“What’s up, Hayes? Don’t you know what time it is? Shouldn’t you be curled around your little girl sleeping like a baby?”
His deep chuckle fades into a groggy growl, “Yeah, that’s exactly what I should be doing, but that punk-ass motherfucker is being live-streamed brawling with his bandmates.”
An internal snarl rumbles my chest. I pinch the top of my nose to ease the tired ache. “I’ll cool things over.” I exhale on a frustrated breath.
“I owe you.” He sighs.
“You always owe me. One day, I’ll collect,” I grunt, grinning. He knows I’m lying. Ronan Hayes is my best friend and would do anything for me. I’ll do him this favor—and the next when it arises.
The punk-ass motherfucker in question is Xavi Jacobs. A guy propelled into stardom at a real young age. The kid is fucking troubled, which is leading him into trouble. He’s acting out. It’s a fucking cry for help if I ever saw one. But it’s tough to get through to entitled fuckers like him. Ronan’s patience is wearing real thin. If Berlin Scandal didn’t make a fuck load of money for his record label, he’d drop them like hot coal.
I’ve had to babysit this kid before.
His eyes are full of pain.
A dark cloud of sorrow and regret follow him around, drenching him in misery.
I’ve seen it so many times before. He’s burdened and needs a way to release the hurt. Self-sabotage is his weapon of choice. It boils my blood watching someone so talented with the world at his feet act out so recklessly.
My palm twitches. I want to teach him how to release that pain in a way beneficial for him—pleasurable. Fuck! I need to get this kid out my head. There’s something about him that calls to the depravity inside me—the Dom—the daddy—the sadist.
Pulling onto his street, I flash my badge at the security guy standing at the gate leading up to Xavi’s mansion. He waves me in with a defeated shrug.
Red and blue lights flash across the dark night sky, and I groan. Someone called the cops, making this more of a ball ache than I anticipated.
Raised voices bark and screech over the blaring music as I get out of the truck. A crowd has gathered on the front lawn, flashes from cell phones flickering like fireflies as they capture clickbait images.
They call themselves friends or fans, but they’re scavengers feeding on the carcasses of the band members they claim to worship. And their favorite is Xavi Jacobs.
I push through the throngs of people, moving toward bickering voices. Three people, facedown, being detained in handcuffs, come into view. Three quarters of the band.
“Where’s Xavi?” I call out to O’Neil, a uniform I know from the precinct.
O’Neil’s face contorts in confusion. “This is just a disturbing the peace complaint. No need for you to be here, sir,” he assures me.
“I’ll tell you where I need to be. Let them up,” I tell him, nodding to the band eating dirt.
They’re pulled to their feet. All but one of them is shirtless and soaking wet. Blood drips from the nose of the big fella, who I think plays bass. His brow crashes and jaw ticks with frustration. What a fucking mess.
“Where’s Xavi?” I demand again.
Shaking his head, he growls, “He won’t get out of the pool.”
“He’s out back with Davis,” O’Neil grumbles, pointing to a side gate while un-cuffing the other guys.
“Clear these people out,” I bark out. “And someone turn that fucking music off.”
“Hey,” the big guy spits out, “that’s our music.”
Smirking, I walk over to him, all six-foot-three, two hundred and forty pounds of muscle. He’s big, but I’m bigger. Intimidation flickers in his eyes as I stand toe to toe with him.
“Keep this shit up, and the only music you’ll be making is from a prison shower while the inmates decide which one gets to make you their bitch.”
“It was Xavi.” He lifts his chin. “He swung at me.”
Xavi comes barreling through the gate wearing only a soaked pair of jeans, the top button undone, and no shoes. A wet, snapped cigarette hangs from his lips and an unraveling bandage flies like a twirling ribbon from his hand.
He laughs through pinched lips, looking over his shoulder at Officer Daniels, who’s chasing him at a snail’s pace, huffing and puffing. The fucker is older than all these guys combined. Xavi’s eyes clash with mine, and his feet falter. He skids on the grass, almost falling face-first. Placing my hands on my hips, I glare at him. His shoulders deflate, realizing playtime is over.
“I’ve got this, Daniels,” I tell the officer who waves a defeated hand in the air, bending to drag air into his burning lungs before he limps back to his squad car mumbling curses under his breath.
“Go get the place cleaned up,” I tell the other band members. They groan, but do as their told. Good boys.