Walking into the treatment center almost an hour later, Kevan took the time to let the surroundings sink in. Short walls painted in soft pastel colors and a lobby crowded with tattered furniture reminded her of a high school teacher's lounge. More industrial than medical. Behind the gla.s.sed-in reception desk, the room opened up into a hall of sorts with a dozen or so people scattered throughout the room-reading, dozing, or playing games. There was little, if any, discussion going on. And Bowen was nowhere to be seen.

"Can I help you?" A voice inquired.

"Huh?" Kevan turned to face the older woman seated behind the desk. She didn't recognize her from that horrid night earlier that week.

The woman smiled warmly. Patiently.

"Are you here to see someone?" The woman looked down at something in front of her, maybe a list of visitors.

"My brother. Bowen Landry."

The woman typed something on her computer before a frown settled on her face. "New patients aren't usually up for visitors during the first week." The woman studied Kevan, her eyes still kind but her frown deepening. "Didn't the admitting counselor tell you that?"

"Yes, but I thought he might want to see me."

Was there something wrong with him? Fear pounced on her heart, piercing it with sharp claws. Oh G.o.d, please let him be okay.

Her panic must have shown on her face, because the woman reached through the open window and patted Kevan's arm with her soft hand. "I'll call him, okay?" She squeezed Kevan's hand and smiled again. "We'll see if he's up for a visit."

Kevan swallowed, her throat lined with dusty sandpaper, and nodded.

"Sign in, and I'll buzz you through."

Several minutes later she was seated at a wobbly card table in the corner of the room, picking at the torn vinyl covering. Anything to keep from letting her mind wander, or worse, bursting into tears. What if he wanted to go home already? Her aching shoulders bunched tighter, the tension pulling across her back and neck like a vise. Who knew if he had another shot at recovery?

Sadly, this wasn't his first rodeo. He'd attempted sobriety a couple of other times. Granted, this time his bottom was far lower than all the others. Before it had always been just alcohol, but this time he'd added speed to the mix, and it had been game on. That scary drug-dealing g.a.n.g.b.a.n.ger, Santino, and his buddies had almost broken Bowen's jaw when they'd beaten him so severely he'd lost consciousness. Thankfully, the guys from Tatuaggio had shown up as the goons were about to crush her brother's hands. Without his hands, he couldn't hold a tattoo machine or play the guitar. Without his hands, who knew what would happen to him?

Two battered, black skater shoes appeared where she focused on the carpet. She took a deep breath, not looking up, and stopped picking at the table.

"Kev?" Bowen's voice was a pale imitation of his once-strong ba.s.s. Slowly, she raised her eyes to meet his and exhaled. She barely recognized the stooped, battered man before her. No. No. No. Tears threatened to fall. Taking another deep breath to quell the storm welling in her chest, she stood and smiled.

"Bobo, you look like s.h.i.t." Her words held bite, but her tone was soft, and her voice quivered as she reached up to embrace her brother. The man who hugged her back was a sh.e.l.l of her once-vibrant and larger-than-life Bowen. Pulling back, she stared into his handsome face and reached up to rub her thumb across his cheekbone. The swelling had gone down, and the bruise had begun to fade to a watercolor mix of green and yellow. His usually bright eyes were dull and had dark shadows underneath. His clothes hung from his gaunt torso. Where had her brawny big brother gone?

Bowen gestured to her chair and plopped down into the one across from her. She reached over and gripped his clammy hand. Though sitting, Bowen's body moved constantly, not like before with a bounding kinetic energy infecting everyone around him. No, now his feet shuffled, his fingers picked and smoothed the jagged edge of the fraying table. He twitched and stretched as if so uncomfortable in his own skin even his shadow didn't belong to him.

"Kev," he said drawing out the single syllable, "I can't stay here. I will f.u.c.king die here."

Kevan knew right at that moment that Bowen had to stay in rehab. No matter what. He would fail if he left. His battle had suddenly become life and death.

Kevan sighed. "No. You'll die out there. You're staying."

His haunted eyes widened, and he yanked his hand away. Big brother was not used to her refusing him anything. Ever.

