“Right?”

  I smile reflexively as I look up to find four pairs of eyes looking at me. Vince’s, the director of the documentary, Will, his assistant who is taking notes, and the person who will be interviewing him on camera, Jasmine.

  “I’m sorry. I got caught up thinking about something else. What did I miss?” I ask.

  “I was just saying how perfect it was that you work here since you knew Vincent way back when,” Jasmine says. “You might be able to add some additional insight when we head back to your hometown next week.”

  “Next week? What?”

  “It’s on the schedule in front of you,” Vince says with a motion to the paper on the table. His smile is unapologetic. “Just for a few days.”

  I nod, my smile strained.

  I don’t like the unexpected. I like plans and schedules and having time to digest what’s expected of me. While someone like Vince thrives on spontaneity, it gives me metaphorical hives.

  To say I feel like I’m being thrown into the fire is an understatement. Now I’m being forced to travel with the man I’m currently tying myself up in knots over. In addition, now I need to ask my mom for more help with Jagger when she already does a ton.

  He’s my child. He’s my responsibility. I’m the one who should be and wants to be watching him, not my mom.

  “Give her a sec,” Vince says. “She’s a planner so this is going to throw her for a loop.”

  Everyone at the table chuckles while Vince winces when my shoe connects with his shin.

  “Next week. Noted,” I say and offer a sugary-sweet smile his way. No doubt that’s going to leave a mark. “And no worries. I’ll have plenty of anecdotes I can throw your way to enhance Vince’s documentary.”

  “You wouldn’t dare,” he says, mischief in his eyes.

  “Try me.”

  The whole table erupts in more laughter, but Vince’s gaze remains on mine as his lopsided grin grows.

  My threat rings hollow to my own ears though, because I know that revealing too much about Vince’s past will only put me in the spotlight. And the last thing I want anyone to do is to look closer at me.

  “So we’ll get started then,” Will says. “The point of this pre-interview is so we can weed out the normal, everyday things and maybe find a nugget or two to focus on. Something that will hook the public into wanting to know more about.”

  “There’s not much out there that people don’t already know,” Vince says.

  “There always is.” Will’s smile says he’s determined to find something. “Whatever we decide to talk about during the actual filming will be given to you ahead of time so you’re not taken by surprise.”

  Vince shifts uncomfortably, his eyes focused on the paper in his hands for a beat before he slips the public mask on and grins. “Hit me.”

  But it was there. That small slip. Just like he had last night when talking about Bent. Clearly whatever is going on, he’s determined to keep it close to the vest.

  “Perfect,” Jasmine says. “Let’s cover some basics. Mom. Dad. Brothers. Sisters. Normal childhood. Troubled childhood. That kind of thing.”

  “Normal childhood.” Vince’s tone is flat and the glance my way, the one with piercing eyes, reaffirms his lie.

  “Okay.” She makes a note. “What about your mom and dad?”

  “Dad.” It’s all he says, and it causes the room to pause briefly.

  “Okay.” She gives a slow nod before painting an encouraging smile on her lips. “Tell me about what happened to your mom. Give me more info on what it was like growing up in the two-man Jennings household.”

  I squeeze my clasped hands harder knowing what seemed to be a simple conversation just became quite prickly.

  “My mom left before I turned two. That’s all I know and there are not many details a person can remember from that age.”

  Another slow nod from Jasmine. “I’m sorry.”

  “Don’t be.” Vince’s voice is gruff despite the nonchalant shrug.

  “And your dad?”

  Vince’s lips pull tight. “He was a dad and not a great one at that. Next?”

  “There’s nothing else you’d like to say on that? This could be your time to talk, to control the narrative and explain your childhood. Why you are who you are,” Jasmine says.

  “I am who I am because of me. My drive. My desire. My need to be anything other than him. The sacrifices I made to be the man I wanted to be. That’s the only explanation you’re going to get from me on this.”

  “Vince. I understand your position, but showing the public what and where you came from will make you more sympathetic to—”

  “I don’t want anyone’s sympathy. Understood? This isn’t let’s talk about how bad poor little Vinnie had it. It’s not a way to excuse away some of the shit I’ve done. My dad was and still is a prick. There’s not much more to say.”

  Jasmine glances at Will and then back to Vince. She’s just about to open her mouth when Vince shoves out of his chair. “What else do you want to know? Do I have a girlfriend? No. Have I ever been in love? Just once.” He stops at the windows. His thumbs hooked in his pockets, his back to us as he watches the cars march like ants on the always jammed 110 freeway. “Do I want to get married someday? I don’t fucking know. Do I want kids? That’s a hard fucking no.” He shrugs dismissively. “Does that give you the basics that you need? Is that juicy enough for you? Because there’s a whole treasure trove more of where that came from after I made it big that you can dig through. I guarantee that shit’s a lot more fucking interesting.”

  Will swivels in his chair so that he’s staring at Vince’s back. “Look. It’s not fun for us to ask you about things that you clearly don’t want to talk about. We get it. We’ve done these documentaries enough times to know that everyone has a hot spot. But we need to brush over these things quickly for those who may be familiar with Bent on the whole, but not you in particular.”

