I expect a refusal but am greeted with a sleepy ghost of a smile and a quick nod. “Thank you. Night.”
Bristol walks away with a quick look over her shoulder before she disappears between two apartments in a trove of darkness.
Conflicted over things I’m not even sure of, I stare where I last saw her for way longer than I should. It’s only when I climb back in my SUV that I notice her driver’s license on the passenger seat. It must have fallen out of her purse.
She looks back at me in the photo. Her hair is a little darker and her smile crooked. I’m brought back to picture days in high school and waiting to see which one of our student ID cards was worse. How she’d carry mine around in her purse and keep them long after the school year ended.
But there’s something else that catches my eye. The address. It’s different than where I’m parked. A quick glance at the issue date of her license says it’s only a few months old. That means the address should be correct.
Curiosity has me punching the address into my GPS and heading there.
The little cottage-like apartment is two blocks over and one block down from where I dropped Bristol off. The driveway in front is empty, and the front porch has some potted flowers that spill over their edges.
Just as I pull to the curb on the opposite side of the street, a light flicks on in the front room, and Bristol moves to the windows and closes three sets of blinds.
I’m not sure if I’m hurt or impressed by her deceit. Hurt that she doesn’t want me to know where she lives and impressed that she had the balls to deceive me.
The question is, as her silhouette moves about the room, why doesn’t she?
It seems someone else is keeping her guard up too.
So why does that make me even more determined to tear it down?
I sit there and stare at her place long past the time the lights turn out. It’s either sit here or stare at my ceiling. Insomnia is a bitch to say the least.
Those fucking what ifs come back to haunt me in the silence of my car.
My fingers begin to tap out a riff on the steering wheel.
Chords start repeating over and over in my head.
Those fucking lyrics that have eluded me week after week materialize out of nowhere.
One night. Love shined.
The taste of you stuck in my mind.
Sunrise. Goodbyes.
The words we said were total lies.
Long roads. Dead ends.
Being fine alone was all pretend.
On the road. On the stage.
To live without you I had to disengage.
You were the one, right from the start.
Because of that, I broke your heart.
I’ve always loved you,
But could never keep you.
You won’t forgive.
And I can’t forget.
You’ve always been my sweet regret.
I look down at the words I scribbled on the back of a receipt I had in my wallet. I read them over and over, the music to accompany them all but composing itself in my head.
I guess my muse is talking again.
Too bad I can’t tell her the words she deserves to hear.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Vince
A trip back to Fairfield wasn’t exactly on my bucket list. On the outskirts of the Bay Area, it’s known for being close to vineyards but not having any, hot summer weather, lack of jobs, and home of one Deegan Jennings.
I’d much rather not have it claim that last fucking part.
When I left here, the only thing that ever tempted me to come back was Bristol. It’s not lost on me that she was here today too as I strolled down memory lane. A lane where the only good ones were with her.
A visit to the only high school. A reunion with the school music teacher who taught me how to read music. Another to the first underground club I played in where I lied about my age so I could take the stage. A sit-down interview that ate up the rest of the fucking day.
Word got out I was there. Fucking small town. By the way people showed up, I’m sure texts were flying over where the camera crews were as the day wore on.
I didn’t mind it. It’s not like I’m not used to it yet. McMann fucking loved it, but attention is his thing.
The fuck all of it was that it had me looking in every single crowd, worried my dad would be there. Concerned he was going to show up drunk, make a scene, and reveal me for the imposter he says I am.
Just because he didn’t show didn’t mean he was immune to the rumors. The texts came. Oh how they fucking came. One after another.
Dad: Ah how cute, you’re pretending to be a real rock star today.
Dad: Where can we meet up?
Dad: You know where to drop off a check.
Dad: I’m sitting here waiting.
Dad: Last. Fucking. Chance. Make it right.
Same shit. Different day.
I scrub a hand over my face, grateful to be rid of all the goddamn makeup they put on me today so I wouldn’t look washed out during filming.
And more than grateful for the hour-long car ride away from that shithole town and relieved to be sitting amid the bright lights of San Francisco. The skyscraper-peppered skyline. The red of the Golden Gate Bridge lost in a haze of fog. The haunting shadow of Alcatraz in its midst.
My beer is empty.
My mind is wandering.
My body is tired.
And my sigh weighs a fucking ton when my cell rings. But when I look at the screen, I’m surprised because it’s not who I think it is.
“Hawkin?”
“Hey.”
Awkwardness permeates the silence.
How are you?
I fucked up.
I miss the fuck out of you.
“What can I do for you?” I ask, voice gruff, head spinning, and pride refusing to let me say the things I need to say. Should say.
“You good?”
“Great. Perfect. Why?”
“No reason.” He clears his throat. “I was at the studio today.”
“Yeah?” Why is he telling me this?
“Yeah. Noah played me the last track you laid down,” he says, and I wince. “It’s good, man. Really good.”
“It’s shit and you know it.”
“You always were hard on yourself.”
“Some things never change, huh?”
“Yeah. Guess so.”
Why is it so hard to talk to the man who used to be my closest friend?
“How’s Quinlan?”
Go back to your pretentious fucking wife.
My own words echo back to me, and I deserve the hesitation he gives in response. “Things are good all around.”
“Good. Glad to hear.” I pinch the bridge of my nose, uncertain how to swallow my pride and take that step forward.
Just fucking do it, Jennings.
I go to open my mouth, but before I can get anything out, Hawke speaks. “I’ve gotta get going.”
“Yeah. Sure. No prob.”
“Maybe I’ll talk to you sometime.”
“Maybe,” I murmur, the silence stretching. “Hey, Hawke?”
“Yeah?”
“Thanks for the call.”
“No problem.”
When the connection ends, I stare at the screen for longer than I should, uncertain how I feel about the conversation other than feeling fucking reckless.
The last thing I want to do is have dinner with Xavier. The fucker is so far up my ass he can see out my belly button. I’m used to freedom, to not being managed with kid gloves, so maybe that’s why I’m feeling confined.
And it’s all the worse knowing he’s on one side of my room and Bristol is on the other.
Fuck it.
Bristol’s eyes are wide with surprise when she opens her door and finds me there.
“You’re back.”
She took a separate car back to the city than we did so she could stay behind and visit with her dad.
“I have been. Why, what’s up?”
Over her shoulder I can see a laptop and textbooks scattered all over the bed. Her hair is pulled up in a messy bun that only serves to highlight her long neck in the off-the-shoulder sweatshirt she’s wearing.
“We’re going out.”
“No, we’re not.” She steps forward and looks back and forth down the hall, no doubt for Xavier.
“Where’s your sense of adventure?”
“Rooted firmly with keeping my job.” She offers me a saccharine-sweet smile before trying to close the door.
I stop it with my hand and walk in after her. “You want to be a lawyer, right? Become an agent and manage talent someday?” I move in front of her so she can’t avoid me. “You can study all you want, Shug, but the most valuable lessons you’re going to learn will be hands-on.”