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He hadn’t meant to ask it. He had no reason to. Surely Chloe would still be in his room when he returned, and then he’d get her information himself. But he had this fucking niggle at the back of his neck to go with his churning stomach and massive headache.
If Chloe ghosted on him, then what?
Ryan cleared his throat and reached for his own glass. Discovering it was empty, he snatched West’s and tossed back the last of his water.
“Hey dude. Get your own.”
Ryan just arched a brow at Michael, who silently passed him the carafe. It wasn’t alcohol, but it would have to do.
Ryan hadn’t believed him about the whole marriage thing. Michael had tried halfheartedly to convince him, but he’d stopped short of showing his best friend the marriage license. Somehow that seemed private. Personal.
Ridiculous.
Ryan had just laughed and gone off to get ready in his half of the suite while Chloe hogged the bathroom.
“Why do you need Chloe Adams phone number, Michael?”
“That’s not really any of your concern. I just need it.”
Lila lifted a brow. “I’m sorry, but I’m not the phone book. Next time, try information.” She glanced around the table. “I’ll see all of you on Wednesday before rehearsal for Friday’s show. I hope to have information on Malachi by then.”
“Good fucking luck,” Michael muttered, circling his temple.
“Excuse me?”
“You heard me. For years, you’ve had no interest in Mal’s whereabouts, now he’s just supposed to tapdance to your tune? Not going to happen. And you know what? I don’t blame him.”
Lila’s mouth pinched tight and she averted her gaze. Hurting her was the last thing he wanted to do, yet he kept doing it.
When all this insanity was over, he’d have one hell of a long list of things to apologize for. He just hoped she understood.
What, that you’re being an insensitive jerk because you’re dealing with problems of your own making? Good luck with that mansplaining, son.
What had transpired between them so far wasn’t even the worst of it. He had to tell her he was married, before the press found out. He didn’t even know how they figured out some of the crap they did, but the increased attention on him lately because of Tabitha and Senator Dickless—err, Dinkles—had put him in the spotlight. Who knows when they’d grab hold of the story?
Lila deserved to know first. And of course, some PR fielding would be much appreciated.
So yeah, he was a dick. Being rude to the woman who’d been nothing but wonderful to him for half his life—along with often being overbearing and too overprotective, but hey, that’s what parents did—was no bueno. Then he thought he had a right to ask her for help with spin?
Yes, he was an ass. A supreme, desperate ass.
“Can you guys leave us alone, please?” he asked his bandmates.
They’d all been in the process of rising and moving away from the table anyway, but Michael’s sharp retort had rooted them in place like witnesses to a horrific accident. No way were they voluntarily looking away anytime soon.
Everyone looked at Lila. She was the one who dismissed the meetings, not Michael.
Her thin smile made another reappearance. “Go ahead. Thanks, everyone. Great job last night. See you all next week.”
One by one, they all filed out of the booth. Ryan clapped his hand on Michael’s shoulder as he went, as did West. At least his boys were supporting him.
Whatever good that would do in his cyclone of shit, he didn’t know.
Once they’d all taken off, Lila stared him dead in the eye. “Let’s get something straight, shall we?”
He nodded miserably. Sure. Whatever. He obviously had no clue how to run his own life, so why not let her give him a colossal smackdown? Clearly, he deserved it.
“You’re my son. You may not believe that, or see things the same way, but in here, you’re mine.” She rubbed her chest and he averted his gaze.
