“I’m the one who has to help her pick up the pieces. After she sees you . . . if you love her, the way I think you do, then you need to let her go.”

  Why I try so hard to fuck shit up is what Hawke wants to know, though. So, I answer him with honesty.

  “Seems I’m good at it.”

  “Or it’s a convenient excuse. Beats having to face what you’re most scared of—people caring about you.” When I go to refute him, he just holds up his hand to stop me. “I don’t want to hear it. You pushed me away. You’ve always pushed her away. The question is why.”

  “I’m dealing with a lot of shit.”

  “Alone. When you don’t have to.”

  I nod. My bruised hands are easier to look at than my best friend. I’m lucky I didn’t break any fucking bones. If I had, that would’ve royally screwed up my ability to play guitar for some time. “There are just some things I need to do. Need to prove to myself that I can do.”

  “I can respect that. But then what, Vin? What’ll you have to come back to if you set fire and burn the world around you?”

  I’m not pushing you away.

  I’m protecting everyone from me.

  “No response needed.” He pounds a fist on the side of the truck. “This conversation is way too touchy-feely for this goddamn early in the morning. Before I’ve had my coffee.” He points to my cell that keeps buzzing against the truck bed, text after text from McMann. “You better call that prick back or he’s going to blow a gasket.”

  “Might be more entertaining to watch if he does.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  Bristol

  “See?” Simone points to the YouTube live feed on her computer screen. “You give that hot stud no action, and he goes and gets himself in a bar fight and arrested because of all his sexual frustration from pining after you.”

  I roll my eyes, hoping that I’m able to pull it off enough for her to believe me. I’d give anything to be able to tell her the truth. To have someone else to confide in and get advice from. But telling Simone is hitting too close to home when it comes to work and my security there.

  “Your lack of response is telling me I’m right.”

  “Yes, you’re a mind reader. Vince got in a fight because of me.” I roll my eyes and then glance again at her computer screen. The live feed on her screen shows the press room at McMann Media. The camera faces a table at the front of the room and from the angle, you can see the heads of reporters as they wait patiently for the press conference to start.

  “You know McMann is creaming his pants right now. He can marry Vince’s heartfelt apology and work it in so that while the world is watching, announce when the single will be released. There’s nothing he loves more than a crisis so he can step in and use his big-dick energy to pretend he saved the day.”

  “Hmm.”

  “There’s a reason he sent you to Burbank with me today. With you offsite and Kevin on vacation, no one can steal any credit away from him.”

  It’s sad that she’s one hundred percent right, but I’m more than happy to have trekked across town today. The last thing I needed today was to face Vince.

  Not after last night.

  Not after second-guessing and then knowing I did the right thing. No matter how much it hurts.

  Not after the guilt I feel knowing our conversation was most likely the catalyst behind it.

  I’ve seen the images circling the Internet. The crazed look on his face. The unfettered anger. The utter despair.

  I did that to him.

  I pushed him to act out.

  I hurt the man I love.

  I attempt to focus back on our work at hand, but to be honest, concentration is hard to come by with how little sleep I had. Especially with the constant reliving of everything we said to each other. It’s not like I had time to get it off my chest and tell my mom any of it in our hi-bye exchange when she showed up and I ran out the door. Besides, it’s not like I can tell her with Jagger standing there.

  “Do you think with Vince leaving, that McMann will keep your status in no-man’s land between a junior associate and an associate? Or will he pull you fully into one role or the other?”

  “I’m sorry—what do you mean Vince leaving?”

  “Clearly you haven’t read your emails yet today.”

  “No. I was running late. Then the traffic was brutal.” I shake my head. And I’ve possibly been avoiding any and all things that deal with him. “What did it say?”

  “Short version? Vince told McMann he was heading back to New York. Something about wanting to work with a producer there. It was all last minute. Decided this morning. Maybe some jail time gave him an epiphany.” She laughs. “But there was a big scramble to coordinate appearances and a press junket so they could launch the single as soon as Sony Music okays it. I mean—”

  “Ladies and gentlemen,” Xavier says as he steps up to the table with Vince. They both take a seat.

  Vince looks rough. Tired. His smile is there for the cameras, but it rings empty to someone like me who knows him.

  “I’d climb that man like a tree and ride him so hard all his fruit would shake off. Damn,” she murmurs.

  “Thanks for the visual,” I say, unable to take my eyes off Vince. It’s hard to watch the person you hurt, hurting.

  Brutal, really.

  “Any time.”

  “Thanks for coming today,” Xavier says. “As per McMann Media’s policy, whenever an issue arises with one of our clients, we like to address the situation immediately to stop a torrent of misinformation from spreading like wildfire across the Internet. We have so many exciting things on the horizon for Vince, and we don’t want any of this nonsense to distract from them.” He looks at Vince beside him, and Vince smiles and nods as if he’s in agreement.

  But he looks about as happy to be there as someone who is getting their wisdom teeth pulled. Without Novocain.

  “With that said, I’d like to introduce you to Ms. Paula Gladstone.”

