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“Hello?”
The voice was soft and sleepy and Mick had dreamed of hearing it almost every night since he left home. Sienna Ashley had haunted his dreams and, even though he knew she’d hate this lifestyle, he still couldn’t help but wish she was here to celebrate with him.
“Hello?” she said again, a little more awake.
But he couldn’t seem to say a word.
He’d walked away from her and the life he’d grown up in. Talking to her now would not only be selfish, but a little cruel.
Slowly, he hung up the phone and slid it back into his pocket.
It was better this way.
Sienna had a bright future ahead of her and if Mick played his cards right, some of his own dreams were about to come true.
Seven seconds was all it had taken to confirm that glitter, not pumpkin spice lattes, was the soul-destroying tool of Satan.
“What the hell happened here?” Mick Tyler called out in frustration. His condo was trashed.
Scratch that. His $5,000,000 penthouse condo was trashed.
Raking a hand through his hair, he waded through glitter, confetti, and general trash as he tried to figure out just what had gone on.
As an agent and manager to some of the biggest talent in the music business, he was no stranger to their partying ways. But the current pop princess who asked if she could crash here last night was the last person he expected to blatantly disrespect him like this.
“Oh, Mick, hey!” Libby Milan said as she sauntered out of one of the guest bedrooms. “How’s it going?” Her long blonde hair was a tangled mess, and she looked much older than her twenty-two years.
“How’s it going?” he repeated, motioning to the surrounding mess. “What the hell were you thinking?”
With a shrug, she picked up her weekender bag and hefted it over her shoulder before slipping on a pair of sunglasses. “Yeah, things got a little wild last night. Everybody wanted a little holiday party. Sorry.” Glancing around, she walked over and slid on a pair of shoes that were practically hidden under the coffee table. “Any chance you brought some coffee with you? My head is pounding.”
“Libby, you said you just needed a place to crash last night. You didn’t mention having a party,” he said, trying desperately to hold on to his patience. “Do you have any idea how much some of this furniture is worth?”
Waving him off, she headed for the door. “Don’t be so cringe, Mick. Sheesh. Unclench a bit. It’s the holiday season. Besides, I’m sure your cleaning staff will take care of it.”
“That’s not...”
“I’ve got a plane to catch,” she said before blowing him a kiss. “I’ll see you back in L.A.!” And then she was gone.
Muttering a curse, he looked around in shock. “I’m getting too old for this shit.”
As cliché as that phrase was, it was true. He’d been dealing with rock stars and pop divas for twenty years and lately it was becoming abundantly clear that he had little to no patience left for bad behavior.
This condo had been a haven for him. A retreat. It was like having a secret garden in the sky. He had been drawn to it the moment he’d heard about it five years ago. Space like this in New York City wasn’t particularly hard to find—especially in this price bracket—but his was unique. The penthouse was completely glass-enclosed, so he had 360-degree views of the city. It was a contemporary design that was bathed in natural light, and at over 4500 square feet with five bedrooms and six bathrooms, it meant he could have people over without sacrificing privacy and space.
Space that was now covered in the remnants of a party that he didn’t even get to enjoy.
Not that he would have enjoyed it. He didn’t get this younger generation, and the fact that Libby had thought to do this in his private home rather than a hotel just burned him even more.
With nothing left to do, Mick pulled out his phone and called the cleaning service he normally used. He offered a hefty bonus if they sent a team over right now to get everything back into pristine shape.
Although he figured he’d be finding glitter everywhere for the rest of his damn life.
He wanted to sit down, but there really wasn’t a spot that didn’t need to be cleaned. The only room that maybe had a chance was his bedroom—and that was only because he kept it locked and no one was allowed to use it.
“What are the odds that one of Libby’s entourage picked the lock?” he muttered as he walked down the long hallway. At the door, he tested the handle and heaved a sigh of relief that it was still locked. When he used his key and stepped inside, he finally felt like he could breathe. He opened all the sliding glass doors to let the fresh, brisk air in before lying down on the bed.
It didn’t matter that it was barely forty degrees out, he just needed to air the place out to get rid of the stench of stale beer.
