She frowns at me.
“By the time we exploded onto the scene, I was an addict. My drug use started a few months after my sixteenth birthday—“ A few weeks after Steffie’s death— “It became apparent a few years ago when I began to be too fucking high to perform at our concerts. I missed press junkets—or was strung out at them. I fucked up an entire tour, Georgiana. I carried illegal weapons because of the fucked up places I found myself. My accounts were frozen, but I needed my fixes.” I scrub my hands over my face again, hoping I’m getting through to her. Some of this is public news. Other parts have been taken care of by Jaeger, manager and spin doctor. “Fifteen months ago? When I destroyed the equipment in the studio? When I shot at Kiln?” Her eyes widen. “That didn’t get through to me. I overdosed that night. Kiln and Maitland found me. After I recovered, I agreed to go into rehab. I resent the fuck out of all of them for pushing my back to the wall with threats. Suddenly, music that was everything to me is an albatross. Until I’m onstage. Then, it’s everything. I understand their position, but I feel cornered. They don’t trust me—I betrayed them time and again and, yet, I founded the band.” I turn away from the grief in her eyes. She idolizes me and I’ve just shown myself to be nothing but a man. “Do you want that for yourself? Do you want to find your calling in life and feel the fire for it smother away until it almost chokes you?”
She shakes her head.
I grip her chin between my thumb and forefinger. “I shouldn’t have come. You’re right. I want to save you but I want to fuck you, too.”
“I’ll remember everything you’ve shared with me. You have an unfair advantage over my heart. The night we met, it already loved you. It’s only gotten stronger with the time I’ve spent with you. But that doesn’t matter. No one will believe I carry real feelings. True love is only possible if you’re eighteen and over. It would’ve broken my heart if you’d died, but you didn’t. You endured. You’re a survivor, Sloane. I know you’re hurt and angry. Get over it. We all have choices, right? You chose to agree to their terms and do this tour, record the album. Walk away if you feel put upon.” She glances away from me and sunlight bounces off her glistening eyes. “For what it’s worth, I believe in you. I always have and I always will. It’s time for you to start believing in yourself.”
She says nothing more. What else is there to say? We’ve exhausted words and emotions, so I kiss her forehead. But it isn’t enough, so I kiss her lips and she grabs my neck, clinging to me. She pulls away first and caresses my jaw.
“Go, Sloane,” she orders. “Make your music and forget about me.”
Sloane
Fingers of darkness spread in all directions of the layered sky. Orange atop purple atop gray and dark blue. Despite the heat, it’s a gorgeous Houston night and I’m tempted to get on the Harley once I get back to the hotel and take a ride to Galveston.
My mind is all over the place, but, somehow, always goes back to Georgie. It takes everything in me to not return to her hospital room tonight. Luckily, it’s after hours once I arrive at my suite after another practice session.
Only Kiln returns with me. Undoubtedly, to fucking torture me, since he’s so fucking skilled at it. He opens the door and precedes me in, leaving me to close it, since it doesn’t have the hinge to automatically do so. When I do and I turn, I stop dead in my tracks before scowling at the man on the sofa and heading to the bar.
“Do you want a drink, Dad?” I ask grudgingly.
He doesn’t answer until I reach the bar. “Gin and tonic.”
Kiln snorts. We both know gin and tonic was my mother’s favorite drink. When she died, Dad seemed to use it as a memorial to her.
Other than my mother, I can’t imagine Rand Mason idolizing anyone to such a degree. He’s white-haired and distinguished, and seems to breed money by snapping his fingers. Out of all his children, I resemble him the most.
Resentment wafts from Kiln. I bare my teeth at him, not bothering to offer him refreshments. I’d just as soon serve him piss.
Once I hand Dad his drink and he tastes it, I seat myself across from him.
“How was your date?” he asks with a smirk.
He’s referring to Cassandra, whom I refuse to discuss with him. Or anyone. She’s a mistake best forgotten. Gulping my vodka neat, I roll my eyes and counter, “How did you get involved with Abby’s shenanigans? An old fuck like you?”
Dad’s seventy if he’s a day. I stopped keeping track of his birthdays upon Steffie’s death. There’s an even greater age difference between him and Abby than there is between me and Jaeger.