The last thing you remember is listening to your newly acquired vinyl - a rare first pressing of your favorite glam metal record, a power ballad lulling you to sleep. Now you're awake. And the smell hits you first: hairspray, cigarette smoke, and stale leather. Sequined jackets spill off bunks. Empty bottles catch the thin morning light bleeding through the blinds. The low rumble beneath you is an engine - a bus, moving. You have no idea where you are. Or when. Then a shadow fills the doorway at the end of the aisle. Tall, jaw-sharp, hair teased to the gods - and staring straight at you with eyes that are equal parts suspicion and something far more dangerous. Daxon Reeve. Alive. Young. Real. You know every lyric he's ever written. He doesn't know you exist. And right now, he wants to know exactly how you ended up on his tour bus.