"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."

Those words and her tone of voice. He didn't expect this. Figured she would always be there. Abbie had said she loved him, and recently. Was it all a lie? Christ, what happened in Philly? His clear-eyed gaze observed her defensive pose. Her hands were clasped behind her back. Hope to hell she wasn't holding a gun.

"Abbie, whatever happened, I'm sorry. I don't even remember you being there at the Spectrum. I heard I acted like a pig. I don't know why…" He knew bloody well why. He was high, drunk, and beyond all reason.

"This isn't about your disgusting behavior. Although it was a slap to the face to walk in on some woman on her knees giving you head. I know there have been other women. Don't try to deny it. I have proof."

Brogan crossed his arms defensively. His insides clenched. Bleedin' hell, she walked in on someone sucking on his pipe? Reese as well? What did she mean by 'proof'?

"So you had me followed? Had pictures taken?" he sneered softly, trying to hide the hurt. He delivered his words in a frosty, indifferent voice.

"Oh, just admit it. You probably can't even remember how many you've had! How soon did you cheat on me? As soon as you went on your first tour in the fall of seventy-two? I wouldn't be surprised!" she yelled, her anger breaking free at last.

"I can't help it. Women want me and throw themselves at me. I'm only human. Why should I refuse them what they want? If you don't want me, there are plenty who do. I just have to crook my finger."

"You're so vain. You probably think the world revolves around you! It's not you they want. It's the celebrity, the rock star, the glitter, and the glam. Not you!" Abbie cried out.

Her words hit their mark. What she said was the absolute truth. He didn't want to hear any truth. He was famous, a bona fide rock idol with gold records, and nominated for one of those new awards, the AMAs. Rumor had it he would be up for a Grammy as well. He was making money hand over fist. He uncrossed his arms and took a couple of steps toward her. She didn't move.

"Maybe I wouldn't have turned to other women if you had come with me on the road and supported me at all. I asked, bloody hell, I begged for you to join me. You refused. You turned your back on me. You never loved me or supported me!" He sounded spoiled and petulant, but Brogan was beyond caring at the moment.

"Oh, so it's my fault you are a cheating, drunken pig? I'll tell you the real reason I'm breaking it off with you. You gave me VD," she snarled, barely containing her anger. "A doctor confirmed the diagnosis. I have gonorrhea. I've only been with one man ever, and that was you, Brogan! You gave me this disease from your banging God knows how many scummy women. I will never forgive you for this. Never."

He couldn't believe it. Venereal disease? Nevan's words of warning came back to haunt him. He couldn't remember how many or if he'd used condoms or not. All the sex he had became a blur. They were only nameless faces and faceless names. When did he first cheat on her? He couldn't recall; however, he remembered the reason why he did it. He was lonely and racked with guilt. At some point his behavior took a turn into pure debauchery and spectacle rivaling ancient Rome. VD explained a couple things he'd chosen to ignore. He couldn't speak, and his mouth dropped open like a fish flailing on the dock, gasping for air through its gills. Abbie had rendered him speechless.

His lack of response must have tipped Abbie's rage over the edge because she reached out and slapped him hard on the face. "You son of a bitch."

His head snapped back from the impact. She'd nailed him but good. His cheek stung, and he rubbed it as he glared at Abbie. He could see by the look on her face she was angry and wanted to make him bleed.

In a calmer voice she said, "Get tested, Brogan, get treatment, and stop screwing those groupie whores." She turned to leave.

Finally he found his voice. "Wait, Abbie. God, I am sorry, can't we talk—?"

"No. I never want to see you again, Brogan. I no longer love you. You killed it. Have a nice life," she spat as she slammed the door so hard the hinges rattled.

He sank to the lushly carpeted floor. He felt as if he had been eviscerated with a blunt knife. He bent one knee and rested his arm on it. Did he not deserve her contempt and her disgust? In his way he did love her a little. So why did he treat what they had so carelessly and so callously? She would never forgive him. He heard the blame in her voice and saw the accusation on her face. Abbie was right. He did this. He knew deep down he had the potential for love and a true and giving relationship, but it would not be with Abbie. Brogan's instinct had told him so two years ago, but he wanted to be wrong. She never understood his passion for music and his way of life. Abbie didn't even try to share his life or support him.

Brogan sat for the longest time in front of the fire. The flames snapping and crackling in the fireplace were the only sound in the hearth and the room. His blood pounded in his veins, and his head began to ache. The demon inside stirred.

Finally, he stood. Feck this.

Brogan opened the door and peered out into the hall. Volkswagen wasn't there for once. There was a slightly built black bloke standing as straight as a guard in front of Westminster. He glanced across the hall at Carly's room. He could hear the TV. She had it turned up very loud. The black guy—what was his name? He was a roadie on his crew. Brogan called to him and pulled a wad of bills out of his pocket.

"Take this and get me whatever you can. Pills, weed, and two bottles of Tyrconnell."

"Tyrconnell? What is it and where am I going to find it?"