I’d been snookered.

Rory’s idea of prep work didn’t only include Flynn and I recording—and re-recording—“Best Part of Me” until even I was sick of the song. It also included laying down several other tracks too.

I’d written “London Calling,” and “Heartbeat” as well as a few other ones while I was at the cabin, but I considered them largely unfinished. More scraps than songs. Rory had dug through my notebook and pulled out the pieces he thought had “good bones” and he’d helped me build on to them. Making them better. It helped to have someone to bounce off ideas with. Even if I could tell he was adapting those songs to be duets just as the one I’d done with Flynn had become.

He just didn’t have Flynn in mind as the other vocalist.

I didn’t know how to tell him Simon wouldn’t work with me any longer. I didn’t know how to tell anyone. Flynn knew the whole situation, of course, but he wouldn’t spill a word of it. Exactly why I’d told him. I needed someone I could trust, and my gut told me Flynn was a damn lockbox when it came to information.

Every time I got a call, I expected it to be someone back home informing me my contract had been cancelled. Or amended. Or whatever the hell would happen when Simon told them he was out. I couldn’t believe it hadn’t happened already.

But the days kept passing, and that call hadn’t come.

I also hadn’t heard from Sabrina. Apparently, when she’d told me to take some time to find my inner core or some such, she was serious. I was doing exactly that in my own way—writing songs, learning a bit about producing them with Rory and Flynn, and taking pictures of Matilda’s summer holiday for the benefit of Instagram—but I couldn’t say I’d yet found my Zen.

That lived with Zoe.

But I was changing. Even I could see it. Working with the guys was helping. They made me laugh when I didn’t want to. Dragged me out of my head kicking and screaming.

And also dragged into a shady pub that surprisingly reminded me of home three nights in a row.

The first two nights, I maintained my sobriety. It was rather impressive. On the third night, I cracked in a big way.

“I’ll just have a lime and tonic.”

Rory was already five deep and opened one eye wide. “Why bother? Drink a man’s drink.”

I knew this was a bad idea. I’d stood strong this long. But I was overdue to let loose and Rory and Flynn made drinking look so bloody fun. As if all you had to do was bend your elbow and climb up on a table and no more problems.

The table one was Rory, and only for a brief time last night, but still. Flynn would never. He sat in a booth in the corner, his arms stretched wide, his lips tilted in a shit-eating grin, and held court with the ladies. Rory told ridiculous stories about Ireland and his family and how he’d lost his virginity at fourteen to a female sheep farmer. Basically, the options were either to join in and drink or put in earplugs.

So, I drank.

I didn’t know what Rory considered a man’s drink, and I didn’t care. All I knew was I was staying away from vodka and I wasn’t going for anything too girly.

Until the pretty lady beside me leaned in and offered me a sip of her margarita—which probably was a euphemism, but I was already too toasted to realize it—and my new addiction was born.

“Jesus, these are good. I need more salt.” I looked at the bartender beseechingly and she re-salted my rim—which sounded far dirtier than it actually was—and also provided some salt on her wrist for me to lick off before I took another drink.

At the last minute, I shoved her wrist toward Rory, who was not a fan of margaritas but enjoyed shapely brunettes with sparkling eyes and easy laughter.

A half hour later, she was talking about meeting him after her shift.

I wasn’t jealous.

Not even a little bit.

It wasn’t about her. Oh, she was pretty enough, but she wasn’t my type. My type began with Z and ended with…

I lifted my hand and counted off the alphabet on my fingers. G. Right. Her last name ended with G.

Goddammit, I was bloody drunk.

“Do you know how long it’s been since I’ve been with a woman?” Rory asked when Sheena, the bartender, had gone off to serve other patrons.

I winced. His question had not been quiet. A few of the others turned away from watching the baseball game on TV to shoot looks of either sympathy or amusement in Rory’s direction.

His eyes were too crossed to notice.

“I’m not sure you’ll be able to be with one tonight either if you don’t slow down.” I pretended I couldn’t hear how slurred I sounded Halfheartedly, I pushed at Rory’s bent elbow. He was drinking White Russians like they didn’t make them in Ireland. Hell, maybe they didn’t. “You don’t want to make a fool of yourself.”

