I groaned as I came back to consciousness after several blissful hours of nothing. I did this because I wanted to forget, but nothing came without a cost, and I was feeling that right now.

My head felt like I had an iron spike going through one temple and out the other, a sharp, pulsing pain that I knew would only get worse when I opened my eyes. My mouth was dry and tasted like some wild animal had taken a shit in it. I could smell the alcohol leaking from my pores, and with it, I registered sweat and sex.

No surprises there.

I’d started drinking pretty much the moment I’d caught my ex cheating on me nearly three months ago, and I’d been hooking up with random women two or three times a week for almost that same period of time. I didn’t remember much about last night, but I knew it hadn’t been much different than the previous ones.

Finally, I forced my eyes open, wincing reflexively even though the curtains were all closed. The room was dark, but I didn’t need to see to know that I was in a hotel, probably the one I’d been practically living in since the cheating girlfriend incident. I’d kicked her out of my apartment, and I still paid my rent every month, but I hadn’t been able to stop seeing her fucking other men in my bed every time I walked into the bedroom. I’d replaced the bed, but that hadn’t helped.

Nothing helped except drowning myself in women and alcohol. And even that didn’t help for long.

I rolled toward the edge of the bed, prepared to stagger my way into the bathroom and take a shower, half to avoid having an awkward morning-after conversation, and half because I stunk. It was part of the new routine that had become my shitty life.

But I couldn’t climb out of bed the way I usually did because someone was in the way.

I frowned and turned the other way, but there was a body on that side too. A flash of memory from last night went through my mind.

A blonde and a redhead knelt on either side of me, both wearing black silk thongs and nothing else. The blonde was nibbling my ear, her breasts pressing against my arm, and her friend was leaning over my lap, her tongue moving over my cock like it was some sort of fucking lollipop.

Another immediately followed.

The red-head smiled up at me, her eyes half-lidded, pupils so dilated that I knew she was on something other than the tequila shots we’d done together. That was her business though. My business was fucking the blonde who was stretched on the bed between the redhead's legs, eating out the pussy I’d be fucking next.

I scratched my head, then resigned myself to crawling to the foot of the bed so I could get up without waking either of the women hidden under the covers. I’d apparently enjoyed their company last night, but I wasn’t interested in things carrying over to this morning.

When I reached the bathroom, I braced myself for the light, but it didn’t prevent me from grimacing at the reflection in the mirror. My eyes were bloodshot, but I could take care of that with a pair of sunglasses. Being a rock star came with the sort of perks that included being able to wear sunglasses anywhere, anytime, without being called a douche.

I took a piss while I let the shower heat up, then let out a stream of curses when I stepped under the spray. One of those women had scratched the hell out of my back.

By the time I was done, I felt cleaner, but not really any better. I tossed back a couple aspirin and swallowed them with a full glass of water. Hydration would help me feel at least a bit more human, and hair of the dog was always good for a hangover. One of the best parts about having access to an obscene amount of money was that I didn’t have to think twice about cleaning out the mini bar. I could afford it.

As soon as I stepped out of the bathroom, I was doubly glad for the fact that I had money. The women were gone, and as far as I could tell, they hadn’t stolen anything. Unfortunately, as the now-blazing lights revealed, it was most likely because they couldn’t find anything in the mess.

Shit.

I remembered drinking, and I remembered pieces of fucking both women, but I didn’t remember trashing the room. I didn’t doubt that I’d done it though. I’d apparently cleared out the mini-bar already because at least a dozen tiny bottles were all over the place. Two ceramic lamps and what looked like every vase and bowl in the place had been shattered into hundreds of pieces. It was a fucking miracle that we hadn’t cut our feet walking through here.

This was going to be pricey.

And then I saw that we’d somehow managed to destroy both the television and a chair. I didn’t bother keeping the curses inside my head this time.

My manager was going to have my ass if this ended up being as bad as it looked, and something nagging in the back of my mind told me it was actually worse.

I picked my way back into the bedroom to find clothes and my phone. Whatever was nagging at the back of my brain, it’d be on my phone. Once I figured that out, I’d call the front desk and see about getting someone up here to clean things up. I’d make a healthy donation above and beyond what I’d be charged for damage done.

And then I’d find myself something to take the edge off.

As soon as I found my phone, I saw half a dozen voicemails from Chester waiting. And a calendar reminder about an important recording appointment that I’d missed by more than ninety minutes.

“Fuck me,” I muttered. I was going to need more than just a small drink.

I put the phone on speaker and let the voicemails play through while I grabbed some clothes.

