Which obviously means I'm watching, waiting for her to look at him.

Ugh. This entire situation...just ugh.

Zach appears and motions me down toward his spot at the bar and I could kiss him for pulling me away, if it wouldn't make the Gage-Zoey-Cassidy triangle into an even more awkward square.

"Guess who I booked for a one-night show at the end of the summer?" he asks, his eyes twinkling.

"You didn't!" The answer's obvious. Franklin Charles.

"I did." He grins and my lips curve in response.

"I thought he wouldn't pull in a big enough crowd?"

He waves an arm out behind him, gesturing to the half-empty deck. "If Justin lame-ass Hunter can perform here on a Friday, with his lack of pull for big spenders, we can get Franklin Charles in on a Wednesday night. Even if we don't have the budget to book an opening act."

"Please, Franklin needs no opener. Plus," I say. "I still think you guys are wrong. I bet you can pack the place with enough promotion."

"We'll see."

"But even if you do-even if this place gets slammed-tell Jared he has to let me off for the concert." I glance at him down the bar and he's wrapped up in a conversation with Zoey. "Does he know you booked Franklin yet?"

"Nope. Came straight to you first, my little booking muse." He winks at me. But not in a sleazy way. "And don't you worry. I'll have front stage passes for you and your entire family. Didn't you say he's your brother's favorite artist?"

Everything stills around me. My lips tremble, my smile slipping away. I don't remember saying it, but I guess I must have. Stupid alcohol.

Stupid me and my stupid big drunk mouth.

Stupid parents. I already know they won't come-even if I invited them, which also won't be happening. I doubt they've listened to Franklin Charles once in the past half a year. In fact, I doubt they've listened to any music at all.

Stupid Jason.

No, I take that back. Not stupid Jason. Damn him. He'd be so excited to see Franklin Charles live-and he can't. He's dead.

Tears build and threaten to spill and I turn away, pretending to look for someone behind me and staring into the setting sun until the wetness in my eyes disappears.

"Cassidy?" Zach's waiting for my answer. Or some form of excitement. Why don't I ever freaking think things through? "Isn't his song 'Crisscross Family Lines' pretty much your family's anthem?"

Yet another sharp little dagger I don't remember sharing that's come back to gut me.

We sang that song over and over every Christmas. When we were a family.

This past Christmas we didn't so much as hum.

"This is so great!" I take a huge breath and quickly swipe a hand across my eyes, plastering another smile on my lips before facing him again. "You're the best!"

"Don't I know it."

Smile, smile, smile. It's what I do the rest of the night. Smile. Grin. Laugh. Converse. Everything rings hollow to my ears. But faking it is all that stems the flow of pain threatening to flood me.

Smile, smile, smile.

And get the hell out of there when my shift is over. Even in my car, along the drive, I smile. Music blasts so loud I might have no hearing left by the time I'm home to Vera's. And still I smile. Plastic and fake, my cheeks ache from the effort. But I can't let go, can't let the corners of my mouth lower. Can't let myself feel the things welling inside of me.

The worst part is I've been having the summer of my life. New friends. Gage. Bartending. Awesome music most nights. But none of it would be happening for me if Jason hadn't died. I'm happy, truly happy, and his death set it all in motion. I shouldn't have these things. I shouldn't. Not if he had to die for me to get here.

It's not fair for me to be happy when he'll never have the chance again.

Later, Gage asks me about my night. I can read trepidation in his eyes and realize he's nervous about how things were between Zoey and me. But I've been too heavy, too...just...empty, on the inside to even give her another thought after talking with Zach. In fact, I'm not even sure I said goodbye to her when I left.

Instead of answering, I kiss him.

Because I can't talk anymore. I just can't.

I climb onto his lap and I curl my tongue around his while I strip him of his clothing. He gently breaks the kiss, a question poised on his beautiful mouth and in the golden starbursts of his warm brown eyes, but I bite his lower lip and place his hands on my breasts, my nipples hard already. I move my mouth against his and he responds, whatever he was going to say forgotten. My body reacts the way it should. Wetness pools between my thighs before his hands travel lower. When they do, I'm quivering everywhere, craving him.

But my heart is twisted at a funny angle and I can't meet his eyes when he slips slowly, so slowly, inside of me, because those tears from earlier are still too close to the surface. He hesitates for a moment, something in his expression shifting, a question he wants to ask and my refusal to answer filling the space between our hearts. He knows something's off. I bury my face into his skin where his neck meets his shoulder, tracing the line of him with my tongue until he shudders and lets out a moan, moving inside of me again. There is no more hesitation.

