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And I take pictures. All the time. It isn’t difficult with Kill John as the subject matter. All the guys are exceedingly photogenic. I’ve often wondered about fame. It’s rare to find famous people who aren’t photogenic, even if they aren’t classically attractive. Why is that? Is it the gloss of fame that makes them more compelling? Or is it something within them that draws the eye and facilitates fame?

Whatever the case, shooting moments with Kill John is a pleasure. Not that it’s without a few struggles.

Killian is still fairly pissy with me. He gives me a glare as I take a picture of him laughing with Jax while they work through a chord progression in a studio they’ve rented for the week. “Do you mind?”

“Nope.” I snap another shot. “In fact, if you want to give me a big ol’ smile and ham it up, even better.”

“Jesus. You’re relentless. Go away.”

“Kills,” Jax says with a sigh. “Just f*cking let it go.” He turns to me and sticks out his tongue, crossing his green eyes.

I dutifully take the pic.

“Excellent.” Lowering my camera, I sit on the studio floor. “Look, none of us can change our pasts. All we have is our present. Like it or not, you two are the band’s front men, which means you lead by example. People are dying to see you and Jax together again and happy. They need that reassurance.”

“And you think taking a few pictures of us doing whatever is going to make everything better?” Killian asks. His tone isn’t snide, but he’s clearly dubious.

“You tell me,” I counter. “You’ve been in this business longer than I have. Do you think public image matters?”

For a second he just stares at me. But then he huffs out a laugh and smiles. When he does, it’s fairly breathtaking. Killian James is extremely hot. Luckily I’m immune to hot men. Well, most of them.

“All right,” Killian says, breaking into my thoughts of uptight managers. “I’m being a dick. It matters, even if I don’t like it.”

“There. Was that so hard?” I ask.

He leans in, cocking his head as if he’s going to tell me a secret. “You know, I’m not actually comfortable being an * to women.”

“Really?” I say, biting the corner of my lip to keep from smiling. “But you do it so well.”

Jax laughs so hard he rocks back, clutching his Telecaster to his stomach. From the corner of my eye, I see Gabriel’s head lift and turn our way. He’s in an adjoining studio, talking to Whip as he practices his drums.

All the studios are connected by glass walls that surround the production booth. I’ve been aware of his presence the whole time, but didn’t think he was aware of mine. He certainly can’t hear us, and yet he’s noticed Jax laughing. Then again, it’s becoming more and more apparent that Gabriel keeps track of everything and everyone.

Killian laughs as well before nudging my foot with the toe of his boot. “You’re a hard woman to remain pissy with, Sophie.”

“Remember that when I follow you like a tick on a dog’s butt.”

He laughs again, a deep rumble of sound. “You sound like Libby.”

“Uh-oh,” Jax says, picking up his beer. “He just gave you his highest compliment. Watch out, you’ll soon be subject to noogies and pranks like the rest of us.”

I feign horror, but inside a soft warmth swims through me. I have many friends and acquaintances. Meeting new people has never been my problem; it isn’t hard when you’re a natural-born talker. But I’ve never been a part of a close-knit family of friends. Maybe I won’t really be accepted by these guys either. Time will tell. But I want to be.

It is an odd thing to discover I’m lonely, despite never truly being alone. But I am. I want someone to know the real me, not the shiny shell I show the world.

I leave Killian and Jax to their practice and move on to Rye, and then Whip. After I’m done with photos, I upload them to my computer and pick out the ones I want to use for today’s social media.

Time passes quickly, and then we’re off to check out the venue for Tuesday night’s opening show. The guys are all restless energy. I swear they must be powered by music, because the more they talk about it, the more they play, the more fueled they seem to be.

Me, on the other hand? I’m still feeling the effects of jet lag—I haven’t had a true night’s sleep since I got here—and the lack of lunch. When did we skip lunch, anyway? How did I miss that?

My stomach growls in protest, and I try to ignore it because no one appears to be ready to leave. I take a break, sitting on the stage and leaning against a set of unplugged amps. My head hurts, and I’d love to nap. Only napping kind of blows here too. I just can’t settle down when I get back to my room.

My stomach growls again, and I swear it’s started to eat itself because my insides clench in pain. I fumble with the latch on my camera case and curse under my breath. I’m in hangry territory here. Soon I’ll be a snarling mess. And these boys don’t seem to f*cking care that it’s been hours since we last ate—

“Here.” A boxed sandwich from Pret A Manger is thrust under my nose. A second later, Gabriel sits next to me on the stage.

I’m caught between snatching the sandwich and admiring the effortless way he moves. Which is just ridiculous, I grump silently, sinking my teeth into honey wheat bread. Lusting over the way a man moves. What next? Writing poetry about the scruff along his jaw?