  Vince rolls his shoulders before turning around and facing us. “Got it.”

  “Before we move on, I’d be remiss if I didn’t mention that while poking around in your hometown, your father did reach out to us. Said he’d love to be interviewed.”

  “He will not be a part of this.”

  “Okay, but he—”

  “If you want me to be a part of my own documentary, then you’ll make sure he isn’t. Clear? Are we done here?”

  And before they can answer, Vince storms out of the office without another word. I fight the urge to go after him. To comfort him. To give him what I would need if I were in his shoes, but I know better.

  It seems the man now isn’t much different than the teenager I once knew. Keeping everything in. Bearing the brunt of a shit hand dealt to him all on his own. A burden only he’s ever really known.

  He never talked about his mom.

  His dad and whatever happened in his house has always been off limits. In high school, from the outside looking in, it appeared he lived alone. Like he made his own rules and had the life every other teenager envied.

  But I was close enough to Vince to see the fading bruises. I knew they appeared after he was conveniently sick from school or ditched for a few days. I was well aware of his moods and his determination.

  Of course, I know because I was a casualty in it all.

  “I’m sorry,” I murmur, attempting to ease the tension he mostly took with him when he left. “I knew Vince back then, and he never talked about family stuff. He kept it close to the vest.”

  “No need to be sorry. We’re used to this. Not everyone wants their life peeled open like an onion,” Will says.

  “Speaking of that,” Jasmine says, her expression softening. “After cross-checking names with our research, is it true that you and Vince dated in high school?”

  I attempt to keep my face impassive. If Vince wanted them to know this, then he would have mentioned it already. Besides, the less said about me the better. The last thing I need is a spotlight on me so that people look closer.

  My chuckle is dismissive. “You know how it goes, giving someone a ride home after class can be considered dating in high school.”

  “So you didn’t date, then?”

  I blink rapidly as I try to figure out the answer Vince would want me to give. There are pictures of the two of us in a yearbook somewhere. Classmates could talk. But at the same time, no one cared much or probably took much notice about the nerdy wallflower and the loner, wannabe musician at Fairfield High. I give the biggest non-answer-answer I can think of. “We went on a few dates. But Vince dated a lot of people back then. He wasn’t big on commitment.”

  “Seems like he isn’t now either.” Jasmine chuckles as she finishes making a few notes on her pad of paper.

  I glance toward the door that Vince just stormed out of and wonder why he demanded that I be here. There were no opinions needed. No advice to be had. He’s never been one who needed his hand held, so why ask me to be here?

  But my mind keeps going back to the one off-the-cuff line of his. The one that stuck out to me above all the others.

  The one that makes me feel like a selfish asshole since there were so many other important ones.

  Have I ever been in love? Just once.

  You’re stupid to think he was talking about you, Bristol. He lived a lot of life after you.

  Just like you have.

  But why do I hope it was me?

  CHAPTER TEN

  Vince

  “This is bullshit.” I set my guitar down and pace the confines of the small room.

  “Is it the guitar? Are you comfortable with it? I can play it if you want to pick up the bass,” my producer/songwriting partner, Noah, says and sits back, crossing his arms over his chest.

  “I’ve been playing both my whole life. It’s not the fucking guitar.”

  He chews the inside of his cheek and just nods, more than used to the tantrums of frustrated rock stars. “You said your muse was talking to you.”

  “It was. Now it’s not.”

  Fuck.

  I run a hand through my hair, the restless energy I’ve felt since the elevator and then the conference room has thoroughly screwed with my concentration.

  One was welcome.

  The other not so much.

  “What gives?” he asks as he pours himself a double and takes a long pull.

  “Nothing. Everything. Fuck if I know.”

  But I do know. It’s the documentary bullshit and the questions about my dad. It’s the stuff about to be dredged up from the past to make people overlook the crap I’ve done recently.

  It’s the damn elevator ride with Bristol. The feel of her body against mine. The hitch of her breath. The want to start something with her, to use her body, to simply get lost in the past for a bit. Solely to drown out the bullshit that won’t seem to quiet anymore.

  A temporary fix to a permanently fucked-up situation.

  The issues with my dad will remain. Being alienated from Hawke and Gizmo and Rocket won’t change. And I’ll have to walk away no matter how good it feels to be with Bristol again.

  There was a reason you walked away from her before. That same reason still holds true now.

  You did this to yourself, Jennings. No use bringing her down with you.

  “We can take a break,” Noah suggests.

  “I don’t want to take a fucking break. I want to figure this out so we can lay it down and move on.”

  “So just the music? Have you given up on the lyrics?”

  “Just . . . just record and we’ll see what happens.”

  “Whatever you say, boss, but give me a few.” He shrugs and stands to stretch his legs. We’ve been going at this for so fucking long that it’s beginning to feel forced.

  And “forced” turns out shit music.

  My sigh is heavy as I play back the last take. It’s shit. Great. All of this . . . pent-up everything, and I have nothing to show for it.

  Emotion used to help me write better. The demons I wrestle with added that edge. But this . . . this is utter garbage.

