I can’t help it—it’s my nature to go straight to the worst-case scenario. “Do you know anything?” I ask.

“Nope. Same as you. Freakin’ weird, though, right? They’ve got me curious as hell.”

“Yeah,” I mutter. “Swear you’ll tell me if you hear anything. No matter what.”

“I swear, Kai. No worries, though. I’m sure it’s fine.”

I’m not sure at all. And I know it’s going to kill me, waiting to find out.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

Partying with Pharzuph

“Now the son’s disgraced, he who knew his father when he cursed his name . . .

But it broke his heart, so he stuck his middle finger to the world.”

—“Let It Rock” by Kevin Rudolf

It’s never good to see your demon father’s name on the mobile ID. I haven’t spoken to him in ages.

“Is your band available in two weekends?” Father asks.

“I believe so, sir,” I say, wondering what this is about.

“Pristine is having an Oktoberfest party to celebrate our new fall and winter models. Someone mentioned hiring a band, and I thought of Lascivious.” He says this as if it’s a brilliant idea, and he’s doing me a great favor. My chest constricts.

Pristine—the world’s leading pornographic magazine. Father. Models . . .

I know what happens at these parties—I’ve been to plenty.

I rub a hand down my face, thinking of my ten-month streak coming to an end. I force a response.

“Thank you, Father. Sounds excellent. I’ll speak with the band, to be certain.”

“I’m sure you can work it out—shuffle your schedule if needed. I’ll send the jet.”

We hang up and I launch my phone across the room. It smashes against the wall and falls in several pieces. Damn it. I don’t feel like visiting the wireless shop.

I collapse back onto the couch, pressing the heels of my hands into my eyes. The pain of not working has finally simmered into a dull daily thrum that’s bearable. I don’t want to ruin my progress. I don’t want to work and start all over. I don’t want to be with anyone but Anna.

I dig my hands in harder.

Under Father’s eye, I know I will work, because I don’t want to die. Not on his terms. Not for this. Dying at Anna’s side is different.

A voice in my head whispers . . . Kope would refuse . . . and that thought infuriates me.

How the fuck is he so perfect? Why am I so weak? The absolute worst part of this—the bit I don’t care to admit—is that a small part of me is rejoicing at what awaits.

The scents. The softness. The sounds . . .

My heart races and the beast raises its lazy head after a long hibernation.

It’s not in my power to end this curse. I hate myself.

Michael, Bennett, and Raj are so loud on the jet, so hyper, the pilot has to ask them to keep it down. We’ve killed the chilled bottle of champagne and moved on to beer Father supplied us. I keep a steady buzz and laugh at their antics, but I don’t say much. I’m resigned to my fate. That momentary guilty excitement I felt after Father called has long since diminished, replaced by a sense of numbness. I know what awaits.

Once the party gets rolling, there will be no boundaries. No modesties. No privacy. No saying no. By tomorrow morning my bandmates will have seen things they can’t unsee. They’ll have done things they can’t undo. This will not be like the parties they are used to.

When we arrive in New York City, a limo is there to meet us. Full rock-star treatment.

Acid is churning through me by the time we arrive at the building of Pristine’s penthouse suite. The guys completely geek out the entire way up.

“Are the models going to be walking around naked and shit?” Raj asks.

“Possibly. Or nearly.”

He and Bennett high-five while Michael rubs his chin, grinning.

“Seriously, man,” Bennett says to me. “How easy will it be to score?”

I shrug. “Depends. Loads of rich men show at these things. It helps that you’re in the band, but you’ve got to calm the fuck down.”

All three of them stand taller, taking deep breaths, schooling their faces like cool cats. Better.

The lift opens and spills us into the sounds of laughter and tinkling glass. Women are walking about in those German Oktoberfest getups with tiny hats, loads of skin on show. The doorman looks us up and down and says, “Ah, the band. This way, please.” He leads us around a corner to the larger room with chandeliers sparkling above a raised platform. Our instruments are set up and ready. Through the crowd of suits steps Father in a navy designer suit, with four gorgeous females at his heels. They’re all wearing indulgent smiles and tiny black skirts with string bikini tops, covered in different-colored gems for the fall.

“Bad. Ass,” Raj whispers as they approach.

Father comes straight to me, an award-winning smile on his face, and takes me by the hand, pulling me in to clap a hand on my back. His affection is all for show, but it’s convincing. His hand grips my shoulder.

“I’ve been bragging on you to our Harvest Girls here,” he says, turning to wave a hand at the four models. “They didn’t believe I had such a handsome and talented son.”

I grin, but not too big—more like a smirk. The girls look me up and down, taking in my black jeans, boots, and gunmetal-gray fitted shirt.

“God, he’s practically your mini-me,” says the girl with dark red hair and brown-tinted jewels.