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“How messed up is he?” Beckett pursed his lips, tilting his head to the side slightly. “We’re going to need help.”

“I just need a car and a driver,” he said through clenched teeth.

“Then take a cab.”

“You know I can’t do that.”

She did know. The last time Beckett had taken a cab to retrieve his wayward brother from somewhere he wasn’t meant to be, the driver sold the story to Superfan magazine, complete with a word-for-word recounting of the famous twins’ argument in the back of the car. The band’s own drivers were the only ones they could trust not to leak something to the gossip-hungry media, and they both knew it.

She gathered her hair into a hasty ponytail. “What exactly are you going to do when you get there and your six-foot-four, drunk brother needs help sneaking out a window—”

“Nobody’s sneaking out a window.”

“—or walking upright? In case you’ve forgotten, you’re injured.”

“As if you’d ever let me forget.”

The disdain in his voice settled like a weight on her chest, but she shook off the hurt even as it tried to burrow between her ribs. She didn’t have time to be hurt. She was responsible for the success of this tour, and that meant she was responsible for the guys’ health and safety. Even if they didn’t want her to be.

“I’m getting Gideon,” she said.

“I can handle it.”

“Will you, for once, let me help you?” she snapped. He rocked back on his heels, eyes widening in surprise. “Let me do my job.”

He blinked, and any flicker of softness she’d seen in his expression was washed away. “Fine. But not Gideon.”

“He’s the most discreet guy on your security detail.”

“Not charging in there with a guy who looks like he’s going to put someone through a wall. I’ll get Nico.”

“Fine. I’ll call the car.”

Chapter Four

What was the point of living in a gated community if the gates were left wide open? As the driver steered the car unimpeded through the open wrought-iron gates, Beckett caught sight of a piece of duct tape over the sensor. Clearly whatever asshole was hosting this party hadn’t wanted to be bothered with buzzing each of his guests in individually.

Or maybe they wanted the press to crash their party. Beckett had been in the entertainment business long enough to know that some guys got off on the media attention, the scandal, and the interviews that would inevitably follow. He wasn’t about to let his brother become collateral damage in some rich prick’s ‘all press is good press’ bullshit.

Nico swore as they approached the sprawling Spanish-style mansion. The front lawn was a sea of bored photographers waiting for someone to show their face from behind one of the many curtained windows.

“Circle the block, please,” Kat instructed the driver, darkening the map on her phone and tucking it into her pocket.

“What are you doing?” Beckett asked as they turned the corner at the edge of the mansion’s property.

Kat kept her attention trained out the window. “We can’t walk out the front door with him. It’ll be all over every media outlet before we even make it back to the hotel. Ah! There.” She stabbed a finger at the window, at the place where the tall hedges lining the football player’s property abutted the pristine white vinyl fencing of his neighbor’s yard. There was a small gap, no more than six inches, at the end of the hedgerow. “Stop the car.”

The driver had barely put the car in park before Kat’s hand was on the door handle. Beckett grabbed her forearm. “Where are you going?”

“To get your brother.”

He shook his head. “You stay with the car. Nico and I will get him.”

“You did not just tell me to stay in the car. If anyone should stay in the car, it’s you and your injured knee.”

“She has a point,” Nico said.

“I told you my knee is fine,” Beckett insisted.