“Make a fool of meself? Why would I do that? Because I’m not some Lothario like the great Ian Kagan?”

I went very still. It wasn’t as if I expected to be recognized. I did not. I was far from my adopted home of LA, and I’d tucked my long hair under an Astros baseball cap I’d borrowed from Flynn. With my hair hidden, I looked like any other skinny chap in a pair of weathered denims and a threadbare shirt. But all of a sudden, it felt as if a dozen pairs of eyes were on me.

Some friendly.

Some not.

“Mind keeping your voice down? I’m a stranger in a strange land.” Just in case, I slipped on Zoe’s sunglasses.

“Here I thought you’d like the extra boost with the females. Big deal rockstar, all you have to do is bat your big green eyes and boom.” He snapped his fingers. “A buffet of pu—”

I clamped my palm over his mouth. “Keep talking and you’ll go home with your hand tonight. Quiet.”

He bit me.

Laughing, I pulled my hand back and shook it out. “Do I need a shot?”

“Didn’t I just tell you it’d been years since I’d been with a woman?”

“Years? Christ, man. And I didn’t mean that kind of shot. Like tetanus. Or what’s that animal disease, rabies?”

“I do not have rabies or anything else. You’re an asshole. A pretty one, but an asshole nonetheless.” He leaned over and grabbed my head and kissed me dead on the mouth, hard enough to have my eyes rolling back.

Probably partly from too much alcohol. But still.

Before I recovered, he toddled off to the other end of the bar to get Sheena’s attention again. I looked up as Flynn took the seat Rory had vacated.

“You going to let him get to second base or was that a one and done?” With a smirk, Flynn signaled to another bartender and ordered a water with lime.

“Water? Jesus Christ, this is a party. Get a drink and get up on the table.” Did I just say that? Evidently. And now I was making good on my threat, grabbing my margarita and sloshing it toward my mouth. Then I climbed up on the nearest free table and danced to the Warning Sign song blasting from the speakers, just like Rory had done the night before.

Well, minus the Warning Sign song. I think he’d danced to Jet’s “Are You Gonna Be My Girl,” which was disturbing in a whole different way.

Flashbulbs popped in my eyes and in a heartbeat, I shot back to that first night onstage with Zoe. Her hat falling off and her indignant expression when I stole Matilda. How intrigued I’d been even then.

Her wild laughter on the beach, then again later as I’d slammed her apartment door and had her against it, driving into her as she cried out and broke apart around me.

That last night, when she’d held me and pushed me away, her eyes full of regret, her soft lips trembling against the tears she fought so valiantly.

I’d never been that strong.

It all crashed down around me, hammering into the base of my skull with a dull ache that made me waver on my feet. When I would’ve fallen right into the crowd of dancing, laughing girls who watched me, who wanted me—but who weren’t my Zoe—Flynn suddenly was there. He clamped a strong arm around me and lifted my ass down as if I weighed nothing. Held me up when I would’ve tripped into a puddle of beer and stayed there, just so I wouldn’t wake up to a world where I didn’t have my Zoe.

Would never have her again.

“Come on now. That’s it. One foot in front of the other.” Flynn shifted my arm over his shoulders and half-dragged me to the door before turning to shout something to Rory. The words jumbled in my head, tangling together.

I’d made my Zoe cry. What kind of man was I? And how dare I even wish I could have her back?

Rory appeared at my other side. As if I was infirm, they both shouldered me onto the sidewalk. I might’ve shoved them back if not for the Uber that smoothly glided up to the curb at that moment.

Unceremoniously, they dumped me in the backseat and Rory sat beside me while Flynn climbed in the front. I rested my flaming hot cheek against the cool window and prayed the lurch of the car wouldn’t make me lose my lunch. And dinner. And many, many snacks.

Through the miracle of modern transportation, we were soon at Flynn’s place. I didn’t understand, since Flynn lived nowhere near civilization. It had taken far longer to reach the pub in the first place. Maybe this car had wings. Had we floated up and cruised home via the sky?

“Uh huh, sure, you’re in a spaceship. Get the hell up. You stink. You need a shower.”

Even through my haze, I found that statement rude. I had showered recently.

