"Fine. But remember this: I made you. You are all nothing without me. I can replace you all in a heartbeat."
Derek sneered, turned, and walked toward the door. Brogan could hear Derek muttering, "Vain, arrogant fucker —"
Aye, maybe he was.
* * * *
After the show, Brogan was whisked back to the Park Lane Hotel overlooking Central Park. There was no after party, nothing. He was a prisoner in his room. He angrily stirred the embers in the fireplace. His brief conversation with Derek before the show still rankled. He hadn't had his shower yet. He was shirtless and wearing his trademark leather trousers. The fake star tattoos on his arms were smudged with sweat. The thought of getting real ones didn't appeal. He placed the fireplace tool back in the caddy and leaned on the green marble mantel.
They did put on a hell of a show. Perhaps sober was better—or maybe not. Right now, he wanted to tear the gold paper off the walls. He needed some kind of fix or he would hurl himself out the feckin' window onto unsuspecting pedestrians. Brogan was lost in thought and didn't hear the door open to his suite.
"Your manager's man let me in. Are you locked up for some reason?"
He glanced up. Abbie.
"Aye, like a monkey at the zoo. For my own good, they say."
His voice sounded bitter to his own ears. He didn't like being constrained. He pushed away from the mantel and walked toward her. "How is it you're here? Were you at the show? Why didn't you tell me?"
"I didn't want to see your concert. I have seen enough of your 'shows'. The one you had in your dressing room in Philadelphia was enough for me." She kept her voice steady, but Brogan could tell she was keeping her anger tightly under wraps. "I flew in. I'm staying with my aunt in Brooklyn. I came because I have something to tell you, and it couldn't wait. I'm breaking up with you, Brogan. We're done."
Those words and her tone of voice. He didn't expect this. Figured she would always be there. Abbie had said she loved him, and recently. Was it all a lie? Christ, what happened in Philly? His clear-eyed gaze observed her defensive pose. Her hands were clasped behind her back. Hope to hell she wasn't holding a gun.
"Abbie, whatever happened, I'm sorry. I don't even remember you being there at the Spectrum. I heard I acted like a pig. I don't know why…" He knew bloody well why. He was high, drunk, and beyond all reason.
"This isn't about your disgusting behavior. Although it was a slap to the face to walk in on some woman on her knees giving you head. I know there have been other women. Don't try to deny it. I have proof."
Brogan crossed his arms defensively. His insides clenched. Bleedin' hell, she walked in on someone sucking on his pipe? Reese as well? What did she mean by 'proof'?
"So you had me followed? Had pictures taken?" he sneered softly, trying to hide the hurt. He delivered his words in a frosty, indifferent voice.
"Oh, just admit it. You probably can't even remember how many you've had! How soon did you cheat on me? As soon as you went on your first tour in the fall of seventy-two? I wouldn't be surprised!" she yelled, her anger breaking free at last.
"I can't help it. Women want me and throw themselves at me. I'm only human. Why should I refuse them what they want? If you don't want me, there are plenty who do. I just have to crook my finger."
"You're so vain. You probably think the world revolves around you! It's not
you
they want. It's the celebrity, the rock star, the glitter, and the glam. Not
you!"
Abbie cried out.
Her words hit their mark. What she said was the absolute truth. He didn't want to hear any truth. He was famous, a bona fide rock idol with gold records, and nominated for one of those new awards, the AMAs. Rumor had it he would be up for a Grammy as well. He was making money hand over fist. He uncrossed his arms and took a couple of steps toward her. She didn't move.
"Maybe I wouldn't have turned to other women if you had come with me on the road and supported me at all. I asked, bloody hell, I begged for you to join me. You refused. You turned your back on me. You never loved me or supported me!" He sounded spoiled and petulant, but Brogan was beyond caring at the moment.
"Oh, so it's my fault you are a cheating, drunken pig? I'll tell you the real reason I'm breaking it off with you. You gave me VD," she snarled, barely containing her anger. "A doctor confirmed the diagnosis. I have gonorrhea. I've only been with one man ever, and that was you, Brogan! You gave me this disease from your banging God knows how many scummy women. I will never forgive you for this. Never."
