He roughly bumped into my shoulder as he passed. “Thanks for ruining my evening.” He unlocked his door, I followed him inside, and he slammed it shut behind us. “You’re an asshole.”

“I didn’t mean to interrupt your date.”

“How’d you find me?”

“Your show isn’t a secret. Big sign out front. I even saw your face on a taxi.”

“How’d you know my room number?”

“If you would’ve returned my calls, I wouldn’t have had to have my IT troll hack into the hotel computer.”

Mosh just shook his head, stomped across the suite, and flopped onto the couch. “Make it quick. I’m busy.”

I took in the surroundings. The place was a mess. Mosh had never been what I would’ve described as tidy, but this was the room of someone who just didn’t care. There was a pink bra hanging from the ceiling fan. Discarded takeout boxes were piled on the counter, and the coffee table was covered in many empty and partially empty liquor bottles. “This place doesn’t have maid service?”

He put his gigantic leather metal-studded boots on the table. “I put out the sign. Do not disturb. Been disturbed enough lately.” Mosh sighed. “Sit already. You standing there just pisses me off more. All looming like that.”

Abomination’s bag went on the carpet. I sat on the loveseat across from him. “You’re just bitter that I got the tall genes.” I had him by a few inches.

“You got the stupid genes too…What do you want?”

“I’ve been trying to get a hold of you.” This was worse than I’d expected. Him sitting there glaring at me wasn’t helping. We hadn’t talked much lately. He’d been pretty charged up at first, thinking he was going to overcome adversity and all of that type of thing. He had even joked around about applying for MHI, but then the constant smears, negative publicity, and avalanche of lawsuits had slowly ground him down. “I’ve been worried.”

Mosh snorted. “I’m a nobody musician. I’m a has-been. Why worry about me? You’re Mr. Dangerous. You’re the Chosen One.”

“Yeah, it’s a real picnic. Look, man, you know I’m sorry about—”

“I don’t want to hear it.”

We sat there in an uncomfortable silence. There was an acoustic guitar leaning on the arm of the couch. Mosh picked it up and began to strum it absently.

I looked at the bottles. There were a lot of them. “Drink all that yourself?”

“None of your damned business. Is this an intervention? Is that why you’re here, Owen?”

“Two things…” I would tackle the easy one first, I’d get to killing Dad in a minute. “You dropped off the face of the Earth. You haven’t talked to anybody. We’re worried—”

“I’m fine.” Pitts are such terrible liars.