The backstage area of the Los Angeles Forum was a sweaty, chaotic jungle of adrenaline and ego. Roadies hauled equipment with the precision of army ants, groupies lingered like vultures hoping for a scrap of attention, and the air thrummed with the lingering echo of a sold-out show. Aurora Kane stood in the midst of it all, arms crossed, one hip cocked, and a smirk playing on her lips as she leaned against a stack of amps. Her black leather jacket and ripped jeans made her look more like a rockstar than the music journalist she was, but the notepad tucked into her back pocket and the sharp glint in her hazel eyes gave her away. She wasn’t here to fawn or flirt—she was here to dissect.
And her target was late.
“Typical,” she muttered under her breath, checking her watch for the third time in five minutes. Joel Ryder, lead guitarist of Thunder Riot, had just shredded the stage for two hours straight, and now he was probably off somewhere soaking up the worship of his adoring fans. Aurora rolled her eyes. She’d known Joel since they were teenagers sneaking into dive bars with fake IDs, and while his talent had always been undeniable, his rockstar persona was a caricature she couldn’t resist poking holes in.
Finally, the man himself strutted into view, still glistening with sweat, his dark hair a mess of post-show chaos, and a black tank top clinging to his lean, tattooed frame. A gaggle of hangers-on trailed behind him, but his piercing blue eyes locked onto Aurora immediately, a lopsided grin spreading across his face as he waved off his entourage.
“Well, well, if it isn’t the queen of snark herself,” Joel drawled, sauntering over with the kind of swagger that only came from owning a stage in front of twenty thousand screaming fans. “Didn’t think you’d slum it backstage for little old me, Aurora. Thought you were too busy writing Pulitzer-worthy exposés on indie bands nobody’s heard of.”
Aurora arched a brow, unfazed. “Oh, please, Ryder. I’m only here because my editor forced me to cover your overblown ego trip of a tour. Two hours of pyrotechnics and pelvic thrusts? I’m surprised you didn’t set yourself on fire with all that peacocking.”
Joel barked out a laugh, stepping closer, close enough that she could smell the mix of sweat and cologne on him—a scent that was annoyingly intoxicating. “Peacocking? Babe, that’s called showmanship. You should try it sometime instead of hiding behind that notebook of yours. Bet you’d look hot with a little strut.”
“Keep dreaming, guitar boy,” she shot back, her voice dripping with mock disdain as she tapped a finger against his chest. “I don’t need to strut to get attention. Unlike some people, I rely on actual substance.”
“Substance, huh?” Joel’s grin widened, his gaze flicking down to her lips for a split second before meeting her eyes again. “Is that what you call those snooty journalist vibes you’re throwing off? ‘Cause I’m pretty sure I just saw half the crew checking you out. You’re not fooling anyone with that ‘I’m above all this’ act.”
Aurora snorted, but her lips twitched with amusement. “Flattery won’t get you out of this interview, Joel. I’ve got a deadline, and I’m not leaving until I’ve got enough dirt to make my editor happy. So, let’s start with the obvious—why the hell did you think jumping off a ten-foot speaker stack mid-solo was a good idea? Trying to break a leg for the headlines?”
“Hey, it got the crowd going, didn’t it?” He shrugged, running a hand through his damp hair, the motion drawing her attention to the flex of his bicep before she quickly looked away. “Besides, I knew I’d land it. I’m basically a superhero with a Les Paul. You’re welcome for the show, by the way.”
“Oh, I’m welcome?” Aurora’s tone was pure sarcasm as she tilted her head, stepping even closer so they were nearly nose-to-nose. “I spent half the set worried I’d have to write your obituary instead of a feature. ‘Rockstar Dies in Idiotic Stunt, More at Eleven.’ Real catchy, don’t you think?”
Joel’s eyes sparkled with mischief, and he leaned in just enough that their breaths mingled. “Admit it, Kane. You were impressed. I saw you in the pit, scribbling away like a fangirl. Bet you wrote ‘Joel Ryder is a god’ at least once in that little notepad.”
“In your dreams, Ryder,” she fired back, but there was a warmth in her voice now, a familiarity that undercut the sharpness. “I wrote ‘Joel Ryder is a reckless idiot who needs a babysitter.’ Maybe I’ll pitch that as the headline.”
He chuckled, low and rough, the sound sending an unexpected shiver down her spine. “You wanna babysit me, Aurora? I’m game. I’ve got plenty of bad behavior for you to rein in.”
She rolled her eyes, but the heat in her cheeks betrayed her. “Keep talking, rockstar. I’ve got a pen ready to quote every dumb thing that comes out of your mouth. You’re making my job way too easy.”
For a moment, they just stood there, the chaos of backstage fading into a dull roar as their banter hung between them like a live wire. Aurora’s gaze flicked to his hand as it brushed against hers—accidentally, or maybe not—and she felt a jolt she quickly buried under another smirk. Joel’s grin softened, just for a second, something unspoken flickering in his eyes before he masked it with another quip.
“So, what’s the plan, boss lady?” he asked, stepping back but still keeping his gaze locked on hers. “You gonna grill me right here while some roadie spills beer on us, or are we taking this somewhere with better lighting for your Pulitzer-worthy notes?”
Aurora tilted her head, considering him with a sly smile. “Actually, I’ve got a better idea. Ditch the afterparty. You and me, late-night diner run. Greasy burgers, shitty coffee, and none of these sycophants hanging on your every word. Think you can handle being a normal human for an hour, or is that too much for a rock god like you?”
Joel’s brows shot up, a genuine laugh escaping him. “Damn, Kane, you’re full of surprises tonight. A diner date? You trying to get me alone so you can steal my soul for that article?”
“Call it a date again, and I’ll leave you here with your groupies,” she warned, her voice firm but her eyes dancing with amusement. “This is work, Ryder. I just happen to work better with a milkshake in hand. So, what’s it gonna be? You in, or are you too scared to face me without your adoring fans as a buffer?”
He held up his hands in mock surrender, his grin wide and boyish now. “Alright, alright, I’m in. Lead the way, boss. But if the diner’s out of fries, I’m blaming you.”
Aurora smirked, turning on her heel and tossing a look over her shoulder. “Keep up, rockstar. I’m not waiting for you to sign autographs all night.”
As they wove through the backstage crowd, her heart beat a little faster, though she’d never admit it. The diner was just an excuse—a way to peel back the layers of Joel’s rockstar armor and see the man she’d known for years, the one who still made her laugh like no one else could. And if there was something more simmering beneath their sharp words and stolen glances, well, she’d deal with that over a plate of fries. For now, she was in control, and she intended to keep it that way.
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