He couldn't believe it. Venereal disease? Nevan's words of warning came back to haunt him. He couldn't remember how many or if he'd used condoms or not. All the sex he had became a blur. They were only nameless faces and faceless names. When did he first cheat on her? He couldn't recall; however, he remembered the reason why he did it. He was lonely and racked with guilt. At some point his behavior took a turn into pure debauchery and spectacle rivaling ancient Rome. VD explained a couple things he'd chosen to ignore. He couldn't speak, and his mouth dropped open like a fish flailing on the dock, gasping for air through its gills. Abbie had rendered him speechless.
His lack of response must have tipped Abbie's rage over the edge because she reached out and slapped him hard on the face. "You son of a bitch."
His head snapped back from the impact. She'd nailed him but good. His cheek stung, and he rubbed it as he glared at Abbie. He could see by the look on her face she was angry and wanted to make him bleed.
In a calmer voice she said, "Get tested, Brogan, get treatment, and stop screwing those groupie whores." She turned to leave.
Finally he found his voice. "Wait, Abbie. God, I am sorry, can't we talk—?"
"No. I never want to see you again, Brogan. I no longer love you. You killed it. Have a nice life," she spat as she slammed the door so hard the hinges rattled.
He sank to the lushly carpeted floor. He felt as if he had been eviscerated with a blunt knife. He bent one knee and rested his arm on it. Did he not deserve her contempt and her disgust? In his way he did love her a little. So why did he treat what they had so carelessly and so callously? She would never forgive him. He heard the blame in her voice and saw the accusation on her face. Abbie was right. He did this. He knew deep down he had the potential for love and a true and giving relationship, but it would not be with Abbie. Brogan's instinct had told him so two years ago, but he wanted to be wrong. She never understood his passion for music and his way of life. Abbie didn't even try to share his life or support him.
Brogan sat for the longest time in front of the fire. The flames snapping and crackling in the fireplace were the only sound in the hearth and the room. His blood pounded in his veins, and his head began to ache. The demon inside stirred.
Finally, he stood.
Feck this.
Brogan opened the door and peered out into the hall. Volkswagen wasn't there for once. There was a slightly built black bloke standing as straight as a guard in front of Westminster. He glanced across the hall at Carly's room. He could hear the TV. She had it turned up very loud. The black guy—what was his name? He was a roadie on his crew. Brogan called to him and pulled a wad of bills out of his pocket.
"Take this and get me whatever you can. Pills, weed, and two bottles of Tyrconnell."
"Tyrconnell? What is it and where am I going to find it?"
"It's Irish single malt whiskey. Keep going to liquor stores until you find it. Don't bring me back any of the Jack Daniels shite or any blended whiskey."
The black bloke shifted from one foot to the other, clearly uncomfortable. "I'm not supposed to…"
"Feck that. You want to keep your job, you'll do what I say," Brogan snarled. "Gio will be back—when?"
He shrugged. "Two hours."
"Make sure you're back long before."
The bloke turned on his heel and walked away. The guy didn't care. At this point, Brogan didn't care either. He just wanted to get wasted and forget it all, forget—her. Thing was, did he mean Tarrah or Abbie?
* * * *
Carly managed to chip off the two layers of makeup, brush her teeth, and climb into her favorite pair of silk pajamas. Going to sleep right now would be a blessing. Exhaustion made her eyelids heavy and raw to the touch. She'd hated babysitting ever since she was twelve years old, but it was her job in essence. As an only child in a house lacking in family warmth and love, she'd learned early on to hide and mask her emotions if she wanted to keep the peace. "Calm and even-keeled" was a credo she lived by. Keeping cool and detached came in handy in her job, though Byrne made it a challenge.
Earlier she could hear the yelling across the hall—no doubt Byrne and his girlfriend slicing each other to ribbons. She cringed as it reminded her of her parents and their many heated arguments. It seemed quiet now. Carly didn't want to know, hence turning the TV up really loud. The theme from the
Rockford Files
nearly blew her out of her seat. She gazed in the mirror and ran her tongue over her teeth.
Minty fresh, ready to go.
Rinsing her hands, Carly smiled when she thought of the concert that night. They'd kicked ass. If only she could keep Byrne clean and sober for the rest of this tour, they might receive a good write-up in
Rolling Stone.
