Heart of Rock (3 page)

"After we ascertain the damage, make sure the limo is brought around to the side entrance."

"You got it, boss," he replied.

Carly pushed open the door, stepped into the dressing room, and walked up to a rather gorgeous man. Who was this? He gave her the once-over as well.

"You work for Nigel?"

"No, I'm the drunken shite's brother. I just arrived."

Oooo, lovely Irish accent.
Her eyes scanned down over the muscular chest on display through a half-buttoned multi-colored shirt. If Brogan Byrne was as good looking in person as his brother, maybe her job wouldn't be as arduous as she imagined.

"Carly Montgomery. I'll be managing your brother going forward."

"Fair play. I'm Nevan Byrne. He is going to need some managing and some babysitting. Good luck with him."

Nevan started for the door. Carly halted him with her hand on his arm. "You're not leaving, are you? I could use your help, you being family and all. I have to get him on a plane for New York."

"I'm not my brother's keeper, not anymore. I'm not sticking around to wipe his nose or his arse. That's your job, one you're being paid to do."

The man spoke with no emotion.
Jeez, cold bastard
. She could imagine his family had had enough of Byrne, though. She couldn't really blame him.

Carly sniffed the air and wrinkled her nose in disgust. "I can smell your brother from here."

She glanced over to the darkened corner of the large dressing room. A rather well-shaped and muscular bare ass was clearly visible along with a long, lean, gorgeous body face-down on the bed. Even his calves were perfectly shaped. Loud, ragged snores wafted across the room. Carly let her admiring gaze linger.

She turned to Gio briefly. "Get him in the shower, stuff him into some clean clothes, and toss him into the limo. We leave right away. I'll deal with the stadium guys. They'll have to bill us for this mess."

Carly glanced around the room: broken lamp, empty liquor bottles, half-eaten pizza and—yuck—a used condom.

Carly turned back to Nevan and flashed her most charming smile. "Sure you don't want to come to New York? Cascade will pay all your expenses. In fact, I can put you on the payroll for this leg of the tour if you'd like. Name your price."

Gio went to the bed and slung a still-unconscious and naked Byrne over his shoulder like a sack of dirty laundry. He headed toward the bathroom.

Carly smiled again. "Gio is my muscle and my assistant. I think he will do nicely for handling your brother. Is there anything you can tell me about him, anything I should know, besides the obvious?"

Carly watched in amusement as Brogan Byrne was taken away. She soon heard the water running and a shout from the rock star. No doubt cold water. Good.

"What else is there to tell you? Lately he's been a stranger to me, as he is to our younger brother, Reese, and his own girlfriend, Abbie. They were here last night. Brogan all but forced them to join an orgy he had going on. He needs medical care. I was going to take him to the doctor—you can do it. He needs to dry out. He needs a swift kick in the arse. And I'm sorry, it won't be me. I'm not interested. Not anymore."

Carly observed the pain that flickered briefly in Nevan's eyes. Oh, he cared. He'd had enough of his brother's antics and needed out. Well, she couldn't force him. She reached in her pocket and handed him her business card.

"If you should change your mind, call me. I'll do what I can, but if his own family can't get him to straighten up and fly right, I can't see me having much success. My job is to see he is sober and able to perform on the night of the concert. What he does in between shows—" Nevan Byrne flashed a brief, pained expression again. "Okay, I'll try. If I have to hire someone to stay with him day and night, I will. But the record company and the concert promoter will put up with only so much."

Nevan nodded, "Tell Brogan." He slipped the card in his shirt pocket. "I'll try to make the Newark concert, but I can't promise."

Carly said, "Fair enough."

* * * *

"Where the feck am I again?"

Looking at him, Carly shook her head. "Are you going to become one of those pathetic, burnt out, brain-fried bastards who need index cards wherever you go so you know what city you're in?"

He interrupted her and in an uninterested tone explained, "Love, I always needed index cards to tell me what city I was in."

She sighed in exasperation but continued, "We're still in Philly in a private VIP lounge at the airport waiting on a flight to JFK. In New York. You have a concert in two nights, remember?"

"Far out," Brogan mumbled in annoyance.

"Guess I'll have to introduce myself again. Carly Montgomery. I'm your new manager. Byron quit last night. I suppose you don't remember that, either."

"No. I really don't remember. The show went well, I suppose."

"Yes, the concert went fine. What happened after the show caused the concern. You all but trashed the dressing room at the Spectrum. Your mess is going to cost a pretty penny. Nigel is not impressed."

"Carly? How original. Copy Carly Simon, did you?"

He watched as her jaw set in annoyance. "I don't copy anybody. My name is Cara, but my family has called me Carly since I could crawl—and why am I explaining this to you?"

Brogan blinked and had a good look at this infuriating-as-shite woman. She was no more than five foot three inches tall. Her hair was long and wavy, dyed some two-tone shade of black with bright red streaks throughout. She wore a skintight black leather skirt and sexy four-inch black pumps. A tight gold tiger-patterned sweater hugged her feminine curves. Under the six layers of makeup he supposed she was attractive enough, no raving beauty but adequate. Her voice, however, sounded like nails on a chalkboard.

"I don't have to stay here. You can't keep me. I'll find my own feckin' way to New York—"

Carly whistled shrilly through her teeth. The door to the private lounge swung open. A man as big as a Volkswagen with a human head on it stood before Brogan with his legs apart and tree trunk-sized arms crossed defiantly.

Carly's laugh sounded smug and amused, which pissed him off further. "This is Giovanni. Gio gave you the cold shower, remember?"

He interjected again, this time more sarcastically, "Love, it's not the first cold shower I ever had."

"Regardless, he'll be your shadow going forward. Gio will keep you in line. Make sure you're a good boy and behave at the venues in future."

"I need a drink." Brogan snarled.

Carly inclined her head toward the counter. "There is fresh coffee in the pot, and some donuts in the box. That's all you're getting for now."

Jaysus Christ.
He clasped his hands together to keep them from shaking. He did need a drink—badly. Times like this, he wished he smoked. He could use a fag right now. He was sober for the first time in days. Well, he would try to stay somewhat lucid for the show itself. But after the concert was over, he would put aside the few restraints. Stalking the stage and whipping the crowd into a wild froth wasn't enough for him. He always needed more. His irritated gaze roamed over the huge man in front of him. Great. His own gorilla.

Carly stood and moved to the sofa next to him. "Byrne, do you remember your younger brother and your girlfriend visited after the show?"

Brogan blinked twice.
They did?
He searched his brain. A brief flash of Abbie—against the door—
—

"Not really."

"Your other brother, Nevan, was there when I arrived this morning. This brother Reese is very pissed off. You were, in a word, a pig."

She seemed to be watching him closely, as if waiting for some reaction. Brogan kept his emotions tightly reined. His already nauseated stomach did a few more tumbles at the thought of his behavior the previous night. He couldn't remember much. If Reese and Nevan were bleedin' pissed, it must be bad.

"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.

Chapter Three

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.