Dirty Like Us

and there were no windows. The ceiling was arched and the walls were black, strewn with neon beer signs and replica platinum albums.
There was a row of eight gunmetal chairs, four to the right of the aisle and four to the left, two of which were occupied. A woman I didn’t know stood at the back of the room with a polite smile on her face. A man with a gun stood guard at the door.
Outside, traffic rumbled by, occasionally vibrating the kitschy junk on the walls.
In the next room, an awful song played faintly on repeat. A cheesy, sleazy rock song about a schoolgirl.
Near me, someone was talking.
But all I could hear was that old Steppenwolf song, “Magic Carpet Ride,” playing in my head. I heard it the way Zane once sang it, as we sat around a campfire drinking Jäger from a bottle someone passed around, his voice so raw and smoky and beautiful it gave me goosebumps. I heard it the way my mom used to play it, loud, on her wonky old turntable, as she danced in the kitchen in one of her flowy blouses and a pair of cut-offs.
I could see her now, dancing in her bare feet, and looking so, so young.
And I wished she was here.
I was holding hands with him, and my knees were quivering. I could feel his heartbeat in his fingers wrapped tight around mine. His thumb smoothed back and forth across my knuckles, over the new ring on my finger, as I breathed, shallow and slow.
He was looking at me. I knew he was. I could feel the heat of his gaze moving over my face.
“Maggie.”
I took a breath and felt his heartbeat, once… twice… Then I looked up into that gorgeous face. His arctic blue eyes held mine. He squeezed my hands slightly.
Zane.
Me.
Holding hands at the altar.
Holy shit.
“That’s your cue, babe,” Zane said, and I realized the man in the leather jacket had been the one speaking. To me. Everyone was looking at me and waiting.
And I just stared at Zane.
The corners of his eyes twitched. He smiled slightly and I couldn’t stop myself. I never could, when it came to him.
I smiled back.
“Yeah,” I said, in response to the man’s question, but the word cracked and came out a whisper. I cleared my throat and found my voice. “I do.”

Chapter One
Maggie
Two hours earlier…
I stood in the middle of the massive, glittering bathroom, trying not to imagine how much this hotel suite would’ve cost if we had to pay for it. And trying not to think about why we didn’t.
I’d told Coop to go ahead and help himself to the complimentary champagne, because no way I was drinking it. Instead I grabbed one of the little glasses by the sink and fixed myself a vodka cran, pouring from the bottle of Stoli I’d paid for myself. Then I lay my travel case open on the floor and took a breath.
The last hour of my life had been a total gong show, the conversation with my father pretty much the furthest thing from an aphrodisiac. I just needed a few minutes to get my head together and switch gears.
I took a swig of my drink and assessed myself in the mirrored wall. I was still wearing the jeans and midriff-baring jacket I’d worn to dinner with the crew, but I’d already decided the occasion called for something a lot sexier.
I dug through my stuff, unearthing the new lingerie and snapping off the tags. Then I went over my mental checklist as I got undressed.
The band was all settled into the hotel, finished with the promotional interviews I’d set up for them earlier in the day, and they were officially set loose for the night. In Las Vegas. The last I’d seen of each of them, they were off in various directions in search of sex (Zane), booze (Dylan), and/or solitude (Jesse and Elle). Tomorrow night was the final show of the tour and everyone was jacked up on a hazardous cocktail of anticipation, adrenaline and hormones. Not the kind of hazard I could do much about, other than stay out of the way and be on hand for cleanup later. My boss, Brody, and I were band management, which meant we booked gigs, made sure everyone got paid, and generally kept the money flowing in. But it also meant we took it upon ourselves to make sure everyone stayed relatively sane, so the reality was, if anything fell apart between now and tomorrow’s show, my phone was gonna blow up like the Freemont Street light show, and not like I could ignore it.
Story of my life, but at least everything was as it should be on that front.
Security, crew, and gear were all accounted for and everything was set for Dirty, hottest rock band on the planet and my kickass employers—fuck, yeah—to rock the hell out of the new arena on the Vegas Strip. And while I was excited about tomorrow’s show in that bittersweet way that marked the end of each tour, I was really looking forward to a momentary diversion from the madness.
A diversion of the sexual variety. Because the Penny Pushers were also in town for the show, and that meant I was hooking up.
I slipped into the skimpy lace babydoll and matching thong, both a vibrant lime-green that looked amazing against my complexion. Thanks to my mom, I had flawless light-brown skin, which I’d always considered my best feature. Admittedly, because it made me look less like my dad.
Usually when people found out who he was, they assumed I’d want to be associated with him. He was rich and famous, after all.
But those were the people who’d never met him.
I took a couple more swigs of my drink, hiked up my cleavage with the stiff demi cups of the babydoll, and touched up my makeup, letting the liquor and the bizarre, hyper-reality of this moment soak in.
I, Maggie Omura, was about to fuck a