"The f.u.c.k? I can stay sober. And I'm totally done with the drugs. I'll go to meetings. I promise." His gaze swept from left to right, and back to Kevan. The table and his chair rattled from his knees bouncing up and down. "I don't f.u.c.king fit here, okay? Bunch of whiny p.u.s.s.ies crying about how their wives won't let them have a girlfriend and how they lost their vacation home. How's that supposed to help me not drink or use?"

"I don't know how it's supposed to work. It just does. Please don't do this." They'd been through this before. And if they could make it past this point, maybe they'd actually have a shot at being a family again. She leaned forward and peered directly into blue-gray eyes identical to hers. "And I won't let you die."

He was on that path if the night before last was any indication. If the guys hadn't interrupted Santino beating the s.h.i.t out of Bowen, who knows if her brother would have survived. Bile burned the back of Kevan's throat. The thought of living a life without him sent chills down her arms. Even a sick Bowen was better than no Bowen.

"What about my job? What about the band?" His face was flushed, and he looked wild. "What about you?"

"The band will still be there, and Tony already told you your station will be there when you get out. We all want you to get better." She sighed. When had she gotten so d.a.m.n tired? "None of it matters if you're dead."

Crossing his arms, he turned his head to stare at the wall to the right of her.

She leaned forward and grabbed his chin, pulling it toward her. Looking directly at him, begging him with her eyes to hear her-really hear her-she said, "I love you, and I won't watch you kill yourself. And I won't help you do it."

He opened his dry, papery lips, but she raised her hand. He closed his mouth.

"I need you to get better. For real this time. I can't lose you, Bo." She paused and watched as the words sank in. "I cannot survive without you. I'm barely holding on as it is."

"Not sure I'm strong enough, Kev. Maybe..." He looked away.

"Maybe what?" she demanded.

"Maybe I really am like Dad." The whispered words hung in the air, ready to drop on her at any moment.

"You're nothing like him. Bowen, look at me." She placed her palm on his sunken cheek, tilting his face toward hers again. "That's a cop-out. Life's getting hard, and you're tired of fighting it. Well, suck it up, b.u.t.tercup."

He rolled his eyes. "Easy for you to say."

"You think it's easy for me?" Her raised voice attracted stares from the other patients. "I'm losing my business, and the one band I thought would save me is making me fight for their business."

"Wait. What? Manix didn't sign with you? I'll kick Jax's a.s.s."

"It's not just up to him." She shook her head. "And I don't want to talk about them. Or me. This is about you."

Bowen stood up, knocking the chair over. "I have to get the f.u.c.k out of here. You need me. I need to be there. I'll tell Jax and the others-"

"Sit. Down." She practically growled the words. "Now."

His sudden burst of energy drained away as he picked up his chair and crumpled into it, defeated. But she couldn't let him quit. They had only each other.

"I need you sober. I need you back. If you can't do it for yourself, then do it for me, Bowen." The tears she'd kept d.a.m.ned up so tightly for so long were fighting to get free.

"Please," she begged. "Please fight for me."

Bowen stood up and crouched in front of her; reaching up, he cradled her face in his battered hands. "It kills me that I'm the reason you're so afraid. f.u.c.king soul-crushing knowing I can't help you, protect you from in here." His voice hitched.

"You haven't been there for me for a while." She watched his eyes widen and lines form on his forehead as the whispered words sank in.

He knew the truth. "I'm sorry."

"So you'll stay?" She held her breath again.

Moments pa.s.sed as he peered into her eyes while stroking his thumbs slowly across her cheeks, like he had when she was young. "If I stay, how will we pay for it?"

A wave of relief flooded her body as she took a deep breath. "I'll sign Manix. End of story," she said, infusing her words with a confidence she didn't feel.

"But you said-"

"Jesus. Shut up. I'll handle it. Promise me you'll try. Really listen to the counselors and make it stick this time."

He nodded stiffly. She circled her hands around his wiry biceps and pulled Bowen to his feet as she stood. Wrapping her arms around her brother, her best friend, she hugged him tightly for several minutes, wishing she could let the tears fall.

Kevan's heart felt as battered as her brother's body looked. She wished she could stay longer, hold on to any connection still holding them together, no matter how tiny and frayed. Anything would be better than leaving the treatment center and being on her own again. Completely alone. But she had work to do.

