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“Busy making some chick breakfast,” West muttered, affixing an angelic smile on his face as Michael lifted a brow. “And when I say making her breakfast, I mean, making her his breakfast, because we all know that dude can’t cook for shit.”
“That’s not true,” Juliet piped in. “He made us eggs that one time after we were up rehearsing all night, and only two of us got food poisoning. Pretty decent record, all in all.”
“I’ve improved since then.” Michael ran his tongue over his teeth. He could still taste last night’s whisky, and that was after brushing his teeth twice. He motioned to a waiter. “Could I get an OJ, please? Large?” Damn, he was dying of thirst. “Actually, just bring out a carafe.”
Once the waiter had scurried off, Molly lifted a perfectly groomed blond brow. She looked as if she’d just stepped off a runway somewhere. “OJ? You do realize it’s past noon.”
Michael glanced at his watch. Well, look at that. Fighting with the brand new missus ate up plenty of time. “So? I drink OJ anytime I want. They have it on the menu, don’t they?”
“Actually, we’re not here for snacks and refreshments,” Lila said. “I have a plane to catch shortly. As do all of you, although you get a while longer to play the slots.”
“Oh, he loves certain slots.” West laughed as Ry elbowed him. “Sorry, that was for Mr. Just Rolled Out of Bed. My night wasn’t nearly as eventful, unfortunately.”
“Didn’t find anyone interesting?” Juliet asked.
“Oh, I did, but they tended to come in twos and threes, and you know, I’m an old-fashioned boy.” He pretended to duck his head and Ry shoved him.
Juliet looked intrigued. “So what’s wrong with that? The more the merrier.”
Lila sighed. “Children, save your sex talk for your therapist. We have other things to discuss, namely Ryan’s injury and how it affects the band.”
“He’s not that injured.” West tapped his fingers on the edge of his glass of water. No alcohol or even soda most of the time for him. He espoused clean living and all that. “He was hogging my keyboard last night, wasn’t he?”
“Just because I can do one-handed what it takes you two and your dick to accomplish…” Ry trailed off and shrugged.
“Playing drums is a bit different than some antics on the keyboard. He’s capable of that, or playing the blues harp, or the xylophone.”
“Or the bongos on “Steal Away,” Molly added. “We never perform that one, and it’s a perfect showcase for—”
“Your tits, since you always wear a bikini for that song?” Juliet snorted.
Molly poked her in the side. “Bitch.”
“Nah. Your tits are great. Might as well flaunt ‘em. Hell, Mike’s flashing us some dick today, right? Shake what your mama gave you is what I say.” She flashed a smile at the returning waiter, who nearly bobbled the carafe of juice. “And what do you have,” she read his tag, “Javier?”
“Ignore her,” Lila said, grabbing the carafe and using it to fill her empty water glass before handing it to Michael. “Thank you.”
“Er, no problem. Here’s your glass, sir. Does anyone else need anything?”
“Duct tape for our resident sex maniac?” Molly asked sweetly, giving Juliet a sidelong look.
The waiter took that response as a “no” and booked away from the table.
Ryan leaned behind West to shove Michael’s arm. “Damn, Mikey, someone’s trying to steal your crown. Better bump it up a notch, dude.”
Michael poured his orange juice and ignored him. Normally, he enjoyed messing around with his bandmates. They all knew he hated being called anything but Michael, so of course they insisted on calling him every variation in the book. Where he would typically laugh it off, today he wasn’t finding anything amusing.
Especially not being called a sex maniac. He didn’t dispute the assertion—it wasn’t like he denied enjoying the act, and why should he? But considering he couldn’t remember the last time he’d dipped his wick, the nickname stung more than a little.
Fucking alcohol. He was never drinking again. Ever. Hell, he wasn’t even eating those liquor chocolates at Christmas anymore.
Done. Finito. Cold turkey.
“Let’s focus on what’s important, shall we?” Lila asked, sounding patently bored in a way only she could.
She was only about six years older than the crew—something that had disgusted Malachi when he’d learned she was their new stepmother—but she had an air of sophistication and professionalism far beyond her years. She also tolerated zero bullshit.
“And what’s that?” Molly tapped her long pale pink nails against her cup of coffee. She drank the stuff like it flowed in her veins. “We had a kickass show last night, everything is going great—”