  “The guys were in here the other day,” Noah says casually while the words hit like a rusted dagger to my chest.

  I grunt in response. To the world, we’re on a break for individual projects. Not an ill word has been said publicly. It was in private where our words were used like weapons. Where what came out of my mouth fucked up so many things.

  “They sounded good. Not the same without you, mind you, but still good. They had some new stuff that’s going to kill it.”

  “Good for them.”

  Jealousy is a bitter bitch, especially when it’s felt about your best friends.

  Then again, what right do I have to even call them that? To assume they still think of me as the same?

  “Are you joining them again when you’re done with this album? Or is it too hard going from background to front man then back to the background again?”

  I open my mouth to speak and then close it. Hasn’t all of this taught me some things are better left unsaid? Because if they are, then there’s no need to take them back.

  A tight smile is all I offer in response and a lift of my chin toward the table and the bottle of Jack. The only vice left that I’ll allow myself. “Pour me one, will you?”

  Noah does as I ask without a word and holds the glass out to me. I down it in one long gulp.

  I welcome the burn and hope for some clarity as a result before grabbing the neck of my guitar and positioning it on my lap as I take a seat. My fingers begin strumming automatically. A habit ingrained in my every fiber. A way to calm the riot inside. A mechanism to soothe the chaos I’ve lived my whole life with.

  My fingers change to plucking the strings and create a melody that I can’t shake from my head. There’s a hard edge to it underlined by a haunting melody. The combination of the two sends chills over my skin, a sure sign that I’m on the right track.

  I close my eyes and keep playing, keep experimenting, knowing we’re recording this on our phones so I don’t have to stop to write it all down.

  Words come to me. Some I sing aloud, others I hum to be filled in later. I repeat the process.

  Over and over.

  Again and again.

  The problem? When I drown out all the outside noise, when I really try and step into the song, it’s Hawkin’s voice that I hear singing it. It’s his unique grate I expect to hear jump in and take over just like we’ve done countless times before.

  We always were a damn good team.

  But there is no Hawkin to do that. No Rocket to tell a joke and ease the tension when we get frustrated and start taking swipes at each other. No Gizmo to experiment with some riff totally out of the blue that we’d never think of but that is absolutely fucking perfect for the song we’re building. No Bent to make this experience what I know it can be. What I’ve come to expect it to be.

  It’s just me.

  It’s just Noah.

  Just a lot of loneliness and acceptance that it feels hollow without them.

  And a whole shitload of unresolved bullshit that’s unfixable in between.

  I mix the chords up. “Fuck.” And then pat the strings to make the sound stop. When I hold my glass out, Noah refills it without saying a word.

  I’ve cut back.

  I drink less now. For a musician anyway. But it’s going to take a hell of a lot more than a glass of Jack to find out what I feel is missing. The liquid courage might solve a lot, but it’s not going to fix the damage I’ve caused.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Vince

  One Year Ago

  “If you don’t like it anymore, there’s the fucking door.”

  I stare at my best friend, the room spinning as I tilt the bottle to my lips, drinking until the last of the Jack is gone. The burn is better than the response I’m afraid I’ll give.

  “Don’t tell me what to fucking do, Hawke,” I say through gritted teeth. His chuckle is condescending as fuck. On the other side of the studio, his ass is resting against the front of the soundboard, his arms are crossed, and the shake of his head only serves to piss me off further.

  Hawkin Play. Lead singer for our band, Bent. My brother from another mother. The person who knows all my secrets. All-around good guy. And apparently, by the threat he just gave, a newly minted ball-buster.

  Fuck that.

  I toss the empty bottle into the trash across from me, and the sound of glass hitting the metal ricochets around the room.

  “Don’t tell you what to do?” He emits that patronizing, bullshit chuckle of his again that grates on my every nerve. “I don’t have to tell you shit, brother, because it seems you’re content on doing the damage all your fucking self.”

  Here we go again.

  “Let me guess. Rocket and Gizmo set you up to do this,” I say of our other bandmates. Of our friends. The family I made for myself. The men who hightailed it out of here after our session most likely so Hawkin could read me the damn riot act. “What? Did you have a fucking kumbaya session over how to wrangle Vince and protect Bent’s precious goddamn image?”

  “Image?” Hawke shouts, throwing his arms out to the sides. “We’re rock stars. The drinking and drugs are expected. Par for the fucking course. What’s not the norm is being so goddamn high you all but fuck Rocket’s girl.” He looks at me with wide eyes that sure as hell probably match mine. “Jesus Christ. You don’t even remember that, do you?”

  “Didn’t we fight about this last week?” I say drolly, trying to rack my brain if what he’s saying is true.

  But he’s right. I can’t remember.

  I didn’t do that, did I?

  “Yep, and we’re going to talk about it again. Shit, Vin, you almost missed our performance on Saturday Night Live because you were off doing who the fuck knows what.”

  “I know what I was doing and damn, she was incredible.” It’s a lie. I was high as fuck and lost track of time. But at this point it seems like the lie will fare better for me than the truth.

  “Class act. Way to go.”

  “Fuck off.”