“You probably wish I would, huh? Then you could circle the drain all by yourself and prove your dad right.”

  “Do not mention him again,” I warn.

  He sees me. He hears me. But he clearly doesn’t fucking care about the warning because that chuckle is back and so is the disappointed shake of his head.

  What he doesn’t know is that I’ve disappointed everyone my whole life, so why start changing that shit now?

  “You made us a promise, Vin. You made me one. From the get-go, we agreed that we come first—the band and its best interest does.”

  “Your point?”

  “That sure as shit doesn’t seem to be the case anymore.”

  “Well maybe it’s time for a fucking change, then, huh?”

  “Not on my watch.”

  “Oh, Jesus. Are you listening to the egotistical bullshit you’re spewing? Not on my watch,” I mimic.

  Fuck. I need another drink but turn around to find my second fifth that I put on the table is empty already. Did I do that? Did Hawke pour it out?

  “You’re still nothing, Vinnie. Always have been. Always will be. You couldn’t hack it on your own even if you tried, because you sure as hell aren’t good enough with your mediocre talent and lack of drive.”

  “Management isn’t happy,” he says softly.

  “Screw them. They’re never fucking happy with us, and yet it’s us who’re lining their pockets, so I don’t give a rat’s ass what they think.”

  “You’re fucking up, man.”

  “So you’ve said.”

  “Onstage. In the studio. In public. In private. Not many more places you can.”

  “I’m sure I’ll figure out how to.” Sarcasm drips from my words as my best friend stares at me with a disdain I don’t understand.

  “I’m worried about you.”

  My throat feels like it’s closing up. I shake my head, rejecting Hawke’s words. Not being worth enough to be cared about. “Like you give a flying fuck about me.” Drown him out. Shut him up. “All you care about is your own pristine image. But I know, Hawke. I know about your fucked-up brother and the shit he did. The shit you hid and protected him from. I know you’re nowhere near as perfect as the public thinks you are,” I say, trying to throw the whole kitchen sink in.

  Wanting the argument.

  Needing the argument.

  “You’re right. I’m far from perfect. But just like you helped me then and every other time, I want to help you now.”

  “Fuck you and your placating tone. I don’t need shit from you.” I shove a hand through my hair and pace the small space. Back and forth, hands fisting as the anger burns a pit in my stomach. “God, I need a fucking drink.”

  “Cuz that’s just what you need.”

  “You’re right. A bottle would be better than one drink if I have to listen to more of this.” I turn and look at him. “Since when did you put that stick up your ass? Huh? What are you? The fun police now?”

  “Yep. Sure am. And I started being it when you decided to slowly start killing yourself.”

  “Whatever.”

  “Cut the crap, Vin. It’s me here. I just want to help. What’s going on that you’re not telling me about? What are you trying to dull? I’ve known you for too damn long to know that something’s wrong.”

  “How did I raise such a pussy, huh? A real man wouldn’t need to hide behind his best friend to make it. A real man would be able to do it himself.”

  “Fuck you, Dad. You don’t know—”

  “Ah, but I do know.” His laugh is grating. His words a reincarnated repetition of the same shit I’ve been hearing for over a decade. “I know your mom left because she didn’t want you. I know I’ve fought for years to give you everything so you can what? Be in the background because you’re too much of a pussy to take center stage yourself? I would have killed for that chance, and clearly you just don’t have it in you. A real man would, but then again, it’s you, right? Can’t expect too much from you when you never were much to begin with anyway.”

  “Nothing’s wrong,” I mutter.

  “I call bullshit.”

  “Fine. Call it.” I shrug. “Does it make you feel better?”

  “This isn’t a joke.”

  “Who’s laughing?” I ask.

  “You’re not taking me seriously.”

  “I pride myself on it.”

  Hawke pinches the bridge of his nose and sighs. “Look. You fucked up big time last night.”

  “Nice change of tactic. You’ve always been the one who tried to keep the peace.”

