I considered turning my phone off when I got home. I’d barely missed getting arrested after knocking out the son of a senator, and I knew my mother smoothing things over was the only reason I wasn’t cooling off in a jail cell. I also knew I was going to hear it at some point today.

That was the reason why I’d kept it on. If I turned it off or sent her to voicemail, she wouldn’t think twice about showing up at my apartment, and for the first time in months, I was actually there. After what I’d done to the hotel room, I knew better than to try to go back there, so I’d gone home.

But I’d slept on the couch. I’d told myself it was because I didn’t want to chance throwing up on the bed, but that was only a half-truth. Even the guest room beds brought back memories of that night. For all I knew, she’d fucked guys on every bed in the apartment. Probably on the couch too, but it was easier to push that thought away because I hadn’t caught her there. Not entirely logical, but it worked.

None of these things woke me up though. It was the jarring, shrill ringtone I’d assigned to my manager that pulled me out of a restless sleep.

“What?”

Shit, my voice sounded like I’d gargled with broken glass. I needed to be careful, or I wasn’t going to have a career left to fuck up.

“What the hell, Reb?”

I put the phone on speaker and set it on the end table. If I was going to be treated to a lecture, at least I wouldn’t have him yelling in my ear.

“First you flake out on an important meeting, and then I get a call from a hotel saying you and two women trashed their penthouse suite. They’re claiming hundreds of thousands of dollars in damage.”

“That’s a bit much,” I interrupted as I forced myself into a sitting position. “I cleaned out the mini-bar, but that wasn’t exactly the finest quality alcohol.”

He actually growled. “You broke the television, two lamps, two crystal vases, two crystal bowls, four wine glasses…”

He continued, reading from a list I assumed, and I put my head in my hands. It was sad, but I was almost used to waking up feeling like shit. I kept my eyes closed as I rubbed my temples, hoping to take enough of the edge off that I could walk without vomiting.

“The cleaning service also found three grams of coke in the bedroom.”

I jerked my head up and immediately regretted it. “Wait, what?”

“Oh, that got your attention? Destruction of property, drunken disorderly, all that and you don’t say a word, but some coke, and all of a sudden, you’re the morality police?”

“Those aren’t my drugs.” I ignored his sarcasm. “You know I don’t do that shit, Chester.”

“I know you didn’t use to do that shit,” he countered. “You also never punched a senator’s son during a charity event before last night either.”

I scowled at the phone. “That’s different. I don’t do drugs. Hell, I barely drink.”

As soon as the last sentence was out of my mouth, I knew he’d never believe that the drugs weren’t mine. Because he was right. Up until recently, I’d never gotten so drunk that I couldn’t control my impulses. Everything that had been true about my behavior before could be called into question now, and that included the drugs.

“I’ll take a drug test,” I offered. “Whatever you want me to do to prove that I’m clean.”

“Nobody gives a shit if you can pass a drug test,” Chester snapped. “There’s ways around those things, and everyone knows it. It’s what people think that’s the problem now. Especially after the shit you pulled last night.”

“He disrespected my parents.” I was grateful to hear the words come out steady.

“You’re nearly thirty years old, Reb,” he said dryly. “And we both know that, no matter how good you are, music is no guaranteed future. We talked about this when you first signed with me. You get an image, and that gets you endorsement deals. That’s what can set you up for life, even after everything else goes down the crapper.”

I considered telling him that my inheritance was large enough that I could live a decent life off of interest alone, but I kept my mouth shut. I’d been with Chester for nearly a decade, and loyalty kept me with him, but I’d never trusted him enough to share certain things about myself, one of which was exactly how much money I had.

“What do my endorsement deals have to do with this?” I asked, suspecting I’d regret the question momentarily.

“You had a reputation as being clean, the sort of rock star who could be sold to families as someone safe for kids to admire.”

I didn’t miss the word had.

“One fucking screw-up and I’m suddenly on the same level as Ozzy Osbourne or Marilyn Manson?” I had nothing against those guys, but they weren’t me.

“Ozzy’s gone mainstream,” Chester barked, his voice growing louder by the second. “And you’ve just proven to everyone that you’re not as squeaky clean as you’d claimed.”

I gritted my teeth to keep from reminding him that I hadn’t billed myself as squeaky clean. I hadn’t wanted to market myself as anything other than me from moment one, but Chester had sold me to the studio as someone who looked like a bad boy but behaved like the guy next door. I hadn’t liked it, but they hadn’t asked me to actually change who I was, so I’d just let it slide. It’d meant keeping certain preferences of mine a secret, but I’d always been a private guy when it came to that stuff. The people who mattered to me accepted me for who I was.

Or at least I’d thought they had until Mitzi had proven me wrong.

I pushed the thought of her out of my head as best I could.

“Can’t you sell it as one day of bad choices? Come up with some sort of personal problem that got the better of me for twenty-four hours?” I hated myself for even asking it, but I had to ask.

“It hasn’t been just twenty-four hours,” he reminded me. “This was definitely the biggest mess you’ve made over the last couple months, but people have noticed a difference in you, and not a good one. Fans are either saying that you think you’re too good for them, or that you’re spiraling into depression, neither of which is great for your image. Anyone who’s around you for more than a day notices that you’re drinking all the time. You might not look or sound like you’re drunk that much, but we can see the empty bottles and cans. You don’t even try to hide it.”

“I’ve had a shitty summer,” I snarled, well aware that I sounded like the spoiled rich kid I promised myself I’d never become.

“Your girl cheated on you. Big fucking deal. If you’d listened to me in the first place, it wouldn’t have been a problem. You can’t get cheated on if you’re not in a relationship.”

“Well, I’m listening to you now,” I countered. “Fucking random women without bothering to get their names, making sure they know where they stand.”

“Yeah, well, a threesome with the niece of one of the studio heads and her friend wasn’t exactly what I had in mind.”

“Fuck,” I muttered. I rubbed my hand over my jaw, trying to remember if either woman had told me that they were related to a bigwig where my contract was held. “I didn’t know.”

“You might have figured it out if you’d gotten your head out of your ass long enough to get sober enough to pay attention.”

I stood and stretched. “Look, Chester, I’m expecting a call from my mom so she can lecture me on my bad behavior, so if that’s all you’re going to do, I’d like to get some coffee and a shower before I talk to her.”

“That’s not the main reason I called,” he grouched, then sighed, loud and long. “I talked to the label this morning, and they’ve decided that you need to do damage control. I’ve already hired a PR firm, and they’ll have someone over to see you first thing tomorrow.”

“You hired someone without talking to me?” I was too tired to put much heat behind my words.

“I did. And you can fire her if you want, but if you do, there’s a good chance the label’s going to drop you.”

I cursed under my breath but didn’t argue. There was no point. Technically, I had a choice, but Chester and I both knew that I was stuck. I had to do what was expected of me or lose it all.