Which was depressing, now that she thought about it. How had she gotten to the ripe old age of twenty-three without ever being drunk? She’d gone to college, even dated a frat guy or two. Not to mention spent most of her adolescence hanging out with a rock band. How could she not have thrown caution to the wind at least once in all that time?

She was making up for her teetotaling tonight, she decided, as she gestured to the bartender for another shot. Jared started to object, but the look she sent him told him to butt out. If a girl couldn’t get drunk with five of her closest friends in the world after losing her boyfriend, her job, and her car all in the same week, then when exactly was she supposed to get drunk?

The bartender slid the shot in front of her and she reached for it. But another hand closed around it first. Highly indignant, she turned around to give whichever of the guys had stolen her drink a piece of her mind, only to freeze as she found Ryder standing behind her, his eyes dark and intense as he waited for her reaction.

The club was hot—even back here where there weren’t so many people—and she watched, helplessly, as a single drop of sweat rolled down his throat. It disappeared beneath the collar of his simple, black V-neck and for a second she wanted to go after it. To lick up the salty-sweetness of it before tracing his beautiful chest and abs with her lips. Her tongue. After so many years of wondering, she was dying to know what he tasted like.

Ryder’s eyes narrowed, almost as if he knew what she was thinking. Then he shifted closer, his hard thighs brushing against her hip, his chest mere centimeters from her own. She knew he was playing with her, crowding her just to see how she would react, as all of the guys were want to do on occasion. If it had been one of the other guys who’d stolen her drink, she would have elbowed him in the stomach or bumped him with her knee as she tried to wrestle it away from him.

But this wasn’t Wyatt or Micah or Quinn. This was Ryder and no matter how much she longed to touch him, she knew she wouldn’t do it. Not now, when she was so turned on by his proximity that she was afraid to open her mouth. If she did speak, she knew she was going to end up revealing just how much she wanted him. Not the smoothest move, especially when her very over-protective big brother was only inches away.

Under her mesmerized eyes, Ryder lifted the shot to his lips. Tilted his head back. Slammed down the clear liquid. His throat worked as he swallowed and Jamison was so tempted to grab him, to jump him, that for a second she thought about sitting on her hands, just to be safe. But then he was getting even closer to her, his muscular chest rubbing against her aching nipples and she forgot all about her no touching rule. Her hands went to his waist of their own volition, her fingers weaving themselves through his belt loops as he pressed her back against the bar.

Holy shit! Even with her brain muddled with alcohol, she couldn’t believe this was happening. Couldn’t believe that after all these years, after all this time, Ryder was doing this here. Now. With Jared only a few feet away.

Not that she cared. At that moment, the only thing that mattered was the fire exploding between the two of them. Ryder was touching her, was leaning in to kiss her, was—

Her real-life fantasy crashed down around her as he snagged a lime slice from the glass of them on the bar behind her. Then he was stepping away, biting into the tart fruit with a careless grin and an off-the-cuff comment to Jared about one of the women down the bar. Her brother ignored the woman—he was too in love with his fiancee, who also happened to be his high school girlfriend, to pay attention to any of the women buzzing around him.

Still, heat exploded in Jamison’s cheeks as she realized what an idiot she’d been. All that fire between them, all that need she’d felt welling up, had been completely one-sided. He hadn’t been brushing against her because he wanted to, but because he needed to reach something.

It was humiliating. And somehow so much worse than if he actually had realized what was going on inside of her. At least then she would know he saw her as a person, as someone beyond his best friend’s little sister. As it stood, she felt more like the band’s asexual mascot than the sexy, desirable woman she so wanted to be for him. To him. It was doubly humiliating when she considered the fact that that groupie had been so certain she could get him into bed. That she could satisfy him. What did some heavily made-up little tart have that she didn’t, Jamison wondered bitterly. Besides the ability to attract Ryder, that is?

Ryder signaled for another round of shots, then scooted between Jared and her to rest his elbows on the bar. He was turned away from her, talking to Jared, but suddenly she couldn’t stand to be close to him. To have his body brushing carelessly, meaninglessly, against her own when she was still so wound up she wanted to beg him to touch her. Not that she would ever do that, she assured herself. If Ryder didn’t want her then there wasn’t a chance she was going to beg for it.

The bartender placed three shots of Patron down in front of them, and before she could think about what she was doing, Jamison slammed them back, one after the other. Her head spun as she slapped the last glass onto the counter and she realized Jared and Ryder were both staring at her, wide-eyed.

Forcing a grin she was far from feeling, she sent them a what’s-the-problem look. At that moment the DJ—bless his heart—spun out a Beyoncé song from a couple of years before and she turned toward the front of the club. “I want to dance,” she tossed over her shoulder as she made her way to the crowded dance floor.

Now that she was walking, the room was spinning like a top, and it took every ounce of concentration she had not to stumble as she weaved through the crush of bodies. But she was determined to make a dignified exit—she could feel their eyes on her and there was no way she was going to look like some stupid kid who couldn’t hold her liquor in front of Ryder.

Even if it were true.

Micah was leaving the dance floor as she got there, towing a cute blonde in a hot pink dress behind him. She waved at him, and he wagged a finger back and forth between him and her—asking if she wanted him to stay with her. She did, but she didn’t want to cramp his style either. The blonde definitely didn’t look like she wanted to share.