After saying her good-byes and making a promise to visit again in two weeks, she sat in the parking lot, sorting through her thoughts as her car sputtered to life and warmed up.

She was out of options. She'd have to go on tour if she wanted to keep her brother in rehab and save her business. If she didn't go, she was screwed.

Could she really compete with someone like Mason-shrewd, experienced, and educated? Maybe she should stop trying to prove them all wrong and give in. Or, perhaps it was time to pull up her big-girl panties-her pretty lace-and-silk panties-and bite the f.u.c.king bullet, so to speak.

She laid her head on her steering wheel, the dark surrounding her with its choking emptiness. She felt so alone. She was totally on her own and staring directly into the abyss of losing everything.

Kevan rubbed her slick cheek. The warm river of tears running down her face surprised her. It had been a long time since she'd allowed herself the luxury of a good cry. So many nights in tears, worrying about her brother and whether he was safe. So many tears she just didn't cry anymore, and yet there she was, sitting in her car, crying. Alone. So alone.

She had only one choice. In her gut, she knew Manix Curse was the key to her success. She didn't want anyone to steal her opportunity. She'd have to do her best to keep her walls up and keep that d.a.m.n man out of her pants and away from her band.

The only thing to do was fight like h.e.l.l for Manix Curse and for her company.

She stabbed her phone with her Rebel Red fingernails, looking for Joe's number to confirm that she would be joining the band on the road. Thank you very much.

Then it was time to get home and back to work, fine-tuning the plan for the band with solid details. She needed to be at her best in order to compete with the intelligence and experience of big, bad Mason Dillon and beat GEM at their own game.

Chapter 8.

The following afternoon, Mason was not at Tatuaggio looking for Kevan. No way, he told himself for the tenth time. He was there on business. Pulling open the gla.s.s door, he marveled at the surprisingly quaint building ideally located on the main strip of the trendy Hawthorne district. A retro-styled neon sign hung in a window framed with ivy trailing from the covered arched wooden entryway. Moss lined the bricks of the walkway and lent the warm, inviting curb appeal of a cafe instead of the more intimidating ambiance of most tattoo parlors. The shop's welcoming feel balanced equally with its high coolness factor.

Though he lived less than five minutes away, Mason spent more time commuting back and forth to downtown Portland than he did in his own part of town. He was shocked he wasn't more familiar with the businesses in the area. He made note of a couple of bistros on the block and vowed to spend less time in the city center and more in his own backyard. That, of course, might be all too easy if he didn't sign the band and secure his position as GEM's top gun.

The boisterous vibe of the shop quickly greeted him. A bell over the door announced his arrival, and heavy metal music pulsed from the speakers, mixed with the buzz of tattoo machines and the banter of loud voices. The waiting area at the front of the shop contained two well-worn black leather couches, arranged perpendicular to each other and set around a chrome coffee table covered with black-and-silver photo alb.u.ms and a stack of tattoo magazines. The rest of the shop sat behind a long wood-and-chrome counter that ran across the width of the large room.

Although fluorescent lights hung from old-style rounded shades throughout the building, hanging in the center of the high ceiling was the most bada.s.s gla.s.s-and-chrome chandelier Mason had ever seen. Conner, Jax, and an older man with a long gray beard and short dark hair worked on clients in three of five chrome-and-gray reclining chairs set along the walls, much like stations in a beauty salon. All three men looked up. Jax waved with his free hand as Mason greeted the singer and drummer.

"If it isn't big shot Mason Dillon. Here for some ink?" Jax asked, sarcasm painting his words.

"Not this time. I'm looking for you, actually. Well, you and the rest of Manix." Enthralled, he watched the bearded man spread goo on what looked like an old-school-style mermaid before focusing on Jax. "Joe said I could stop by the shop. I hope that's okay."

The older man placed a sheet of plastic wrap on the young woman's shoulder and then secured it with some tape. He stood and pulled his heavily tattooed arms over his head and stretched with a loud groan.

"Getting too old for the long hauls, old man?" Conner said without looking up from a man's leg he was working on.

"Watch it, punk, or I'll put you on clean-up duty."

