Chapter One
May
Austin, Texas
* * *
Wasn’t regret a bitch? In fact, Jesse McCall couldn’t remember another time in his life when it had come off its leash and bit him so viciously.
As he emerged from the modern, mostly glass hotel, flashbulbs burst in his face, blinding him. He jostled past reporters who shouted questions his way. Beside him, his shark of a publicist, Candia, ran interference, barking “no comment” in a nonstop loop, as she led him to the waiting limo at the end of the crowded walk.
As they approached the sleek black limo, Jesse glanced at the big blue sky. Late afternoon blistered, but he felt somewhere between exhausted and numb.
Twelve hours ago everything had gone horrifically wrong. Why the hell hadn’t he asked more questions? Hung around longer to ensure nothing got out of hand? Something that might have prevented this fucking tragedy…
Raking a hand through his hair, Jesse squinted as he dragged his gaze over the surrounding skyscrapers. He was in some downtown area. Austin. He remembered now.
Hell, half the time when he woke up, he didn’t know what day it was, what city he’d preformed in the night before, or the name of the naked woman he was lying next to. The life of a rock star was frenetic and nomadic. He had sold out one stadium tour after another since age sixteen. After twelve years, he didn’t know any other way to live.
He reached into his pocket and tossed on a pair of Armani shades, grateful that, on top of last night’s shit show, he wasn’t hung over. Sobriety had ensured that.
As they approached the limo, Candia strode beside him on her usual platforms, tight-lipped and tense. That wouldn’t last. The second they were alone, she’d ply him with questions he couldn’t answer.
When the driver opened the back door, Jesse climbed in behind his publicist as she settled into the leather seat and smoothed the professional twist of her dark hair. Their chauffeur enclosed them together, and Jesse counted down to Candia’s imminent explosion.
As he’d predicted, he didn’t have to wait long.
“What a fucking awful night.” She tossed her gray Prada briefcase onto the floorboard and shot him a frustrated stare. “Damn it, we’re on tour and the album just dropped last week. Your bad-boy image always worked because you’re young and hot. But this shit…” Her gaze narrowed. “Tell me you didn’t fall off the wagon.”
His head jerked up as fury threatened to ignite his temper. “Don’t you fucking dare suggest?—”
“Jesse, you know I have to ask…”
“No. I didn’t. Okay?” The words came hard and fast. “You know I’ve worked damn hard for my thirteen months of sobriety.”
She held his stare for a silent beat, then exhaled. “I know, but the rest of the world doesn’t. We just let everyone believe you’re still that guy because it sells records. And if we try to change the narrative about you now, no one will believe it.”
As much as Jesse wanted to, he couldn’t argue with her logic. “Look, I left well before any of that shit went down. And you heard the police; they cleared me.”
“They did.” Her tone softened only slightly. “But I’m not convinced the public is going to care. In their eyes, what happened was way over the line. I’ve already seen theories online that you bribed your way out of prosecution.”
“Jesus!” Jesse scrubbed a hand down his face with a frustrated sigh. “As if I could.”
“Why don’t you give me the whole story now?”
“You heard every word I told the pair of detectives over the last three hours. Do you really think I held back?” The interview had finally ended when the detectives had realized he knew nothing and hadn’t been in any way involved. The hotel’s security footage had corroborated his statement. After that, the paunch-bellied one with the scowl had asked him to sign an autograph for his teenage daughter. After a few strokes of his pen, Jesse had pushed his way out of the suite, doing his best to hold himself together.
Through the tinted window, he looked back at the reporters clustered around the sidewalk. He’d hoped Candia could keep a lid on this until he could figure out what had happened, how to process this loss, and what the fuck to say.
“Sorry about all this.” She tipped her chin toward the crowd. “Someone at the hotel tipped off TMZ. They’re all over this shit. You even made cable news.”
Fuck. “That will make a bad situation worse.”
But that also meant he had to respond now. He couldn’t wait until he got some sleep, a meal, and figured out what to say.
“I’ll make it go away,” she promised. “Just tell me what else you know.”
“You’ve heard it all. After last night’s show, Ryan caught me as I was leaving my suite. He said he’d met a girl and asked to borrow my room since he couldn’t find the key to his. He was in too much of a hurry to get under her miniskirt to fetch another one from the front desk.”