  A woman in a burgundy pantsuit takes a seat beside them and smiles at the press in front of her. “Good afternoon. I’m Paula Gladstone with Gladstone and Associates, the firm representing Mr. Jennings in what we hope will be a matter settled sooner rather than later. Last night, Mr. Jennings was trying to enjoy some peace and quiet in a local establishment when several patrons began badgering him. For conversation. For autographs. For photos. He obliged their requests for a few moments, but then, when he asked them to respect his space and privacy, things were blown out of proportion and taken offense to, as sometimes happens when alcohol is involved. The actions of all involved resulted in Mr. Jennings having to defend himself against three other men. All participants were charged with disorderly conduct and disorderly intoxication. In hopes to capitalize on the situation, the other participants have brought assault charges against Mr. Jennings. Seeing as Vince was merely defending himself, we are anticipating these charges to be dropped in the coming days.” Paula looks toward McMann and nods before stepping down without taking any questions.

  McMann takes the moment to smile and make sure he’s front and center to the camera. A small murmur begins to ripple among the press corps. It’s slight but you can hear shuffling and see heads moving as they all look down at what one could assume is their phones.

  Simone looks at me. She notices it too.

  “As is natural these days, when someone steps into the spotlight, they attract attention—good and bad. And with that spotlight shining bright on Vince with the viral explosion of his soon-to-be released new single, Sweet Regret, that is exactly what this is.” Xavier gives a curt nod as more muted noise comes from the media. “We’ll open the floor up to a few questions, but time is limited as we’re expected on a flight to New York shortly.”

  There is jostling of reporters as Vince’s name is called out. One voice rings loud and clear over the others and catches McMann’s attention. He points to the reporter standing.

  “Vince. Gil Litman with TMZ here.” Vince smiles. “Bar fights. Acting out. Getting drunk and taking whatever it is out on unsuspecting patrons . . . what kind of message does that give to those who look up to you? To the little kids who want to be like you?”

  Vince’s eyes lower for a beat, and he gives a slight nod in resignation. “There’s no excuse for what I did,” he says, toeing the company line all of us at McMann have heard time and again and could repeat by heart. Clearly Vince got the same lesson we all have. “Fighting’s never the option. It’s—”

  “But what about what you’re going to tell your own kid?” Gil persists.

  Vince’s laugh is low and condescending. Flippant. “I don’t have a kid so the question is irrelevant.”

  There is another murmur of restlessness along the press that has me sitting a little straighter. They all shout for attention again, their questions getting lost in the noise.

  “Let me have a follow up on that then,” Gil says, stepping forward to try and win whatever points he’s trying to make. “Per the article that just broke in US Weekly, you do in fact have a child. Would you like to comment on that?”

  Vince’s laugh is sarcastic and drowned out by the pounding of my pulse in my ears and Simone’s dramatic whistle.

  “Anything to fabricate a story.” Vince rises from his seat. “We’re done here.”

  “Your father gave an exclusive. About you. About your son you’ve been hiding from the world that you refuse to claim as your own. Would you like to be the first to comment?”

  I’m a mix of emotions, and the one riding shotgun is confusion. What in the hell is going on?

  “You’re fucking crazy,” Vince mutters and begins to move off the stage riser.

  “Or you’re bullshitting us, which is exactly what your dad said you’d do.”

  “The man’s a money-grubbing asshole who probably got paid for his lies, so don’t put too much faith in his claims.”

  “That’s enough, Vince,” McMann says, losing control of the narrative and the spectacle that this is becoming. I battle between wanting to search on my phone and not wanting to miss a single minute of what’s transpiring on the computer screen.

  “Read for yourself.” Gil holds out his phone as Vince’s feet stop. “His name’s Jagger.”

  The world drops out from under my feet.

  No.

  I struggle to breathe.

  No.

  To think.

  God, no.

  To force myself to look at Vince and his cocky, disbelieving smile at the reporter like he’s going to prove him wrong with the same punch he threw last night. “Jagger, huh?”

  Gil doesn’t miss a beat. But my heart does. It misses every single one as the reporter looks Vince straight in the eyes and says, “Yes, Jagger Matthews.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  Vince

  All the air is sucked out of the room.

  My lungs feel like they’re collapsing.

  My heart feels like it stops.

  My head feels like it implodes.

  “You’re lying,” I say, the whisper on my lips but a scream in my head.

  Jagger Matthews.

  I struggle to process. To think straight. To refute what a part of me feels to be undeniably true.

  The urge to knock the phone from Gil’s hand is strong. The impulse to grab it and read every goddamn lie that my fucking father said just as strong.

  McMann grabs me before I can do either and ushers me out of the room as the reporters go apeshit at my back.

  It’s just white noise.

  It’s just white lights ahead.

  It’s just an unbelievable pressure in my chest that increases with each and every second.

  “Vince.”

  “No. Don’t touch me.” I throw my arms up to push Xavier’s off me. “I just . . . I need to go. I’ve got to go . . .”

  See if I have a son?

  See if Bristol has been lying to me?

  See if my father is right?

  “I just have to go.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  Bristol

  Tears threaten but don’t come.

  My chest burns but is forced to breathe, each inhale hurting more than the one before.