And after, still, there are words sitting trapped in my throat, threatening to pour out. Emotions I don't want to release. So I take him in my hands and then my mouth until we're both nothing but a jumble of sensations, our words completely lost from our grasps. We tumble together and then into sleep.

I toss and turn, though, waking myself in the middle of the night, rumbles of anxiety thundering in the area between my ribs. I look across the bed toward Gage. He's on his back, breathing softly, peacefully, and my throat tightens.

I think... I think this won't work. Not anymore.

My body aches for him, even now. But my heart aches even harder. I can't stand the guilt riding through me, that I've found something close to contentment while Jason's in a grave. This thing with Gage is becoming more than I meant for it to...and it's not fair to him because I can't be the kind of girl he deserves. I don't want to open up. I don't want to feel so much.

This is turning out to be too much for me.

I have to end it, though the thought hurts almost as much as missing Jason does.

Gage sighs in his sleep and rolls to his side, flinging an arm out in my direction. Knowing I shouldn't, I stretch my hand toward him, curling my fingers through his.

Tomorrow, I tell myself, tendrils of sleep weaving back through my consciousness. First thing tomorrow, when we're both awake. I'm going to end this.

Then he tightens his grip on my hand and murmurs my name in his sleep and my resolve falters.

My last thought, before I'm lost again to the night, is maybe.

ACT II: STARSTRUCK.

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE.

The day Gold Rush Standard comes to town, BackBar Amphitheater pretty much crashes into pandemonium.

I drive into work with Vera, who's so excited she's practically squirming in her seat. We're late-not because I drive slow, as Vera accuses me when I refuse to break the sound barrier just to get there to meet the amazing (according to her, not me) lead singer Luca James, but because concertgoers have jammed the roads to BackBar hours before the venue will even open. Vera catches me rolling my eyes, and I spend the final half hour (which, as it happens, is the length of time it takes to inch down the last mile) of the drive listening to why I should be excited. How hot Luca James is. How talented. Blah, blah.

"He's cheesy!" I can't help it. I can't listen to another word about his brilliance. Granted, Vera also likes Jared, so I don't know why her Luca James obsession surprises me.

"You're nuts." She fixes her hair in the visor mirror as I turn into the employee lot. "And no offense, but you'd think with the work he does to promote staying drug-free, you'd have a little more respect for him."

She has a point. I swing us into a parking spot. "I do respect his outreach. It just doesn't carry over into his music."

"You have to admit he's hot," she says.

I shrug. "I think Gage is hotter."

"You really are nuts. But..." She slides a glance my direction. "About Gage... Are things okay with you two?" She changes the subject to the one thing I want to talk about less than Gold Rush Standard.

"Hey, look." I point toward the VIP pavilion entrance. It's already crowded; people are lined up even though the patio won't open for another two hours, and camera phones are out snapping pictures. "The band must already be in there."

"Oh my God!" She's distracted and too excited to ask any more about Gage, and I stifle a sigh of relief.

Because Gage.

Gage.

I haven't been able to let him go.

I can't.

Instead, I throw myself into him.

Each time is hotter, twistier, sexier than the last.

He spends every night in my bed. The rise of our bodies together, the gasping for breath, the way it feels when he enters me each time... I cling to those moments, to those fragile strands of the one thing that truly allows my mind to go blank.

Outside the sheets, though, something's not right between us anymore.

He thinks it's his past with Zoey.

I know it's me.

It's me and the thing inside of me that's been cracked for a long time. The thing that straight-up shattered when Zach was so happy to tell me Franklin Charles was coming to town. To tell me he'd save seats for me and my family. For my parents. For my brother.

For Jason.

For Jason who's dead and will never get to see Franklin Charles perform.

But I don't let myself think about these things.

Instead, I knock on the hidden side entrance for employees, as there's no way for Vera and me to get through the waiting crowd. Jared lets us in, shaking his head. "This is ridiculous."

"Is he here? Luca James?" Vera's looking over Jared's shoulder instead of at his face-and the annoyance in his expression is almost enough to make me smile.

"Not yet, but the rest of the band is." His voice is gruff, irritated.

"So cool." She's off, already, to grab her little black apron.

"Those shorts barely cover her ass," Jared says, staring at her retreating figure.

"All the better to impress the almighty Luca James," I say, enjoying his discomfort more than I should. Or, actually, screw that-I enjoy it exactly as I should. Let him think about what would happen if Vera manages to catch Luca's eye. Maybe jealousy will push Jared to clean up his act a little.

