Sweet Regret

“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?”