Karyn Gerrard - Heart of Rock

"Listen to me, Byrne. I've been around enough rockers these last three years to see the signs. Your own band can't stand you. They went to Nigel. They will be around you only for prerequisite rehearsals and the show itself. The rest of the time? They don't want to know you. They demanded separate travel and different hotels, though I can't see that happening. You're arrogant even to your own family and to your girlfriend." Carly hesitated. "You don't remember a thing, do you?"

Brogan interjected a third time, "Love, did the Volkswagen with a head eat all the chocolate donuts?"

Carly rolled her eyes and ignored his feeble interjection.

"Even Nevan washed his hands of you. I asked him to come on tour and offered him a wage. He turned me down. Reese? He wants to rip your throat out. You disgustingly suggested they join your orgy in no uncertain terms. I won't have this kind of behavior on my watch, Brogan Byrne. I take my job seriously. I'll keep you sober for these concerts if I have to stay with you twenty-four hours a day. You will finish this tour, and you will behave. I'll see to it, and so will Gio."

Brogan didn't speak. He could no longer form words. Suddenly he was back at school on Eccles Street, and the principal was berating him for his mischievous ways. He really didn't remember Abbie and Reese being there. Was he blocking the incident out? Orgy? Oh, shite, what did he do and say? It must be bad if Reese wanted to rip his throat out. Reese was the more peace-loving of the brothers, even of the younger ones. His band had turned against him too? Well, even Derek? He and his drummer were tight. Derek had been there from the beginning.

Brogan didn't know why he acted this way and didn't know how to stop. This monster lived inside him, and it had resided there for a long time. The demon was a voracious beast. Even now it clamored and groaned. The beast wanted to be fed. The only thing quieting the fiend was drugs and sex. He needed some type of hit. He glanced over at Gio. If Tiny wasn't here, he could put the moves on this Carly. Jaysus, where did that come from?

Carly decided to say no more. What would be the point? Besides, he would call her 'love' and make another pointless comment about donuts. She had given him enough to chew on for now. Of all the acts she had handled these last few years, none of them had the aura and the sheer magnetism of Byrne. His star power was off the charts. She instinctively knew he would be one of those enduring rock stars whose career would move to rock legend status. If he played his cards right, he could be around for damned years. Byrne could make a fortune, which in turn would make her and Cascade Records a fortune. He was self-destructing, however, and heading down a very dark path.

Byrne's aura consisted of part natural charisma, part sexual allure, and the magnetism vibrated off him. She would have to make herself immune. Carly's gaze took a quick perusal of his handsome face. His sensual full lips were deeply carved in a frown. He wore skin-tight black leather pants tucked into black motorcycle boots. His oversized sweater had black and white stripes, which matched his weird-ass hair. He wore a heavy gold chain with a huge Celtic cross. The v-neck sweater showed a teasing amount of rock-hard pectorals dusted with a sexy sprinkling of dark brown chest hair. So, his hair was the same color as his brother's. She raised her gaze to his bloodshot eyes. The amazing color mixture of emerald green and whiskey brown was mesmerizing. This man is a mess. All she had to do was get through the next five concert dates. It would take all of her intestinal fortitude. She would keep her distance and keep her guard up.

Brogan Byrne was all kinds of trouble.

Twenty minutes until his show at Madison Square Garden. Brogan's opening act, David Essex, was rocking the house down. Muffled screams from concert goers and reverb from the bass shook the walls of his dressing room. Brogan couldn't stop his hands from shaking. He laid them flat next to the sink to steady them. He needed a drink or a snort, something. He asked to be left alone. Brogan tried to psych himself up like a prizefighter does before a boxing match. He took great gulps of air and exhaled slowly. He hadn't done a concert completely straight in at least a year. That fact alone was further sobering. He needed, he wanted. It was the story of his life this last year, seeing to his needs. The more he had, the more he wanted. Could he stay sober and clear of head? Drug-and booze-free? Swear off the meaningless sex? Brogan wished to hell he knew. For a brief moment he decided to be honest with himself: He was a muck-shite mess.

The door to his dressing room banged open with a good deal of force. Derek Foster, his drummer and he thought his friend, barreled into the room.

"What do you want, Derek? I want to be alone. We already discussed your drum solo."

Derek crossed his arms. "That's not why I'm here. Montgomery said I could come in. I won't stay long."

Brogan pushed away from the sink. "Juice? Crackers? Meats? That's all the she-witch will let me eat." He inclined his head to the counter. "I didn't touch the food, so help yourself."

"I can't eat before a show. It makes me nauseated. I am speaking for the band now."

Oh, Jaysus. Brogan rubbed his neck in irritation. "Go ahead."

"We can't go on like this. We are frightened fuckless you will spazz out on stage in some drug-induced haze, pull your cock out of your pants like Jim Morrison did in front of the audience. You're going to blow. Everyone knows it. I'm here to give you warning. When it happens, we walk. All of us."

Brogan continued to rub his neck. He took a few steps closer to Derek, who stood no more than five foot nine, so Brogan towered over him. Derek did not back down from his intense, laser-beam gaze. He may have been shorter, but he was tightly packed with muscle, especially his arms. His physique made him one hell of a drummer. A lock of blond hair fell over Derek's eyes. Everyone was against him, Brogan thought. Even his own guys were turning on him. Anger and disappointment boiled in his veins.

"Fine. But remember this: I made you. You are all nothing without me. I can replace you all in a heartbeat."

Derek sneered, turned, and walked toward the door. Brogan could hear Derek muttering, "Vain, arrogant fucker —"

Aye, maybe he was.

After the show, Brogan was whisked back to the Park Lane Hotel overlooking Central Park. There was no after party, nothing. He was a prisoner in his room. He angrily stirred the embers in the fireplace. His brief conversation with Derek before the show still rankled. He hadn't had his shower yet. He was shirtless and wearing his trademark leather trousers. The fake star tattoos on his arms were smudged with sweat. The thought of getting real ones didn't appeal. He placed the fireplace tool back in the caddy and leaned on the green marble mantel.

They did put on a hell of a show. Perhaps sober was better—or maybe not. Right now, he wanted to tear the gold paper off the walls. He needed some kind of fix or he would hurl himself out the feckin' window onto unsuspecting pedestrians. Brogan was lost in thought and didn't hear the door open to his suite.

"Your manager's man let me in. Are you locked up for some reason?"

He glanced up. Abbie.

"Aye, like a monkey at the zoo. For my own good, they say."

His voice sounded bitter to his own ears. He didn't like being constrained. He pushed away from the mantel and walked toward her. "How is it you're here? Were you at the show? Why didn't you tell me?"

"I didn't want to see your concert. I have seen enough of your 'shows'. The one you had in your dressing room in Philadelphia was enough for me." She kept her voice steady, but Brogan could tell she was keeping her anger tightly under wraps. "I flew in. I'm staying with my aunt in Brooklyn. I came because I have something to tell you, and it couldn't wait. I'm breaking up with you, Brogan. We're done."