Hadn’t I?

Hmm. Maybe yesterday. Day before?

Who could keep track while suffering from a broken heart?

“Christ, I’m horny.” I pressed my face into hard flesh and hoped my head wasn’t somewhere it shouldn’t be. “I miss Zoe.”

“Yeah, yeah, set that shit to music. C’mon now.”

“You’re horny? It’s been years for me and I passed up Sheena with double Ds to babysit you.”

“Dumbass, Sheena is spelled with two Es.” I lifted my head and grinned as Flynn dragged me toward the cabin’s front door.

Had we even paid? Maybe the ride was free. Three hot rockstars—no, wait, that wasn’t right.

“And you’re not even a rockstar,” I added to Rory, flashing him the middle finger.

“Neither are you anymore. Not since you ran away.” Rory stuck his tongue out at me behind Flynn’s back.

“Jesus, are you two fifteen? Shut up. Both of you. Or I’ll turn on the double heads in the shower and stick you in there together.”

“He did say I was pretty earlier. Which I am. I’m very pretty. Just not pretty enough to love.”

“Oh, Christ, here he goes again.” Flynn jammed his elbow into my ribs. “You’re drunk. Just be quiet.”

I was drunk. Even I knew that.

“Can I stay with you forever?” I asked Flynn. “You’ve seen I’m a tidy houseguest.”

Flynn shouldered open the front door and Rory pushed his way inside before I could. “No. You absolutely cannot stay with me forever.”

“We can be old bachelors together. Rory can stay too. God knows he’s not getting any.”

“Shut up. You’re not getting any either. Boohoo, Zoe, boohoo.”

I had to laugh when he knuckled his eyes to pantomime crying. “You’re a right bastard.”

“Took you long enough to notice.”

“Both of you, find the damn bathrooms and clean up. I’m going to make some popcorn and find a movie.” Flynn gave me a shove and I bobbled precariously on my feet. “Assuming you’re both upright enough to watch one.”

“I’m basically sober. Ian’s woe-is-me cockblock killed my buzz.”

I flipped him the bird. “I’m sober too.” I turned my head and blinked. “Hey, when did these walls take on that pink sheen?”

Flynn just pointed down the hall and I stumbled off in the direction of the stairs with Rory on my heels.

We split off to head into the bathrooms, both of us laughing like loons over nothing. But when I closed the bathroom door, my laughter stopped.

I pulled out my mobile and flicked through the numbers I’d stored. It would be so easy to call her. To say I missed her. That would be enough. All I wanted was to hear her voice.

Slowly, I set down the phone.

No. I wouldn’t do that to her. To me. She’d made her decision, and it was for the best for her.

I was still learning to be the kind of man worthy of being at her side. But I was getting closer, slip tonight aside.

Forget slip. Skid? Crash? Whatever.

After I pulled off my cap, I fisted a handful of my clammy shirt behind my head. I tugged it off and stripped off the rest of my clothes. Then I turned on the water as cold as I could stand and stepped under the spray.

Damn, that felt good.

So did reaching down to palm my cock. I didn’t think about it consciously. Zoe was in my head, and I needed to find some relief. I couldn’t call her. Couldn’t make it worse for her.

Just like I might be doing by posting those Matilda pictures. Which I needed to stop.

Fuck, figuring out how to be a decent human was hard.

I braced my arm against the tile wall and pressed my forehead to the bunched muscles of my forearm. My dick was too hard. It’d been too long since I’d touched myself. Even that was a memory of Zoe. Experiencing pleasure—no matter how paltry—without her felt wrong. But I had to find a way to get her out of my head.

Tightening my hold, I worked my shaft, bathing it in the mountain man shower gel Flynn used. Bubbles foamed and I kept my hand moving, my grip relentless. This wouldn’t take long. I didn’t want it to. It was simply about the destination.

Pictures still formed behind my eyes. I didn’t want them, but they appeared anyway. Zoe on the couch that first night as I pried open her legs and tasted her pussy. Her soft cries before her hands turned greedy and she laced her fingers through my hair to bring me where she needed. How responsive she was that first time. Every time. Her arms winding around me, her legs curling tight, her pussy so hot and snug. Yet her kisses were always so sweet. Laughter had danced in her eyes and I’d ached to be gentle. To give her more than the wild, bruising fuck she seemed satisfied with.