"Whatever." He lowers his shades, frowning and motioning to Nicole a few feet away. "Put the curtain up in front of the entrance. The crowd's too loud and way too camera happy. The band's supposed to be able to relax before the show."

I glance at the bar, my breath catching. Most of Gold Rush Standard is sitting along the stools already, drinking and hanging out with other people I assume are roadies or family or, based on the amount of skin some are showing, groupies. For some reason a little jolt of adrenaline rushes through my stomach.

Maybe I'm not quite as immune to serving drinks to a world famous rock band as I thought. Just because I'm not into the band doesn't mean they aren't somewhat thrilling to encounter this close. Plus, the excitement from literally every single other person in the vicinity is hard not to catch. I breathe in deep through my nose, twice, to steady the touch of anxiety in my stomach and then weave my way through a few of the people on the patio to get to the bar.

Clark's already working; he lifts a hand toward me while pouring a beer with the other. "You ready for the onslaught?"

"I'm ready for the tips." I wish it wasn't quite so humid out. The sticky heat sticks to my skin and I already feel a little off my game, being so close to pop rock royalty. (Not pop rock royalty in my eyes, of course. But in most of the rest of the world's. It's...intimidating.) "That's my girl." Clark nods and turns to give the beer to the guy he's poured it for.

Polly Acadia, lone female band member, bassist and backup vocalist with spiky blue-tipped black hair and a pierced lip, lifts a finger in my direction. I wonder if her hair was the inspiration for their song, "Blue." (Yes, I know several of their more recent songs. Not on purpose-but it's impossible to go about your daily life without hearing them on the radio the past few years.) "Budweiser and a shot of whiskey," she says, her voice husky and low. Her eyes are startlingly blue, practically turquoise. So maybe they were the song's inspiration. "And a water with lemon. Thanks, honey."

I like her order. She seems like the kind of girl I'd enjoy drinking with. If, you know, she wasn't a rock star and all. I have to clear my throat to speak. "No problem."

Clark stops me from pouring well whiskey, shaking his head, and whispering, "Girl, bands this big get top-shelf liquor-even if she ordered a bumpkin-level beer to take it down with."

"Why doesn't it surprise me that you're a snob about beer?"

"I have refined tastes in all areas of my life." He nudges me and tilts his head toward a guy at the end of the bar. Tall, light brown skin, big friendly eyes, lips curved right back at Clark in a sultry little smile. "Point in case."

"Good for you." I nudge him back and grab a Budweiser from the beer cooler.

"I think what you're trying to say is good for him." He pulls out a shot glass and slides it toward me.

"Yes. Exactly."

He grins and shows me where the good liquor lines a shelf under the far side of the bar. I bring Polly her drinks. Joking around with Clark helped ease my nerves, so I'm smooth in my delivery, my words coming out like she's just a regular customer. "Let me know if I can get you anything else."

She thanks me with a nod and throws back the shot, chasing it with the beer and then moving away to speak with someone else. A moment later there's a hush across the patio. I turn to see that Luca James-the Luca James, be still my beating heart (just kidding, gag)-has arrived. Everyone's looking at him, and he's glancing around, a small smile playing across his lips. He loves this. The attention. The glory.

Really. Gag me. Please.

Except then his eyes, heavy lidded and such a deep brown they're almost black, sweep over mine-and they linger, just for a split second longer than if they were to continue gliding past. It's like I can feel my pupils dilate with the spiked jolt of attraction that slams through me. Long lashes. High cheekbones. Sharp jawline. He's so pretty. The backs of my arms tingle, the nerves heating and spreading up to my shoulders and shocking the muscles across my neck and back. Damn. He's too slick, too commercial-I don't even like him-but he's also panty-wetting gorgeous. I get it, Vera. I so get it.

"Fucking hot." The words slip through my lips-and he freaking hears me. Everyone hears me, considering the stupid hush that's still captive across the patio. He tilts his head toward me, amusement in the half curve of his mouth. My cheeks heat, embarrassment rushing through my veins, but an odd sort of excitement, too, to have his attention on me. Ugh. I grab a rag from the bar and blot my forehead, like maybe I was talking about the weather... But yeah. Pretty sure nobody buys it, especially Luca, considering he still looks like he's trying not to laugh.

And here I stand like an idiot, wiping my face with a dirty, wet rag.

Gross.

"Drink! Drink! Pretend I'm not here!" Luca claps his hands, the sound echoing through the space. People laugh-either at his audacity, or at how unlikely it is to be able to pretend he's not there-but things kind of simmer down. Conversations start back up, muted at first but then growing in volume.