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“Of course,” Kat muttered to herself, spearing a piece of popcorn chicken and dipping it into the jalapeño ranch dressing.

At least the food was halfway decent, even if it was the last time Beckett would let Jackson choose the band’s post-show restaurant without thoroughly vetting the location himself. The last thing he wanted after a show was house music and a bar full of groupies. He wanted carbs—lots of them—maybe a beer, and to get back to the hotel as quickly as possible.

His brother seemed to ride the high of a show all night, buzzing with an inexhaustible supply of energy, staying up late gaming in Nico’s room or—when they didn’t have a show the next day—hitting a local club. But Beckett didn’t share his twin’s need to burn off steam after a concert. He left it all out on the stage and, after a solid two hours of performing, he needed to recharge with quiet, solitude, a good book.

And he really needed to ice his fucking knee.

“Did you know popcorn chicken wasn’t invented until the 1990s?” Zach asked, swiping a piece.

“You’re telling me I’m older than the concept of popcorn chicken?” Nico asked.

“We all are,” Zach said.

Jackson tipped his chin towards a group of women in their mid-twenties across the club and took a sip of his vodka soda. “They aren’t.”

Beckett tracked his brother’s line of sight. “They’re young enough to be our kids.”

“Speak for yourself,” Nico said.

“It could work if you were a teen dad,” Kat said with a shrug.

“Nope. I was too busy being a teen idol.”

His bandmates groaned, shoving Nico’s shoulders and booing until he laughed and swatted them away.

The women, having clocked Jackson’s appreciative gaze, approached the table, already blushing. Their outfits left very little to the imagination—short skirts, low-cut tops, places where the fabric was cut away for no logical reason. Did women’s waists get hot enough to necessitate geometric openings in their shirts?

They hesitated at the edge of the cordoned-off area where the band was seated, but Jackson waved them in. “It’s alright, Gid,” he said to their head of security. “You know we love to meet our fans.”

A tall woman stepped forward, her red hair falling all the way to her barely covered ass. “Hey, we’re sorry to interrupt—”

Jackson’s eyes lit up and he set down his drink, grinning from ear to ear. “You’re not interrupting. What can we do for you beautiful ladies?”

The redhead held up her cell phone. “Could we get a picture?”

“Of course! Right, guys?” Jackson scooted his chair back and gestured the women closer as the rest of the band half-heartedly agreed.

Beckett mumbled his assent, knowing full well that once his brother had extended an opening to a group of Storm Chasers, there was nothing to be done but go along with it. To say no now would only end in a viral post on social media about how Midnight Storm hated their fans.

The redhead bent down beside Jackson, crouching so their faces were at eye level, her shirt gaping dangerously as she held the phone out in front of them for a selfie.

“We can do better than that,” Jackson said. “Kat, take the picture.” He gestured for the redhead to hand Kat her phone.

“That’s not my job,” Kat said, swirling a piece of popcorn chicken in the dipping sauce.

“C’mon. You don’t want to disappoint our fans, do you?”

Beckett bristled at the way his brother spoke to Kat, as if she worked for him personally and not the tour as a whole. He waited for her to tell his brother to fuck off, but instead Kat rolled her eyes and took the phone with a sigh. As she did, Jackson wrapped an arm around the redhead’s waist, inviting her to sit on his lap. An invitation she gladly accepted.

Maybe if his twin got laid, he wouldn’t be such a whiny asshole about the band’s curfew on show nights. It wasn’t likely, but it was possible.

“What’s your name?” Jackson asked.

Beckett couldn’t hear the woman’s name. He was too distracted by her friends moving closer—the blonde with the blowout who plopped herself down in the empty chair beside Nico. The one with the beachy waves who slid onto Logan’s lap with a seductive smile despite his startled “Oh, hello there.” And the brunette with the heart-shaped face and big tits who crouched down beside Beckett, draping her arms around his shoulders.

He bristled at her presumptuous touch. He wasn’t interested in entertaining a Storm Chaser, but when she lurched to the side, losing her balance on her tiny stilettos, he wrapped his arm around her back, steadying her.

“You good?” he asked.