She deserved the world.

With a couple of rough jerks on my length, the pressure inside me exploded. Warmth filled my hand before the cold stream of water washed my fingers clean. Even as I caught my breath, the pleasure was already draining away.

I dropped my head back and soaped up and rinsed off as fast as possible. I didn’t want to mess with my hair, so I gave it a quick shampoo and wondered when I’d gotten soft enough to miss my conditioner, tucked away in my travel case.

Fuck, was I really worried about my hair? When my whole goddamn world had gone to shit?

That wasn’t going to be a factor any longer.

I climbed out and dried off. Yanking open the medicine cabinet, I rooted around until I found a small first aid kit. The scissors weren’t made for this, that was for damn sure. But it was just hair. I was more than some pretty boy. I was a singer. A musician. My talent was more important than my looks.

Or it would be.

Taking a deep breath, I started to cut. And cut. I kept going as hair fell into the sink and landed on my bare feet. It got easier the more I chopped off. I wasn’t sure I was cutting evenly, and the shit was curling even more as it got shorter, but I already felt lighter.

Freer.

After I finally rinsed off the scissors and put them away, I took a good look.

Yeah, I had not cut it evenly. I would not be becoming a hairdresser anytime soon.

But I still had some length left. It wasn’t as if I’d gone short. It still skimmed my shoulders.

Almost.

My mum had been all about me never cutting my hair, and I’d gotten too used to it. Time to change things up.

I pushed a hand through the curls and they settled into a semblance of a style. Sort of. Whatever. Worked for me.

Now I needed a broom.

Naked, I walked out of the bathroom and padded down the hall to the kitchen. Flynn and Rory were watching something in the living room, and Rory called out as he heard me on the stairs. He was lucky he hadn’t looked my way, or he would’ve gotten an eyeful.

I cleaned up my mess and got dressed in a pair of loose pajama pants and an old T-shirt. The guys were on the sofa in front of the telly—Flynn had a retractable screen, though he hadn’t seen fit to tell me such when I’d inquired that first day—and I joined them without a word. Rory passed me the bowl of popcorn, and I dug in eagerly.

“Uh, what the hell happened to you?”

I didn’t look up from shoveling popcorn into my mouth. “What’re we watching?”

“Figured we’d broaden your education.” At the other end of the sofa, Flynn nodded to the telly.

I blinked at the splash screen with a guy in a hockey mask and a bloody machete. The popcorn I’d been swallowing got stuck in my throat. “Not sure this is my kind of flick.”

“Aww, is wee Ian scared? You can always hide behind your hair. Oh, yeah, it’s gone.” Rory poked me in the side of the head. “What’d you use? Pinking shears?”

“First aid scissors.”

“Christ. Now I’ll have curly brown hairs all over my bathroom?” Flynn shook his head and leaned across Rory to take back the popcorn. “You deserve this movie.”

“I cleaned up. Listen, let’s watch something else.”

“What, didn’t they have horror movies over in England?”

I didn’t tell them I felt as if I’d lived in a horror movie the last few years, culminating in Margo’s kidnapping. I had no desire to cackle gleefully at other people’s manufactured misfortune.

So, I went to make my own bowl of popcorn. If I had to watch this garbage, at least I’d fill myself on butter and salt.

When I returned, they were waiting. They hadn’t even started the movie.

Fuckers.

“Go.”

Flynn pressed play.

The music sounded like something from the seventies. I didn’t want to watch. I let my mind wander, running through lyrics and chords in my mind, replaying the bridge of “Heartbeat” and refining the words, until sometime later I tuned back in just in time to witness some hapless teenager’s murder. I slouched down in my seat and reached for more popcorn.

All gone.

Rory and Flynn were laughing about something, but I was too tired to keep track. My eyelids were heavy, and my head ached.

I wasn’t going to drink again. Ever.

I’d just close my eyes, rest them a little. No one would notice if I took a quick nap.

If I was lucky, I’d dream of Zoe and not homicidal maniacs. With my track record, there were no guarantees.