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“You tell me. Also something you’ve done before. Remember that Quincy girl? Diana, was it? Cost Ripper Records ten grand to bail you out of that mess, and that’s not even talking about PR.”

“I’m not fucking drunk, okay? I’m not with some random chick, and I’m not in a hotel room, trashed or otherwise.” He brought his fist down hard against the counter. Pain sang up his arm, but not enough to cause any real damage when he had to play the next night. Despite what everyone seemingly believed, he wasn’t some colossal screw-up. “Christ, can’t anyone just give me a little space?”

/> “Sure. I can give you all the space you need when I stop caring about you. Except you’re the closest thing to a son I have, so—”

“You have your own blood kids now, ones that actually belong to you. Stop using me as a substitute, all right? It’s not necessary anymore. I’m a goddamn grown man.”

The silence that came over the line made him fist his sore hand all over again, but not for the same reason. “Li, I’m sorry. You know I don’t mean that. I know you mean well.”

“I’m overstepping.” Lila’s voice sounded stiff. “I get it. Sometimes it’s easy for the roles to get blurry between stepmother and manager, and I’m as guilty as anyone of losing focus. But let’s get clear about one thing. As far as I’m concerned, you’re my son. You were my son the day Martin introduced you and Mal to me, and you’ll be my son when you’re seventy-five and in the nursing home. Biology doesn’t make a family. Love does. Call me back when you remember that.”

For the second time in as many minutes, a line went dead in his ear. Except this time, he deserved it.

He pressed his fingers into his eyes. The day had already been a shitstorm and he hadn’t even gotten on his pants yet.

A shower. He needed a freaking shower, and maybe to jerk off until he didn’t remember Tabitha or Senator Dickless or anyone else.

He stripped off his sheet and got into the stall, then turned the spray to cold. He needed a good slap in the face, so until he got coffee, this would do.

Tipping back his head, he let the icy needles of water drive away the voices in his mind. Tabitha. Ryan. Lila. Especially Lila. He hated hurting her, especially when what she’d said had struck too close to home on the heels of Ryan’s comments.

Because he had it under control. It wasn’t like he’d done anything he couldn’t take back.

Yet.

He ducked under the showerhead and let the spray beat on the back of his neck. It helped pulse away some of the pressure there, but grabbing his dick would take care of the rest.

Fumbling for the liquid soap, he squirted some into his hand. He did a cursory pass of the important parts, then lubed himself up in short, fast strokes. He was in no mood to take the time to build. This would have to be quick.

He squeezed his fingers, pumping, letting out a hiss as his flesh swelled in his grip. Harder and harder he worked himself, bracing his forehead on the arm he pressed against the damp wall of the shower. His balls drew up, tighter than his hold on his cock. Just another minute more—

Dimly, he heard his front door buzzer. Probably Jehovah’s Witnesses or girls selling cookies. Who the hell cared?

He was close. So damn close.

Another buzz, longer than the last. Someone was leaning on the damn thing.

They’ll go away.

Except they didn’t. The buzzes might as well have been someone slamming the hi-hats.

Clang, clang, you’re not gonna get to come so might as well stop prolonging the torture.

Cursing, he turned off the water and yanked open the shower door. He pulled a towel off the rack and swished it around his waist.

“Someone better be fucking dead,” he muttered, slicking a hand down his dripping face and over his sopping hair.

He padded barefoot to the door, not caring that he was leaving a path of wet footprints over the floor. Probably yet another sign that he was out of control.

Shit, he was a hotel trasher, a pussy partaker, and practically an alcoholic if his family and friends could be believed. What were a few damp spots?

Once he reached the panel beside the door, he pressed the button for the lobby. “Yes? Who is it?”

If the person had gone, he was probably going to throw something. It didn’t count as trashing a place if he owned it.

Hell, it probably did.

“Mike, it’s me. Let me up.”

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