pregame ritual is he keeping the same?” Ethan asked quietly.
“How about you stop talking about me and talk to me, Ethan,” Nixon said, crossing his arms and straining the seams on his T-shirt.
Ethan sighed. “I’ve got options out here if you need to work off that”—he fumbled for a word—“energy before the show.” He nodded toward the hallway.
I pressed back against the wall as Nixon filled the space in the doorway, looking out of his dressing room. His jaw ticked once—twice—as he took in whatever options Ethan was offering.
“I know post-show is more your thing, but I wasn’t sure if…” Ethan glanced at me, and his cheeks flushed.
“She’s not a kid, Ethan, and she’s been around enough shows to know what happens.” Nixon braced one hand on the door and the other on the frame as he leaned out a little farther.
There was more than one feminine gasp of delight, and I didn’t need to look to know exactly what kind of lineup was out there.
Nixon looked down at me and arched a brow in clear challenge. “What do you think, Shannon? Blonde? Brunette?” His gaze shifted to the heavy waves of auburn hair that stopped just above my breasts. “Redhead?”
I swallowed, refusing to look away as he dragged his eyes back to lock on mine.
He wasn’t mine.
I wasn’t his.
He was free to do whatever he wanted with whomever he wanted to do it with, and we both knew it. I had zero right to the jealousy that was currently lifting my chin, daring him. None. But if he brought one of those women back here, I was going to rip her arms off and beat her with them before I turned on him. I didn’t care how irrational that made me.
Whatever this fragile truce between us was wouldn’t survive me seeing his hands on another woman.
Oh no. No, no, no.
My heart pitched sideways.
I was falling for him.
Stupid, foolish girl.
“Nix?” Ethan prompted.
“I’m good,” Nixon answered, turning toward Ethan, but before I could let loose the breath currently frozen in my chest, he smirked. “We’ll see how I feel after the show.”
Fucking asshole.
“Sounds like a plan,” Ethan responded. “See you in ten.”
Nixon shut the door and didn’t so much as look at me as he strode to the middle of the dressing room, but then he stopped right in front of the table. “What the hell is that?”
I made my feet move, even though my knees weren’t with the program. “Apple juice.”
“I can see that.”
I managed to pour the juice into the shot glasses without spilling a drop, despite the fine tremble in my fingers. Now I was the jumpy one. How had I let myself get so close to him? Let my feelings get tangled up in a man who clearly had no interest in them?
“I was trying to think of simple ways to keep your routine the same,” I said softly, picking up the shot glasses. “And I know it’s not vodka, or tequila, or the various other things you used to use to take the edge off, but I thought maybe we’d trick your nerves with some good old muscle memory.” I offered one of the shot glasses to him.
“You’re replacing my vodka with apple juice.” His forehead crinkled.
“Yes.” I nodded once.
He took the glass from my fingers with a small chuckle. “You are something else, Zoe.”
Zoe. Not Shannon.
“Here’s to my favorite words at the moment. Used to.” He raised his glass to mine, and we both slammed our drinks back. “Showtime.”
I took his glass, then set them both down as he slung the strap of his favorite Les Paul over his shoulder, then tugged until the guitar ran up his spine.
“You know me pretty well, don’t you?” he asked as we headed for the door. The stagehands were already on the other side, waiting to take his guitars to the wings.
“I’m getting there,” I admitted as we walked into the hallway, pausing so the guys could pass single file into the room, each returning with one of Nixon’s prized possessions.
“Good,” Nixon said with a smirk. Then he leaned down, letting his lips brush the shell of my ear. “Then I’ll trust you to pick one of those girls behind me for later.”
My spine stiffened.
He laughed as he lifted his head. “Aren’t you going to wish me luck, Shannon?”
Shannon. The pieces clicked into place. We were in public. Here, he wasn’t the Nixon I shared cider with, or the one who bought my mom’s cake. Here, I was