D Monz jumped into the air and shot his guitar above his head, his arms high and straight before he crashed onto his knees. His fingers attacked the strings for the final ear-splitting note. It was a stellar athletic, musical, and dramatic show closer. He glanced into the darkness beyond the stage lights. Last performance before a short break.

Storming off stage, he fled the adoration of the crowd and their thundering applause. Panty tossing had once been exciting. No longer. Ignoring his drummer Riot-R, who probably wanted him to share a few females, he slammed into his dressing room.

With his back to the door, he shrugged his T-shirt overhead. About to toe off his well-worn motorcycle boots, he heard the door open. Angry at the interruption, he spun around, growling.

What the fuck?

An out-of-breath female leaned against the wall. She wore a skin-tight, black leather skirt and a long-sleeved, cropped and torn T-shirt. Through one of the holes, he saw part of a lacy bra. Her outfit screamed groupie. Despite that fact, her long red hair, tamed in a braid with only wisps curling around her face, captured his attention.

She locked her green-eyed gaze on him, studying D from his scuffed boots to his black-haired head. “Oops. Sorry. Didn’t know you were in here yet. I thought I was late.”

She was tall and curvy but lean-muscled as if she lifted a few weights. He didn’t want what was on his drummer’s menu tonight, but what the hell. When food dropped onto your plate, it was rude not to eat.