Page 11 of Edge of Heaven

I can be a dumbass sometimes, but there’s no use crying over spilled milk.

Or the one that got away.

I don’t have time to think about love or dating in general—Callum is all I can handle right now.

Once I’m back in L.A. and get custody of Toby, maybe then I’ll be in a position to meet someone new. Someone who’s nice to me.

Just under six months, I remind myself.

Six more months until Toby finishes the experimental treatment and I go home to L.A. to get custody of him.

It’s time for me to be the mom he deserves, instead of letting my mother raise him.

That was okay when I was sixteen since I had no way to support myself, much less a child, but everything is different now. More than that, he needs me. And my mom needs her life back. She already raised her only child, so it’s time for me to raise mine.

Chapter3

Mick

The brunette has beenwith me for several nights now, and it’s time for her to go. I hate being a jerk, but I was up front about the fact that I’d be moving on once we leave the Midwest. And that’s happening today. So I’m cutting her loose and there’s no doubt she’s disappointed.

Three days is a long time for me to be with the same woman, but this one is pretty and sweet and an absolute tiger in bed.

Too bad that’s not enough to keep my interest.

“The car service will be here in a minute,” I tell her, hoping my voice doesn’t give away how badly I want her to go.

She hasn’t done anything wrong; I’m just not that into her.

I should have just let her go after the second night in Minneapolis, but I’m not that bright sometimes.

“I’m ready.” She grabs her backpack and gives me a sad smile. “You sure this is what you want, Mick? We’ve had fun together.”

I stuff my hands in the pockets of my sweats. “Yeah, we have but I have things to do.”

“All right.”

At least she’s resigned to the inevitable. Not like some girls who cry and beg and make nuisances of themselves.

If I wanted to be honest—and I usually don’t—it’s time to slow down the groupie game and focus on finding a woman to be with long-term. Someone who understands my lifestyle and isn’t interested in my money.

Because I don’t really have any right now.

Yes, the album is certified gold and we’re close to platinum, but the record label takes their cut from all the money they fronted us for both the recording studio and the tour before anyone else gets paid. It could be another six months before we see anything substantial, and anyone I’m with has to be at least somewhat self-sufficient.

“I’ll walk down with you,” I offer, since it feels like the polite thing to do.

That’s the thing with rock and roll—there’s a lot of bad behavior. But there’s also a fuck ton of exaggeration and stereotypes that are basically bullshit. Have I had more one-night stands than any man probably should? Absolutely. But have I thrown a TV off of a hotel room balcony? No. Do I know musicians who do drugs? For sure. Do I do drugs beyond alcohol and occasionally some weed? Never.

I love just about everything about the rockstar lifestyle, but I don’t go crazy. I wish people didn’t automatically assume we’re all womanizing drug addicts who are going to die when we hit twenty-seven.

That’s in a year for me, and I have no intention of ending up dead. Not on my life’s bingo card. Not yet anyway.

“It was a nice few days,” Lori says quietly as we step out of the elevator.

“It was,” I agree. I lean over and kiss her forehead. “Take care of yourself.”

“Thanks.” She turns and gets into the waiting taxi, and I watch as it disappears down the street.

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