She didn't trust the hunk of an Irishman, however. He was in his room earlier pacing like a caged lion. To his credit, he kept the histrionics to a minimum, which made her suspicious to the extreme.
What did concern her was Byrne hadn't been eating or sleeping much as far as she could tell. Should she bring in a doctor as his brother had suggested? Perhaps force-feed the handsome bugger? She would throw a pizza in a blender and make him drink the concoction if she had to.
Carly recognized the heavy knuckled rap at her bathroom door. "Come in, Gio."
"Ah… boss. I went for a break to get some burgers, and well, I left Charles in charge, and…" Gio babbled incoherently.
"Spit it out, Gio."
"I don't think Byrne is breathing."
Her hands still wet, Carly ran across the hall with Gio right behind her. There was Byrne sprawled on his back on the floor surrounded by booze and pill bottles.
"He must have got Charles to get him some stuff. I'm so sorry, Carly."
Carly froze. Was he even breathing? His sculpted-in-marble chest wasn't moving. The headlines flashed through her brain.
Byrne Dead of Overdose
. Oh, shit.
Even in her panicked state, her Red Cross course kicked in through the morbid thoughts and sensational headlines. She quickly moved to his side, dropped to her knees, and began CPR. Were the compressions right? It had been years since she took the damned course. "Breathe, you selfish fucker—"
"Want me to call emergency? Get an ambulance? How do we handle this…?" Gio prattled.
Byrne choked up a huge wad of puke on the carpet. He almost asphyxiated on his own vomit. The obstruction now cleared, he began breathing again. Oh, my God, think of the headlines then:
Byrne Chokes on Puke
. Just like Hendrix. What a way to go—it was almost as bad as dying on the toilet. Carly's concern soon turned to irritation.
What was wrong with this idiot?
"Gio, take him into the bathroom. I don't think he's done," she snapped.
Gio tucked Byrne under his arm as if he were a lightweight mannequin and walked to the bathroom. Carly followed them. The room was soon filled with the noise of Byrne retching and the fetid odor of rancid bile. Carly stood with her hands on her hips glaring at Byrne's muscular, bare back and tight, leather-clad ass. Even sick as a dog, he was gorgeous. There couldn't have been much food inside him, but still he heaved and gagged.
"Guess I am going to have to sleep in the same bed as this bastard, chain our legs together, and hold his cock so he can piss," Gio snarled in annoyance.
"It's obvious he can't be left alone, not for the rest of the tour."
"Should I fire Charles's ass?"
"No, Byrne probably threatened him, but I do want to see him tomorrow. I should get his side of the story. See it done." Carly exhaled. "I know of a doctor here in New York, Cascade has used him before. He's very discreet. I'll give him a call. Byrne should be checked over."
"Blarrrgggghhhh—" Bryne gagged.
"Gio, you should've told me you were leaving Byrne. I had no idea you were gone. Don't leave him again. If we have to take shifts staying with him, we will. I want no one else handling him but you and me. Got it?"
Gio nodded. "Yeah, I got it. As soon as he's done puking, do you want me to kick his ass?"
* * * *
Brogan was practically kissing the porcelain. Never had he been so sick, and the horrid smell lingering in the air wasn't helping his nausea. His head swirled, and his eyes couldn't focus. He could hear them talking, and he could make out a few words. They weren't happy, and he couldn't blame them. What was he trying to pull? Was he trying to kill himself?
No feckin' way.
Brogan heard the last part of their conversation, and he retched some more. Trickles of vomit oozed through his fingers.
Carly glanced at Gio and laughed softly. "No ass kicking tonight, but I don't rule it out for later if needed. Let's get him cleaned up and back into the bedroom."
It was the height of embarrassment. He was being washed by another man. He appreciated that Gio didn't look at him with disgust. The man went about his duties, and then helped him back into his suite.
"Can you stand?" Gio said.
"Aye, I think so."
Gio gently released him from the grip of his huge paws and stepped back.
Brogan's knees suddenly gave out, and he was flat on his back staring at the stucco ceiling.
Carly and Gio once more rushed to his side. "Did you hurt yourself? Are you okay? Are you going to be sick again?"