“Reb, you’re late. You better have a damn good excuse, or you’ll have a shitload of explaining to do.”

“Where the hell are you, kid? He ain’t going to wait around forever.”

“Fuck it, Reb! You better be dead because anything short of that won’t be excuse enough.”

They went on like that, each one a little louder and with considerably more expletives. If Chester was already this pissed off, he was going to be livid when he found out about the hotel room.

Then came the last voicemail, the one I hadn’t noticed but wished I would have seen first.

“Reb, this is your mother, in case you’re currently too drunk to recognize my voice. I don’t know what’s gotten into you as of late, but I expect you to be at the Union Square Ballroom this evening or we will be having a serious discussion about your priorities.”

A rush of guilt washed over me.

Everyone had told my mom not to let me go into music, and definitely not rock. I’d get into the whole sex and drugs lifestyle. I’d fuck my way through groupies and be lucky if my dick didn’t fall off from some raging STD or get someone pregnant. I’d be drunk and high most of the time and have at least one overdose by the time I was twenty-five. I’d blow through everything I earned and then start on my inheritance, ending up broke and possibly homeless before forty. And that was being generous.

She’d silently told them all to go to hell by encouraging me. After my dad had died, music had become my escape, and she’d seen that. She’d told me that I had to apply to college and work on a degree, but if I landed a contract, I could quit school. I’d gotten into Columbia and majored in music education for two years, and then Chester Lhaw had found me. Mom had been true to her word and hadn’t said a single word against it when I dropped out.

I’d worked my ass off, not just at proving I could make it in such a cutthroat business, but at making sure everyone saw that my mom had been right to put her faith in me. Despite my numerous tattoos and the bad boy image the studio crafted for me, I was as far from the stereotypical rock star as a person could get. No drugs. No all-night parties. No arrests. Discretion when it came to sexual partners.

Well, at least until recently.

I didn’t need to hear my mother say how disappointed she was in me because I could hear it in her voice, and that was worse than my hangover.

I looked at the time and then pulled up my calendar to double-check when I needed to be at the fundraiser. As much as I hated myself for it, I was going to need some liquid courage before I’d be able to face my mother.

* * *

I’d only planned on having one or two drinks before stepping into the ballroom. Just enough to take the edge off my headache and make fielding questions about my love life bearable. The kind of people who came to these charity events might have liked pretending that they were beyond such things as gossip, but they never had a problem asking me about the latest story as if I had the inside track to all of it.

Unfortunately, my break-up had made tabloid headlines for a couple weeks, and even though it happened in June, I knew there’d be people here who’d want to ask me about it. Plus, based on the looks I’d gotten from strangers already today, I had a bad feeling that word had gotten around about me trashing the hotel room last night.

With all of that in my head, I’d indulged in a bit more Four Roses than I should have, and now I found walking in a straight line to be a little problematic.

My mom’s mouth flattened as I approached her, and as soon as I leaned down to kiss her cheek, she grabbed my arm.

“You came here drunk?” Her voice was barely a whisper, but I could hear her displeasure.

I straightened. “I’m fine.”

She didn’t have a chance to say anything else because the president of some arts foundation was coming toward us, and we didn’t air our dirty laundry in public. I’d probably be in for it after the event, but for right now, I was safe. I gave people polite nods of acknowledgment as I made my way to the bar and ordered the most pretentious scotch they had.

I’d made it through my second glass when a pale, weedy-looking guy stepped up to the bar next to me. I was prepared to ignore him, but as soon as he downed his drink, he turned to me and started talking.

“You’re the rock star, aren’t you?” His voice was louder than it needed to be, which was infinitely more annoying than his question. “Mr. Hot Shot musician who lowers himself to come down and talk to the little people.”

I pulled myself up to my full height, which was taller than most, and much taller than this guy, and glared down at him. “I think you should walk away and let me drink in peace.”

His cheeks flushed, and a quick glance over his shoulder told me that he was trying to impress someone, but all that did was irritate me even more. I was not in the mood to deal with this.

“Why are you even here?” he asked, either the alcohol or the people watching us giving him the courage to say things he shouldn’t. “You clearly don’t fit in. Sure, you may have money, but it’s not the kind that comes with class. The Whitehall name used to demand respect, but everyone here knows your mother lost it when she went slumming with some jarhead–”

Anything else he would’ve said was lost when my fist connected with his jaw, and he dropped to the floor, blood trickling from the corner of his mouth to pool on the polished wood.

Shit. That wouldn’t go over well.