So Jamison just shook her head and burrowed into the crowd on the dance floor. She didn’t stop until she was practically in the middle, and then she closed her eyes and started to move. Just because she couldn’t have Ryder didn’t mean she couldn’t have a good time.

…

“You aren’t really going to leave her alone out there, are you?” Ryder demanded of Jared. The crowd was thick, especially on the dance floor, but Jamison’s red hair made her unmistakable. His jaw—and body—clenched as she tilted her head back and moved to the music. She wasn’t the most scantily dressed woman out there, and he knew objectively that she might not be considered the most beautiful. But she was to him. He was mesmerized, couldn’t take his eyes off of her.

She was dancing like the song was meant for her, shoulders swaying and curvy hips swinging in perfect synchronicity with the catchy lyrics. Her crazy corkscrew curls were flying in every direction, and the look on her face was sexy as hell. Eyes closed, cheeks flushed, full, crimson-slicked lips parted invitingly, she looked like a goddess.

When she leaned back, shaking out her hair in time to the music, he realized he wasn’t the only guy in the place who had noticed. A bunch of the men on the dance floor—even some who were dancing with other women—were looking at her like she was a shiny present they couldn’t wait to unwrap. It made him crazy. Nearly as crazy as brushing against her full, soft breasts had made him earlier.

He shouldn’t have done it. He’d known it at the time, but he hadn’t been able to help himself. Reaching for the lime had just been an excuse. He’d wanted to touch her, to feel all that softness pressed up against him if even for a minute. He’d meant to tease her a little bit, but all he’d ended up doing was torturing himself.

Which was nuts. She was one of his closest friends in the world, not to mention his best friend’s baby sister, and he had no business noticing how lush her breasts were. How curvy her ass was. How long her legs were. He’d known her since she wore pigtails and played with Barbies. Thinking about how much he liked the way she looked was sick. Twisted.

As was sitting there as a bunch of men lusted after her. She’d already gotten into trouble once today. He’d be damned if he sat by and watched while it happened again.

“You’re really not going to do anything?” he again demanded of Jared, who seemed more interested in his drink than he was in keeping Jamison safe.

“And get my ass handed to me?” Jared asked with a smirk. “You know how she gets if I interfere too much. Besides, Wyatt and Quinn are out there. They’ve got her back.”

Ryder turned around, scanned the crowd near where Jamison was dancing. Sure enough, his drummer and keyboardist had ditched the women they’d been hanging with and had started dancing with Jamison instead. It should have made him feel better, did make him feel better. At least until the music changed to a slow song and she threw her arms around Quinn’s neck and whispered in his ear.

Quinn laughed at whatever she told him, then settled his hands on her waist and pulled her close. Too close, in Ryder’s opinion, but a glance at Jared—who was totally relaxed as he nursed a beer—told him he might be overreacting a little. The knowledge did nothing to cool his blood, or the sudden urge he had to break his bandmate’s fingers. Who cared if they were at the beginning of a worldwide tour? The guy didn’t actually need his fingers to play the keyboard, did he?

Feeling like an idiot for being so overprotective, yet unable to do anything about it, Ryder turned to the bartender to order another drink. When the shot came, he tossed it back, gestured for another. It was going to be a bad night—was already a bad night—and after years of them, he knew getting shit-faced was the only way he was going to make it through.

Except, when he turned back to the dance floor, Quinn was making his way back toward the bar and Jamison was slow-dancing with someone else.

Someone who wasn’t Wyatt or Micah.

Someone who looked like he was seconds away from putting his hands all over Jamison’s sexy ass. She wasn’t pushing him away, but she’d had way too much to drink tonight, so it wasn’t like her judgment synapses were firing on all cylinders. Jared might be too stupid to figure out his sister was in trouble, but Ryder wasn’t going to make that mistake ever again.

Adrenaline roared through him and he was halfway across the club before he even realized what he was doing.

The asshole on the dance floor had moved his hands so that they rested on Jamison’s lower back. It wouldn’t be long before he moved them lower still. Ryder grabbed onto Jamison’s elbow as soon as he reached her. “My turn,” he said, spinning her to face him.

“Hey!” The jerk she’d been dancing with started to object, but Ryder didn’t give him a chance. He snarled, “Get lost!” at the same time he shoved the loser hard in the chest. The guy’s fists clenched and for a minute, it looked like he was going to come after Ryder. But a well-placed glare had him turning tail and slinking back into the crowd he’d come from.

Ryder smiled grimly. Sometimes looking like a badass really did pay off.

And sometimes it didn’t. He turned to find Jamison staring at him, a furious look on her face. “What are you doing?” she demanded, voice about three octaves higher than it normally was.

“What are you doing?”

“I’m dancing!”

“You’re drunk.”

“So what?”

“That guy had his hands all over you!”

She narrowed her eyes, tossed all of that glorious hair, and it took every ounce of self-control he had not to reach out and touch it. Not to wrap it around his fist and tug her closer to him. Not to—

He shifted uncomfortably as his cock grew hard. Damn it. What the hell was wrong with him?

“It’s called dancing!”

He saw red, even as he shot her a disbelieving look. “Yeah, well it looked like an invitation to fuck to me.”

She blanched. “You’re being a real jerk.”

“And you’re being careless. You don’t know these guys. You can’t trust them.”