Conner cringed and continued working on his client. The older man peeled off his latex gloves and tossed them in the garbage. Then he gave aftercare instructions to the pretty young woman he'd been working on and told her to wait up front. Turning to Mason, he held his hand out over the shiny counter. "Tony Martelli. And you're welcome to talk band business here with the boys as long as it doesn't interfere with tattoo or piercing business," Tony said. His warm, friendly grin contrasted with his weathered leather vest, worn motorcycle boots, and mult.i.tude of colorful tattoos.

They shook hands. "Great shop you have here," Mason said. "How long have you been here?"

"Over twenty years. Before that, I managed a shop in the Bay Area."

"Seems like you got a good crew."

Tony smirked. "These a.s.sholes? Bunch of slacker metalheads." He laughed when Jax tossed a towel at his head. Turning toward the back of the shop to a hall Mason hadn't noticed before, Tony shouted, "Hey, dollface, we have a customer here ready to check out." Then he said to Mason, "Both Jax and Conner should be done shortly if you want to hang out and wait." He gestured toward the waiting area.

"Hold your pants on, old man," a woman's familiar voice called back, coming closer as she moved into the room. "I'm working on your next ad, you old geez..." She froze, and the glossy smile on her lips dropped as her eyes narrowed when they connected with Mason's face. She looked from Mason to Tony and back to Mason again. "What the h.e.l.l is he doing here?"

"Well, h.e.l.lo to you, too, Kevan. A pleasure as always." G.o.d, she looked gorgeous in a pair of loose jeans rolled up at the ankles and a red plaid cowgirl top that highlighted her never-ending curves. Her long dark hair was tied back into a high ponytail, those streaks of blue glowing bright under the fluorescent lights. Instead of the mile-high heels, she had on a pair of beat-up, red Chuck Taylors. And still the woman was hotter than a freaking volcano on the sun in the middle of summer.

Again, why had he left her apartment? At the moment, he was drawing a blank.

"Um, Tony said I should pay you and schedule my final appointment to finish the color." The young woman who'd been waiting for Kevan squeezed past Mason and sashayed to the register.

"You really should get some ink," the girl said. He swore she glanced over her shoulder and winked, but Mason was paying attention to only one woman in the shop. Tony snorted and sauntered out the front door, yelling something about grabbing dinner.

As if remembering she was actually working and not in a perpetual sparring match with Mason, Kevan shook her head and walked to the counter. She handed the woman her invoice and rang her up on the modern register. When they'd said their good-byes and the bell tinkled over the door, Kevan turned back to him with ice so cold in her eyes he could feel the chill between them. She was like a broken thermostat capable of only two settings: hotter than h.e.l.l and colder than f.u.c.k.

Pushing through the gate attached to the counter, she stepped forward and reached for him. When she grabbed his hand, he was momentarily stunned by the zing of electricity that sparked instantly between them. Apparently, the other night had not been a fluke.

She pasted an obviously forced smile on her glossy lips. "Can I talk to you for a minute?"

When he stood there dumbly, saying nothing, she added, "About the tour."

As she dragged him across the room and down the back hall, he didn't resist or pull his hand free.

"Where are we going?" He wanted to know. She didn't answer but continued tugging him down the hall and past an open storage closet. "You're glad to see me then?" he teased. "Trying to get me alone so you can have a repeat of the other night?"

"Shut up," she hissed between her teeth. "It's unprofessional to yell at each other in the front of the shop."

"True. You were very unprofessional."

She stopped and turned, forcing herself into his personal s.p.a.ce-not that he minded-so close he could smell her vanilla-sweet scent. "Seriously. Why are you doing this? You are such an arrogant a.s.s."

"Me? I call 'em like I see 'em, dollface."

The sneer curling her pretty mouth was almost comical. He was beginning to enjoy how easy it was to read her expressions. When she leaned forward, he felt his breath hitch, and the air nearly crackled. Kevan pressed her palm to his chest, but instead of moving closer like he wanted her to, she reached around and opened the door at his back and shoved him inside. A little roughly. His body instantly reacted.

d.i.c.k hard? Check.

Stumbling backward, he grabbed her wrist with one hand and her hip with the other. He twirled her and pushed her up against the door, closing it with a click. He pinned her hand above her head and looked down at her heaving chest. "Well, this feels familiar, doesn't it, Bettie?"