.”

My heart is beating so hard that I swear it’s louder than Ben’s drums. Wyatt starts toward me, wearing an apologetic smile, and because Heidi chooses that exact moment to say something right into my ear, I don’t hear everything Dillon says next.

But I hear enough.

“...groupie slut.”

I lose my breath for a moment just as Wyatt whirls on him. Dillon is lucky because the bouncer finally intervenes, wedging himself between them, breaking up what could have been a night in jail and a lawsuit for Wyatt.

“Show’s over,” Wyatt growls the moment he reaches my side. He pulls me to him, crushing my body against his.

I shake my head. “Absolutely not, McCrae.”