Oh. The music. She’d thought it was a recording, but no, this was real, this was live, and he was playing it. She’d never heard live music before—not really playing, not like this. He was…wow. He was wonderful.

She watched him, frozen, because he clearly didn’t even know she existed yet; it was just him and the guitar and the music, and if she had to put a name to what she could see on his face, it would be something poetic, like longing. He was blond, his hair cut kind of like Shane’s, in a careless mop. Not as big as Shane, and not as muscled, though he was maybe as tall. He was wearing a T-shirt, too, black, with a beer logo. Blue jeans. No shoes.

He stopped playing, head down, and reached for the open beer on the table in front of him. He toasted empty air. “Happy birthday to you, man.” He tossed back three swallows, sighed, and put the bottle down. “And here’s to house arrest. What the hell. Own it or get owned.”

Claire coughed. He turned, startled, and saw her standing there on the stairs; his frown cleared after a second or two. “Oh. You’re the one Shane said wanted to talk about the room. Hey. Come on down.”

She did, trying not to limp, and when she got into the full light she saw his quick, intelligent blue eyes catalog the bruises.

He didn’t say a word about them. “I’m Michael,” he said. “And you’re not eighteen, so this is going to be a real short conversation.”

She sat, fast, heart pounding. “I’m in college,” she said. “I’m a freshman. My name is—”

“Don’t bullshit me, and I don’t care what your name is. You’re not eighteen. It’s a good bet you’re not even seventeen. We don’t take anybody in this house who isn’t legal.” He had a deep voice, warm but—at least right now—hard. “Not that you’d be signing on to Orgy Central, but sorry, me and Shane have to worry about things like that. All it takes is you living here and somebody even hinting there’s something going on—”

“Wait,” she blurted. “I wouldn’t do that. Or say that. I’m not looking to get you guys in trouble. I just need—”

“No,” he said. He put the guitar aside, in its case, and latched it shut. “I’m sorry, but you can’t stay here. House rules.”

She’d known it was coming, of course, but she’d let herself think—Eve had been nice, and Shane hadn’t been horrible, and the room was so nice—but the look in Michael’s eyes was as final as it got. Complete and utter rejection.