Time Out of Mind (Suncoast Society #43)(13)

It had come in handy several times over the years.

With that done, he retired for the night. In some ways he wanted to pinch himself. Here he was, sharing a room with the Mevi Maynard. On the other hand, here was a client needing his help, and that had to be his focus. No matter how famous the person, he could never let that interfere with his job or influence him.

The client was a person in need of his assistance. Peeling away the trappings of fame and wealth, he usually found a child inside desperate for help or nurturing or whatever it was that they were missing. Sometimes with a genetic predisposition to their addiction, something Doyle had to find out through drawing them out, if he didn’t have a thorough background on them to read through first.

While he’d been brought in at the last-minute before, usually he had a couple of days to talk with counselors, doctors, family, and others to prepare before taking on the client. Clark had arranged with the rehab center to e-mail Doyle reports from Mevi’s counselors there, and he’d glanced through the discharge report while Mevi was in the shower.

Something else he’d noticed—Mevi would be turning forty in a month.

It wasn’t just bullshit that some people had a mid-life crisis. If anyone was entitled to one, it was a man who’d been ripped off for tens of millions of dollars by a man he trusted to handle his finances. A man risking financial ruin after two decades of hard work to earn it.

It would set even the stoutest of people back a few mental notches.

That Mevi had been in the music industry for so long and only recently developed an alcohol problem was a miracle in and of itself. Apparently the band members, when they met and formed their group, made a pact that had stood the test of time. That was due in no small part to the carnage they saw around them, talented people falling to drug and alcohol abuse.

Early, smart thinking on their part had helped them not just personally, but professionally over the years. In their way, Portnoy’s Oyster was still trying to help Mevi despite his bad choices. They could have easily voted him out of the band just over what he’d done already, but they didn’t want to. They wanted him to succeed and rejoin them.

It was up to Mevi to turn it around and complete his journey back to the top.

And Doyle knew it was up to him to help the man.

It also meant, no matter how damn hot he found the guy, he could in no way reveal that attraction to Mevi. Especially since the guy was straight.

And that would mean a white-knuckle ride of his own for the next couple of months.





Chapter Five


Mevi slept fitfully Thursday night, even worse than while in the rehab center. He’d thought once he was released that he’d manage a full night of sleep, but that didn’t happen.

As he rolled onto his back and glanced across the darkened room to where Doyle lay sleeping in his own bed, Mevi knew his restless nights wouldn’t end any time soon.

I wonder if I can talk him into separate bedrooms at some point?

But Clark had been absolutely clear that Mevi had to do what Doyle said.

At this rate, knowing the hunk slept in the next bed meant Mevi would be spending a lot of time in the shower. Trying to talk Doyle into separate sleeping accommodations too soon might look suspicious for a rightfully different reason, thinking Mevi was trying to sneak booze behind his back.

Yeah, he wanted a drink. He wanted one so badly he could taste it.

And that was all the more reason he knew he could never again have one.

Guess a few of Dad’s genes rubbed off on me after all.

A lot of his father had rubbed off on him over the years, good and bad. Like his desperation to hide his true self from others out of fear of discovery and violence.

His inability to truly let others inside his “walls.”

And now, alcoholism.

He’d never had a problem before. And all of them in the band at one time or another had tied one on and woke up hungover. He wasn’t a big drinker. Certainly not a frequent drinker.

Until…

Until that day, when he’d opened his bank statement. The envelope with his f*cking name on it, in a stack of papers he spotted on David’s desk when he’d stopped by the guy’s office.

And then he’d seen the balance.

A balance that, instead of being eight or nine figures, was at less than five hundred thousand dollars.

Shit had gone downhill fast and furiously from that point on. David had been parked in jail that night. As detectives tracked down more of his clients, it turned out Mevi wasn’t the only one he’d stolen from.

He had, however, been the one David had used to pad his overseas accounts and to replace “borrowed” money from other clients’ accounts. Clients who’d paid much closer attention to what was going on than Mevi had, despite warnings from his bandmates.

The first night, he’d only gotten moderately drunk, sure that in the morning someone would tell him no, they recovered the funds, or it wasn’t as bad as it first looked.

But…

It had been that bad.

He still felt sick to his stomach when he remembered looking at that sheet of paper.

Getting up, he used the bathroom, washed his hands, and downed a glass of water from the tap. If they were going to take a road trip, he’d need to ask Doyle if they could pick up a cooler before leaving Barstow. Less stops to make for water, and drinking water had helped him a little.