  “Last night?” He raises his eyebrows and demands an answer that I don’t have a good enough answer for.

  “The fucker had it coming to him,” I say of the reporter I chewed out on the red carpet. On live TV. “Ask stupid fucking questions like that and—”

  “They’re only stupid if they’re not true.”

  “I didn’t touch the woman. The kid she’s claiming is mine, isn’t. I’ll never chance my fucked-up genes in a next generation.”

  “C’mon. Talk to me. Maybe I can help.”

  “I don’t need your fucking help, Doctor Play. I just need . . .” I don’t know what the fuck I need, but I’m sure it can be found on the other end of a vice.

  I brace my hands on the soundboard and look at the empty studio beyond. The one we were in thirty minutes ago. The one that gave me the only reprieve I seem to have these days—music.

  My friend’s sigh is as heavy as the weight on my chest. “So this is how it’s going to be?”

  “How what’s going to be? You trying to control me? I like handcuffs, brother, but only when they’re used during sex.”

  If I keep pushing, maybe he’ll just walk away. Maybe he’ll just leave me the fuck alone.

  “I’m just trying to help, Vince.”

  The minute his hand touches my shoulder, my temper snaps and arm is cocked back, ready to fly.

  He stares at me, eyes daring me to land the punch and begging me not to at the same time.

  He doesn’t understand.

  No one does.

  How do you hate someone and love them simultaneously? Even when they do nothing but tear you down? Especially because they’re the only person who didn’t leave you?

  “I’m dying, Vinnie. Liver cancer. Stage four.”

  My dad’s words come out of nowhere. The fuck?

  “A year, maybe.”

  I keep my head down and just nod. What the fuck am I supposed to say?

  “Just thought you’d want to know.”

  I grunt. Is it normal not to feel a goddamn thing hearing that?

  “What? No comeback? No sweet words from a son to his father?” His chuckle is cruel. “Don’t worry. I didn’t expect much from my total loser of a son. Perhaps the shame I feel about you will kill me before the fucking cancer does.”

  I lower my fist, the need to throw it still vibrating through me. Still owning me. Still begging for the release I can’t seem to find. Fucking great. Way to be just like your old man. Come out swinging when you feel backed into a corner. You’re an asshole, Jennings. A total fucking asshole.

  “That’s how it’s going to be? You don’t want to hear the truth so you’re going to fight your way out of it?” Hawke asks.

  Instead of answering, I move around the room again, looking for a bottle of something, anything, to numb the pain. “You forget, brother. I never had a mom, and I sure as hell don’t need one now.”

  The vial. I forgot I had some feel-good powder with me. With my back to Hawke, I pull it out of my pocket, pour a little powder on the tip of my finger, and wipe some on my gums. The kick is almost instant. The feeling that all is right with the world. The euphoria that lets me breathe again. The ability to forget for just a moment.

  “Want some?”

  “Fuck no,” Hawke shouts, knocking the open vial out of my hand before I can barely finish my question. It falls to the floor and spills out. “What in the hell are you doing?”

  My laugh is loud. My head like a balloon floating and attached to my body by a string. “Like I said, Pretty Boy Play is too good for me now.”

  “Dammit, Vince. This isn’t you. This isn’t—”

  “Like you’ve fucking looked close enough in the past few months to have a right to say you know me.”

  “What the hell, man. How dare you say—”

  “Whatever.” I wave a hand his way. “I don’t need you. I never have. I never will again. Go back to your shitty singing, your precious band, and your pretentious, fucking wife. I’m sure you’ll be better off without me.”

  Hawkin stands there dumbfounded, head shaking and teeth gritted. The fist I expect to fly over my insult of his wife, the blatant lie, doesn’t come. Hell, it never even clenches. “That’s how you want this to go, huh?” His words are measured.

  “Pretty sure it doesn’t need to go anywhere when it’s already been done and gone for some time.”

  “What are you saying?”

  “Doesn’t need to be said, does it?” I look around the studio, shake my head, and say, “Fuck this,” before heading toward the door.

