Time Out of Mind (Suncoast Society #43)(11)

That was nothing like him.

But who was he, really?

He damn sure wasn’t the guy his fans thought he was. Would they even like him if they knew the real him after all the years he spent putting on a fake image for them? Would they still listen to his music?

Would the others in the band be punished professionally for him misleading their fans?

He’d feel horrible if that happened, and was yet another reason for his silence. Collateral damage wasn’t something he wanted on his conscience.

He settled in for the ride, since right now, that was all he could do.





Chapter Four


Being well after midnight when they reached Barstow, Doyle ditched his plan to find hair dye. It’d have to wait until morning. Right now, he was more concerned about a room. He found a hotel not far off the highway that looked reasonably clean and safe. Leaving Mevi in the car—and taking the keys with him—he walked into the office to check in, a room with two double beds, telling the desk clerk he was there with his “brother.”

He’d claimed brothers and sisters and daughters and sons and even a father and one aunt—because the actress pitched a fit when he’d said he was going to call her his mother—during his stints as a SC. Since he was never romantic with his clients, there was never any question from hotel staff.

In reality, he was alone in the world, other than his friends. There were some distant cousins he hadn’t spoken to in years, but that was okay. He was at peace with that.

When he returned to the car, he found Mevi staring out his window, into the distant darkness of the desert surrounding the town. He didn’t expect the guy to talk to him yet, but the fact that Mevi wasn’t swearing at him and hadn’t tried to get out and leave were good signs. After driving around the hotel to park in front of their room, Doyle shut the engine off, retrieved his phone from the console, and got out without saying anything. As he pulled the bags he’d need from the back hatch, Mevi finally followed him out and around and got his own things without a word.

Including his guitar case.

There was a little bit of progress. Doyle would hate to have to sit up watching out a window in a darkened room to see if the guy was going to play toddler and sit in the car all night.

One client tried that.

Once.

Unlocking the door and walking in, Doyle found the room acceptable to him after pulling back the covers on the bed closest to the door to make sure there weren’t any signs of bedbugs. Then he turned the AC on and made sure the curtains were securely pulled shut.

The view finder didn’t have a cover on the inside, so he grabbed a piece of tissue and jammed it into the hole.

“What’s that for?” Mevi asked.

“Privacy. Assholes have attachments they can use to film through them.”

“Oh. Shit. I didn’t know that.”

“Always block the view finder if it doesn’t have a cover. And look at the bottom of the door.” He pointed to that one, which had a solid weather seal. “If it’s an interior hotel room, sometimes there’s a small gap. If so, block it with a towel.”

“Thanks. I never knew that.”

“In the morning,” he told Mevi, “I’ll go out and get us breakfast and what we’ll need to cut and dye your hair.”

“Think you can trust me alone that long?” Mevi snarked.

Here we go.

“If I can’t trust you alone for less than an hour, then I guess you’re the one who’s f*cked, huh?”

Mevi’s brow furrowed. “Okay, you do realize who the hell I am, right?”

Bingo. Now that Doyle had locked on to a chink in the man’s armor, he could exploit it to draw him out.

“You’re a man who got f*cked over by a thief, self-medicated with alcohol as a result, and is facing financial ruin if he can’t get his shit together. Accurate?”

Mevi’s head cocked as he seemed to be studying him. “I mean, Clark told you who I am, didn’t he?”





This was…weird. Fascinatingly weird. After sixty days spent in the carefully controlled aquarium that was the rehab facility, it almost felt like he’d been dropped into the Twilight Zone.

Maybe the world had changed a lot in that time, like something out of The Walking Dead, only without zombies.

“You’re Mevi Maynard of Portnoy’s Oyster,” Doyle said. “Yes, I know who you are, and how famous you are. The thing is, I don’t care. You’re my client, my responsibility, and my job is to help you to the best of my ability. Your fame plays no role in that right now except in hindering my ability to help you, because I need to keep you out of the public eye until Chicago.”

“So I take it you’re not a fan then?” Yeah, it was snarky, and he admitted it.

“I have all your albums. I think you’re a very talented man. Again, that plays no role in my job.”

Now Mevi really felt off-balance. “You have no idea what I’ve been through.”

“You’re right.”

Another answer Mevi hadn’t expected, requiring him to regroup. He just couldn’t seem to get his footing around this guy. “You’d better not be some tea-totaling * who tells me how easy it is to choose sobriety, either.”

“I’m twenty-four years sober, working on twenty-five. I’d never belittle the battle you’re waging inside you, because I am there in the trenches fighting it as well.” Doyle sat and stared at him as if patiently waiting for Mevi’s next volley.