  My hands grip the steering wheel as traffic closes me in much like the claustrophobia I feel right now.

  The phone rings over my Bluetooth. Again and again. The electronic voice Vince uses for a message speaks. “Vince. I need you to call me. Please. We need to talk.”

  I dial the next person I need to speak with. The phone rings. Over and over as my knuckles turn white. “Pick up the phone, Mom. Pick up. Pick up. Pick up.”

  “This is Cathy. Please leave a message.”

  “Mom. Please call me. It’s urgent. He knows about Jagger. He. Knows.” My voice breaks.

  And it feels like everything else within me does too.

  I dial Vince again.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  Vince

  The wrong address.

  Not inviting me in.

  The setbacks in going to law school.

  Minutes. Moments. Seconds. Each one I’ve spent with her need to be dissected and reconsidered and mind-fucked to death, but the only things my mind can focus on right now is getting to her house.

  Is finding out the truth for myself.

  Is knowing if Jagger is real or not.

  Is plowing a fist through my old man’s face.

  I pull up to the curb, yank my SUV into park, and then realize the kid might not even be here. Her work. His school. A babysitter. Who the fuck knows.

  But I jog up the sidewalk anyway, knowing that if I have a son, he’s here.

  But how is it even possible? We used a condom each and every time that night. There’s no way this is possible.

  Can’t be.

  I pound on the door. One fist after another.

  “What is the prob . . . lem,” Cathy says when she opens the door to find me there.

  Her eyes are wide. Her lips are lax. And the last conversation we ever had comes zooming back in a way that makes more sense than ever before.

  She knows that I know.

  “Vince.” My name is a whisper that I don’t hear as I shove past her and into the small apartment.

  But all my gusto, all my reasons why this isn’t real, how he cannot be mine, goes to shit when I see the little boy sitting on the couch. He’s so little. His head is down, a mop of dark hair falling over his forehead as he focuses on a small acoustic guitar braced across his lap. He makes out-of-tune noises as his small fingers try to operate the fret and strings on the face of it.

  He angles his head to the side and purses his lips in concentration, much like I’ve seen in hundreds of photographs taken of myself.

  Words escape me.

  My head shakes back and forth as I’m frozen in place staring at something I told myself I’d never allow to happen.

  Everything else disappears when that little face looks up and sees me there. I’m met with my own eyes looking back at me. With a crooked smile that’s the mirror image of mine smiling in return.

  The wind is knocked out of me.

  Every image I’ve seen of myself as a kid is sitting across from me, staring at me with a curiosity in his expression and an innocence in his eyes.

  “Hey. Who are you?” he asks in a raspy voice.

  “I . . .” I glance over to where Cathy stands, tears welling in her eyes, before she smiles as if to tell me it’s okay to talk. “I—I’m a friend of your mom’s.”

  “Huh.” He angles his head to the side and takes me in, his eyes lingering on my tattoos, making me feel self-conscious about them when I never have been before. “How do you know her?”

  “From a long time ago. We’ve known each other longer than we haven’t.”

  “What’s that mean?”

  “Nothing. Just that . . . we’ve known each other a long time.” I smooth my palms down my jeans, needing something, anything to do with my hands. It doesn’t stop them from trembling. “Do you mind if I sit down?”

  He gives the subtlest of nods, his eyes never leaving mine. “You kind of look like that singer we see on TV, doesn’t he, Nana?” He looks at Cathy. “The one that makes Momma sometimes get tears in her eyes.”

  “Kind of,” Cathy murmurs, her hand resting over her heart, her smile concerned yet hopeful.

  “Are you him?” he asks.

  “Maybe,” I whisper and finally find the courage to move farther into the room so I can sit across from him.

  “Then does that mean you know how to play this?” He lifts the guitar. “My papa bought it for me. It has some scratches but he says scratches give it character. Momma’s saving up for lessons for me but I’m trying anyway.”

  My throat burns with emotion. “I do know how to, yes. Maybe I could teach you sometime if your mom and dad don’t mind.”

  His smile falls. “Just Momma.”

  “Oh?” The sound gets caught in my throat.

  “My dadda loves me more than the world, but he wasn’t ready to handle all this awesomeness,” Jagger says, with a sheepish but bittersweet smile on his face. “Maybe someday.”

  I open my mouth, but words don’t come. I’m still overwhelmed with such violent contrasts of emotions. Disbelief married with shock. Hurt with anger. Awe warring against skepticism.

  “A huge amount of awesomeness,” I say, my voice breaking. “How old are you?”

  I ask but already know the answer. He’s six. The empty restaurant. The limo ride. The hotel. The walking away without looking back. Her voicemails that I erased because it was too hard to listen to them, and her calls I then blocked.

  “Six. It’s a good age, don’t you think?”

  I laugh, and for the first time I feel like when I inhale, oxygen reaches my lungs. “It is definitely a good age.”

  “How old are you?”

  “Thirty.”

  “That’s old.” His eyes grow wide as he catches himself. “Sorry, Nan. It’s not old.”

  She laughs, and it’s like the sound eases some of the tension in the room. But the barbed wire that’s wrapped around every goddamn sensation inside me remains.