  “You’re quitting? Just like that, after everything?”

  “Just like that. I’m better off without you. Without this. Just you wait and see.”

  “You’re going to regret those words.” His statement stops me in my tracks, hand pressed against the open door.

  I hang my head for a beat and chuckle softly despite the pang his words create. “No, what I regret is letting you tear me down for so long that I actually believed I was less than you.”

  I’m drowning in alcohol, in regret, in words I know we’ve spoken that I can’t take back. That I’m not sure I want to take back because fuck, does it feel good to say them. To tell my best friend how much I fucking resent him for being him when I have to be me.

  There’s the fucking proof. Money doesn’t fix the fucked-up shit in your past. Fame doesn’t fill the voids others left behind. “Friendship” doesn’t overshadow abandonment.

  But alcohol helps dull it all.

  Coke helps to forget even more.

  Do I still love him and Rocket and Gizmo?

  Fuck yes, I do. More than anyone I’ve ever known save for one person.

  But I also hate them.

  And when I walk out the door, shoving it so hard it slams against the wall behind it, a bitter taste is in my mouth over words I’ll never be able to take back.

  I glance back and see Hawkin standing in the darkened studio, his shoulder resting against the wall, and his face an expression I hope I never see again.

  Disappointment.

  Worry.

  Pain.

  Pity.

  Fuck you, Hawke.

  Just fuck you.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Bristol

  “He’s getting so big,” I murmur to no one as my mom collects her things behind me and gets ready to head back to her place. Jagger is on my apartment’s small back patio. He’s set up a makeshift track and is “driving” his trucks around on it and occasionally smashing them into each other with the sound effects to go along.

  “It goes by in the blink of an eye, doesn’t it?”

  “It feels like it.”

  “Just yesterday you were that age and now look at you.” Her chuckle is bittersweet, much like how I’ve felt over the past few days. “He brought up wanting to learn how to play the guitar again today.”

  She says the words as if she already knows what I need to tell her. As if she already knows Vince is in town.

  “I’ll have to get him lessons.” I sigh. “Just another thing to try and manage, another expense to figure out . . . and another thing I don’t want to deprive him of.”

  She slides her arm around my shoulder and pulls me against her. “If you weren’t so damn stubborn and independent, things could be easier for you, you know. Less stressful. Living with me would mean a bigger yard for Jagg. Less work for you because we’d halve our expenses. A built-in babysitter that you don’t have to stress about asking to stay over because this or that got crazy at work—or God forbid, you had a hot date and wanted to get a little action. I’ve heard that relieves stress now and then too.”

  I laugh as she bumps her hip against mine, but it sounds as distracted as my thoughts.

  She deserves to know, doesn’t she? After all, she has been through all of this with me. Finding out. The aftermath. The heartbreak. The decision.

  And yet, I’m hesitating.

  Shit. Here goes nothing . . .

  “Talking about stress, I need to talk to you about a few things, Mom.”

  “Are these good things or bad things? They better not be you’re moving out of state and away from me type of things.”

  “No. It’s nothing like that. It’s more like, I’ve gotten a temporary promotion at work.”

  “You did?” She screeches loud enough that Jagger looks up from his demolition derby, offers an I’m glad you’re laughing but my cars are more interesting than your conversation smile, and then goes back to making a crashing sound. “That’s awesome, Bri. Tell me all about it. What are you doing? Why is it temporary? Does this mean that that McMann guy finally figured out what I already know? That my daughter is an absolute force to be reckoned with, and he’s missing the boat if he doesn’t utilize her full potential?”

  I take a step away from her and motion in the calm down gesture. It doesn’t mean that the praise doesn’t feel good even if it’s your mom saying it. “It’s mostly because of a client. The one I had to stay late for the other night. McMann wants me to hold the guy’s hand while we’re working on repackaging him to the public, so to speak.”

