"Upstairs?"

Jax turned his head and gestured with his chin, and my eyes followed to see.

Oh my god.

"A glass elevator?" I said, startled. "But Jax, that’s not where we came in." I walked closer to the elevator. It seemed impossible, but there it was, extending up to the floor above—an elevator inside the hotel room. It would have made me giddy, if I hadn’t already been so worried about the band’s budget.

"I know," he replied. "Maybe you should get in."

I pressed a button, and the elevator doors opened. The two of us stepped into the glass-walled enclosure, and I saw two buttons marked "1" and "2." Biting my lip, I pressed the "2," and watched as the doors closed around us.

Jax, waiting at the back of the elevator, had a remote in his hand. "Want to press the button?" he asked. I was confused, but pressed it anyway.

As soon as I did, the window curtains began to part, revealing a view of The Strip that made it clear we were high above most of the other hotels in town. I gasped. "Jax, it’s . . ."

"Wait for it," he said, his voice barely containing his excitement.

As the curtains pulled back further, I saw it: a giant T-shaped swimming pool, just off the living room area, that projected out beyond the edge of the hotel and over the street outside.

My eyes opened wide, and I felt my hand tightening its grip against the elevator railing as the doors slid open to the second level.

"Holy f**k," I said, my voice barely above a whisper. A two-story suite with a private pool? I didn’t even want to estimate the cost. It made me almost sick to think about, and Jax’s eager face made me feel incredibly guilty. He’d wanted to show me the rock star lifestyle, but all I could think about was cold hard cash.

He stepped off the elevator, and I followed behind, feeling anxiety churn my stomach. "You can let the running tally go," he said. "I can hear the cash register going off in your head every time you see a new room."

I grimaced. Had I been making myself that obvious? "You’d just better not tell me that all the money I cut from the budget is being spent here."

"What, on this suite? No," he said, walking over toward one of the walls. "Come over here, check these pictures out."

I picked up my pace to catch up with him, but not before catching a glimpse of another bedroom and a full dance floor. This place was more insane than my friend, Kristen’s place—and her husband was a billionaire.

Then, looking at the wall, I saw the pictures. Photographs of politicians, musicians, and actors, from Kanye to Clinton, speckled the wall. All of them were posing in the hotel room where we were standing—even Hugh Hefner was in on the action, standing in front of the incredible pool.

My eyes traced over the A-list icons in the photos. "You’re telling me this room, with all these celebrity guests, isn’t going to put us over budget?"

"The room’s free for main stage performers," Jax explained. "Welcome to the big leagues, they said. I wanted to show it to you. I thought you might like it."

Free. I exhaled in relief—that meant I could start enjoying the amenities, instead of trying to figure out what they’d cost.

"You thought right," I reassured Jax, happy that it was the truth. ". . . Hey, I’ve got an idea. Let’s get a photo of the Hitchcocks later. We can give it to the hotel so they can add it to their collection."

"Yeah, imagine a photo with Sky right about there," he said, pointing to an empty spot on the wall next to Miley Cyrus' portrait, "Just so she could flip off Miley."

I giggled. "Yeah, and right here, Chewie would—"

BZZZ! The doorbell to the room cut me off before I could finish my sentence.

"We’d better get that," Jax said, walking toward the elevator.

"Is it the rest of the band?" I asked as we got back in. "Or the party guests?"

A hint of a smile played on his face. "Let’s go downstairs and find out."

When he opened the door, I expected to see Chewie, Sky, and Kev bounding in. Instead, a veritable army of room service waiters pushed a procession of carts through the entrance hallway and into the living area. There were enough covered dishes on their trays to cater a small banquet.

"Where shall we serve the food?" One of the waiters asked, his voice soft and melodious, with an understated French accent.

"That won’t be necessary," Jax said, hastily, then dug into his pocket and stuck a green wad of bills into the waiter’s hand. "I can serve it myself."

"Yes, monsieur," the waiter said, giving a small, deferential bow before leaving along with the rest of the room service staff.

Once the last white uniform was gone from the suite, Jax spread his arms out toward the room service carts. "Pick anything you like," he said.

I took a quick look under a couple of plates: one had a sushi roll, beautifully plated. The next was covered in a thick slab of chocolate cake. It didn’t look like party food—but it did look delicious, especially since I’d barely eaten all day because I’d been worried about Jax avoiding me. Add in the intense cowbell-playing, and I was practically dying for a bite.

"There’s enough to feed an army here," I said, puzzled, as I set the covers back down. "Why all the food? Are the roadies coming to the party, too?"

"Well, I figured we didn’t have to eat like we were on the road," Jax called back to me as he walked to the bar. "You’ve been eating like a bird on the tour bus," he continued, changing the subject. "Maybe now you can find something you’ll enjoy."

I blushed, embarrassed. "I eat," I said quickly. "It’s just, when I’m stressed and working, sometimes I forget. And sometimes I’m not hungry. But it’s sweet of you to notice."

"Mmhmm. But tonight, you’re not working. So relax." He started looking over the bar. This time, I couldn’t tell what he was making. Judging by the strangely shaped bottles he was picking—and the blender he got out from beneath the bar—I could tell it wasn’t his usual Godfather. He looked back up from the bottles to where I was standing. "Go ahead, pick something good."

I lifted the lids one by one. The first covered dish held a thick burger, while the one next to it had scallops. There was a lot of food, but none of it was as exciting as the room itself. When I lifted the tenth cover and found a fruit plate, I shrugged. "Close enough," I said, bringing the melon and grapes back to the bar and taking a seat on a stool.

Jax was busy adding ingredients to the blender. "What’s that?" I asked as I popped a grape into my mouth, watching the liquids blend together.

He poured syrupy, light amber liquid from the blender into two champagne flutes. "It’s your drink," he said, then popped a cork on a bottle of sparkling wine and topped each glass with its bubbly contents. "I call it . . . The Riley."

He invented a cocktail for me? "Well, it’s a good name. What’s in it?"

"Plum puree, champagne . . . and black pepper vodka," he said. "Like I said, it’s your drink."

I eyed the amber liquid curiously. The drink, the private tour, none of it made sense. Why was he acting so nice? And how could he be so sure I’d like the drink he’d made? With the pepper and dry champagne, it looked nothing like the usual, cloyingly sweet cocktails most guys assumed girls preferred.