I wake the next morning when the scent of freshly baked cake wafts into my nose, and I follow it like a cartoon character, practically floating to the living room. Cocoa and sugar and warm, crisp goodness. I find Mal in the kitchen with his back to me. His damp, ruffled hair suggests he is freshly showered, and a dark gray sweater clings to his lithe body and dark jeans. He moves around in his dirty Blundstones, the cake cooling on the counter beside him. The minute our eyes meet, my smile drops.

He looks like shit.

His bronze skin is pale, his eyes droopy and watery, his nose red, and he looks flat-out drained. There’s a mist of cold sweat coating his face and neck. He places the cake in the breakfast nook to cool, then produces a small gift bag from behind the nook, putting it on the counter.

“I’m off,” he says flatly.

His gruff voice is extra gravelly, extra throaty, extra different. Something happened between last night and now, and I’m hunting through my brain to try to figure out what it was.

“You’re sick.” I ignore the birthday stuff. I don’t care who’s celebrating, getting out of the house in his state is a bad idea. “Stay.”

He shakes his head. “It’s important.”

“Whose birthday?” I ask.

“Please don’t ask.” He touches his eyebrow, looking down.

An odd response, but then again, Mal is an odd person. Then I remember my presence here is largely unwelcome, and maybe he’s going to celebrate someone’s birthday and doesn’t want to invite me. The thought pierces my heart with shame and pain, but I let it go.

“Where is Ashton?” I ask, mainly to drown my grumbling stomach with my voice.

“Eh.” He flashes me a tired smile, traces of Fun Mal appearing in his crinkled, smiling eyes. “Our fine lad took off in the middle of the night, while we were sleeping. TMC reported he got on his private jet at Dublin Airport and took off to Thailand to ride elephants.”

“You’re kidding me.” I can practically feel my eyes bulging out of their sockets.

Mal shakes his head, then coughs. It’s dry and loud and almost makes him pop a shoulder. “Ryner just called to give me the gist of it.”

“He must be freaking out.”

Mal shrugs. “That’s what you get for signing a forty-million-dollar contract with a heroin-shooting, coke-snorting, LSD-enthusiast rock star and expecting him to be holed up in Ireland for two months. Here. Look at this.”

He turns his open laptop to me and hits a TMC link. Ashton is sitting on an elephant, swinging his arms back and forth, sandwiched between a guide and a gorgeous woman who can’t be much older than eighteen.

“Elephants, motherfuckers! The biggest force of nature since dinosaurs! Woo-hoo!” he bellows.

I cover my mouth, struggling not to smile.