  “Please tell me that doesn’t mean the client gets to treat you like shit. McMann does enough of that already.” To say my mom hates my boss is an understatement. But then again, I don’t exactly like him either. To me, he’s a stepping-stone to get where I want to go.

  “Actually, the client has stuck up for me numerous times thus far.”

  “I like him already. Are you allowed to tell me who it is?” she asks. I always tell her though, even when our client’s identity is supposed to be kept confidential.

  “Well, that’s the second part of what I wanted to tell you.”

  “Oh?” She takes a seat on the couch, distracted by straightening the pillows on either side of her. But when she glances up and notices my expression, she pauses. “What are you not telling me?”

  Rip off the Band-Aid, Bristol.

  After a quick glance to Jagger, I confess. “It’s Vince.”

  Her mouth falls into a shocked O. “Bristol.” My name is a warning, a question, and an exclamation.

  “I know.”

  “You knew this day might come someday.”

  “I’m well aware of that fact.” I don’t know why I suddenly feel on the defensive, but I am.

  “I don’t even know what to say or ask.”

  “Neither do I, if I’m honest.” And I’m not sure why it suddenly feels like a weight has been lifted off my chest, but it does. I’ve been stewing on this for the past couple of days, worrying about this, and now I feel like I finally have a sounding board.

  Albeit a very opinionated sounding board, but one nonetheless.

  She glances toward Jagger and smiles softly. “Are you going to tell him?”

  That’s the question, isn’t it?

  “I didn’t intend to.” Do I want kids? That’s a hard fucking no. His words the other day struck me hard and reaffirmed my decisions. Then and now. “He didn’t want kids back then, and he still feels the same. Who am I to upend his life for a decision I made and would make again if I had to?”

  “That’s one school of thought. The other is that he has every right to know. That maybe he’d feel differently once he met his incredible son.” She purses her lips. “You could get some financial support then, and you wouldn’t have to work your fingers to the bone—”

  “I don’t want money from him.”

  “You have a right to it.”

  “I have a right to a lot of things, but that doesn’t mean I take advantage of them.”

  She nods but her stare is weighted. “Why did you tell me if you don’t want any of my advice?”

  “I do, I just . . .” I blow out a heavy sigh and move around my place. It may be small, but it’s mine and filled with so much love for Jagger that it makes me happy. “It’s complicated. My feelings. My thoughts. Just everything is complicated.”

  “Anything to do with a child is complicated. I mean, look at Dad and me. We waited to divorce until you were nineteen because we feared how it would affect you. And even then, it devastated you.”

  “We’re talking about apples and oranges,” I say but understand her point.

  “We’re talking about your son and what you’re going to do or not do when it comes to his father.”

  “I worry that I’m hurting him every day because he doesn’t have a father who’s present. You know that. I know that. But wouldn’t it hurt him more to have a dad who knows about him and rejects him than to not know him at all?”

  “Telling Vince isn’t the same as Jagger knowing.”

  I force myself to stop moving and sit down. She’s right. Maybe it’s my own heart I’m protecting. Maybe I’d be devastated if I did tell Vince and he rejected Jagger on the spot. That would be worse than ripping my heart out and stomping on it.

  “I did tell him I was pregnant. Or tried to anyway but was railroaded by the manager. And then he wouldn’t answer my calls. Then he blocked them. I mean . . . that told me enough in and of itself.” I pinch the bridge of my nose. She knows all of this, but it’s almost like repeating it makes me feel better about my decision. “Maybe I didn’t try hard enough. Maybe, even though I was scared and heartbroken, I was worried Vince would try to talk me out of having Jagger when I knew I wanted him more than anything in the world.”

  “Maybes aren’t going to give you your answers, sweetie.”

  “I know. Believe me I know.” I rest my head on the back of the couch and look at the ceiling. Those fairy-tale visions I’d had in the past come back. The ones where Vince and Jagger are sitting on the floor playing. Where Vince was shirtless and holding our newborn son. Where Father’s Day is celebrated instead of being a day where I try to fill in for the things Jagger is missing out on.