Travis couldn't stand another fucking minute of this. His head was splitting like Athena was about to burst out of his skull – probably just to give him some wise-ass advice like "Stop drinking like a bitch" or "Stop sniffing and fucking every moving pair of tits" – advice he'd never actually follow. Their manager, Michael – usually the picture of a wholesome, round-bellied family man who unironically drove a Prius – was now reaching supersonic levels judging by the decibels of his screams.

"KENNEDY!"

Wow, the last name. Serious shit.

Travis pressed a plastic water bottle to his forehead in a silent signal of "go on, bro" which seemed to elevate Michael's anger and despair to a new level if that was even possible.

"Kennedy, listen. Listen to me." Michael abruptly sat down at the desk, slamming some folders open while Trav died of his hangover. "You are incredibly talented. Fans adore you, you look like Apollo with a bass..."

"Pfft, thanks babe, you're not so bad yourself."

"You're the son of the legendary Rob Kennedy – "

"Stop talking about my fucking dad."

"But this stunt? Are you serious? You seriously... had sex with three groupies in the fountain??? In the hotel lobby we rented for the band?!"

Travis smirked, rubbing his swollen eyes. "Vaguely recall something like that."

Michael's face contorted so much that for a second Trav thought he might die right there.

"Travis. Joel made us cancel the contract with Jennifer just a month ago. The reputation wounds are still fresh – you understand the band can't afford your wild antics right now? You guys aren't even touring because we're looking for a new guitarist – can you at least pretend to behave for a few weeks?"

In response, Trav pulled a silver flask from his pocket and took a big gulp of rum.

Michael winced, looking at the blond, then reached for his phone. "I thought so. Travis, we didn't want to do this, but the board of directors decided that from today until we find a new band member to replace Jennifer, you will have a personal manager watching over you."

Kennedy mockingly leaned back, pulling a cigarette from a pack of Parliaments. "Oh wow, a nanny. Haven't had one since I was ten. Hope it's a hot chick and not a boring sack of shit."

---

Who would've thought being under supervision sucked this hard. All the hard liquor had disappeared from Trav's house – his bar stocked with rum and tequila now looked like a nun's cell with nearly innocent bottles of vermouth. He unscrewed a bottle cap sharply and took a swig straight from the bottle – sweet, weak, like a slap. He rolled his eyes and leaned back on the white marble counter, taking two more swigs out of habit. The new manager was as fresh and diligent as a rookie guard dog, not like a "personal manager." The crowds of groupies that never left his house? Gone like smoke in the wind. Pills and powder were meticulously flushed down the toilet. Fuck, he had a regular nighttime sleep schedule and a curfew for the first time in five years.

Fucking madness.

He would've ditched the manager and the label holding him by the balls long ago and finally had some fun, but while he was reckless, he wasn't stupid. Pulling his usual stunts right now was like poking a bear with a stick – Kennedy loved his band and didn't want to part ways with it, so... He had to comply. The scandal with Jen was still hanging over them like a Damocles sword.

He sighed, lazily turning his head toward the glass doors of his house. The sun was setting, painting the sky a deep red – like cabernet poured over the horizon. The salty scent of the ocean lingered in the breeze. From the couch where the manager sat with her back to him, soft clicking noises filled the space – probably her fiddling with her phone.

Travis thoughtfully chewed on his lip ring. Sure, he needed to watch himself now, but who said he couldn't relax just a little bit? Besides, he could get the manager involved – she may be his corporate Cerberus, but a very cute Cerberus. As they say, if you want to escape from prison, flirt with the jailer, not the inmates.

Trav shrugged on his signature black leather jacket over his sculpted bare torso and leaned close to her neck, a silken mockery in his voice.

"Let's go for a ride, nerd. I swear on my bass we'll be back by curfew."

---

The ocean-scented wind whipped through Travis's hair through the open windows of his black vintage Pontiac, a cigarette dangling from his long fingers as he drove with one hand, the last rays of the sun playing on Travis profile as he took a drag from his Parliament looking like he was possessed by the spirits of long-dead rock icons.

On the horizon appeared a sandy beach, and he stopped, opening the glove compartment to rummage through a pile of random things before pulling out a battered deck of cards. Shoving it into his pocket, he got out of the car and grabbed a few bottles of beer from the trunk. By the time she joined him, he was already making his way toward the shore, dropping onto the cool sand as he shuffled the deck between his fingers.

"Alright, nerd, the rules are simple." He smiled – a smile like the devil's trap you still walked into anyway. "We're playing Old Maid. The loser owes the winner a favor – think you can handle it without corporate backup?"