Page 2

Rocket

M y mouth . It’s dry as sandpaper and tastes like a regretful combination of whiskey, remorse, and cotton.

But it has nothing on the pounding in my head. It feels like my brain is trying to claw its way out of my skull.

Fuck me.

I roll onto my stomach, bury my face into my pillow, and mutter a curse. My body is still buzzing from last night’s show and the hours of chaos that followed. A blur of bodies, booze, possibly a few bad decisions, but definitely some entertaining memories.

No doubt I’ll remember a few of them once this fog clears. I hope .

The plus side? I’m not in a hotel room, not on a bus going to the next stop...I’m in my own bed. In my own silence.

And thank fuck I was smart enough in my celebratory stupor last night not to have brought anyone home with me. While it might have been fun at the time, kicking them out in the morning is always a bit fucked up. Callous but needed.

I welcome the quiet. The stillness. After months on the road, days on end of bus wheels rumbling beneath me, and footsteps clomping up and down hotel hallways, it’s just silence and the comfort of my own fucking bed.

Heaven.

Or at least the heaven I’ll revel in for a few weeks before I get antsy to get back out there under the heat of the lights and in front of the roar of the crowd. The new town every night might suck, but the adrenaline and attention that come with this job are two highs I thrive on.

I let out a groan and stretch, arm flopping over the edge of the bed—

Bang. Bang. Bang.

I jolt from the sound and immediately bring my hands to my head as if that’s going to help protect it from the sound.

Bang. Bang. Bang.

“Jesus,” I mutter, dragging myself up and out of my bed. The room spins and my stomach pitches right along with it.

Who the hell is at my house this early?

I stumble down the hall toward the door. I’m in boxers but don’t give a fuck because the sunlight pouring in through the windows is enough to cripple a man.

Bang. Bang. Ba—

I throw open the door. “ What ?”

The person standing on the other side is not a fan. Not paparazzi. Not a woman looking for round two. And yet I know exactly how she got past the guard at the gate because she’s on my visitor’s list.

I just never actually thought she’d visit unless I was in trouble or about to be arrested.

Um...I look both ways to see if there are police somewhere and then let my shoulders fall when I see that there’s no one waiting to ambush me.

Why the hell is my lawyer standing at my door at this ungodly hour?

“Sandra?” I groan in protest.

“It’s eleven, Gavin,” she says using my real name. “You should already be up.” Her expression is calm, professional, and totally unimpressed by the half-naked rock star glaring at her through bloodshot eyes.

Isn’t that the reason I hired her as my lawyer? Dogged, unfazed, and efficient. I’ve never had her be that way with me, and I’m not exactly in the mood for it.

I rub a hand down my face. “Technically true. Still rude.”

“Thank you for inviting me in. I’d love to take a seat.” She snorts and the way she pushes past me and into my house has dread trickling through me. I shut the door and follow her determined walk and slicked-back bun.

“Is something wrong?” I ask, the mental fog clearing much faster than I would’ve preferred.

She spins on her heel once she reaches my kitchen, her sharp gray suit somehow making my house feel underdressed. “Depends on how you look at it.”

“Is that a yes?” I ask. Her eyes track over my living space as if she’s ready to judge. Thank God I only just got home so it’s clean—and for some reason, I think I need that on my side in this bizarre moment. “Because I’m beginning to think you’re not here to talk about contracts or rights or—”

“The name Olivia Whitmore ring a bell to you?” Her eyes narrow with the words.

“Should it? I meet a lot of people every day. Why would that name stand out?”

“Let me rephrase, and maybe the context will help. Do you remember sleeping with a woman named Olivia Whitmore?”

“Olivia?” I fumble through my scattered thoughts and try to place the face that belongs to the name. The haze clears just enough for it to register and erase any trace of alcohol that might have been left in my system.

Olivia .

A smirk toys at the corners of my lips. Her raspy voice and throaty laugh are vague but there. Long hair. Brown eyes. Incredible body. And a helluva lot of fun in the sack.

“Olivia. Olivia Whitmore,” she says, her smile suggestive and her eyes addictive.

“I don’t do last names, sweetheart. Never remember them.”

“I’ll guarantee when I’m done doing the things I want to do to you that you’ll remember it just fine.”

“Is that a dare?”

“It is.”

“Then by all means . . . dare accepted. ”

The woman did know how to make a lasting impression—for a while anyway. The years that have passed—and the women since then—definitely made sure of that.

“You do remember her,” Sandra says, but her resigned sigh unnerves me.

I shift uncomfortably. “Vaguely, but yes. If it’s who I’m thinking of, we hooked up a few years ago.

” I try to place the when and the where.

Sometimes in this life of mine, it all runs together.

“It was after we played that charity event at Hollywood Bowl. Maybe twice? Loved tequila. Red heels. Something about her laugh caught my ear. Why?”

But the minute I ask the question, I realize there can’t be anything good about a woman I slept with years ago being brought up now. By my lawyer, no less.

It can only be one of two things: she’s accusing me of shit I didn’t do or she had a kid and is trying to say it’s mine.

Both are so far-fetched it’s ridiculous. Both something each of us in the band—and so many in this industry—have been accused of in the past for attention or hopes for monetary compensation.

And so far, when it’s come to my bandmates, every accusation arisen over the years has been discredited.

“Whatever she’s saying is bullshit. You know that. I know that.” I scrub a hand through my hair. “We’ve been there and done that with the wannabe groupies desperate for their fifteen minutes of fame. This is the last thing I need right now.”

“Ms. Whitmore died last week in a car accident.”

“Oh.” Her comment startles me. “I mean, I’m sorry for her family, but I don’t understand what that has to do with me.”

“Her will named you.” Her smile is tight. Unforgiving.

“Named me for?” I ask, voice breaking and concern now front and center because the last thing I’d assume is I’m about to be left a small fortune.

Sandra doesn’t respond. Instead, she opens the file in her hand and pulls out a short letter. She holds it out for me, but I don’t take it. I’m scared to.

“Why would I be in her will, Sandra?” I ask. Each second that ticks by seemingly makes this situation and unwelcome house call that much worse .

“Olivia had a daughter. Poppy Grace Whitmore is her name. She’s three years old.”

“Nope. No way.” I laugh, disbelief dripping off its edges. “There is no fucking way she’s pinning a kid on me.” I move about the room as if the movement can physically reject whatever it is that Sandra has come here to sell.

“I’m not pinning anything, Rocket. But Olivia left a letter stating you were the father as well as a copy of Poppy’s birth certificate naming you the same.”

I shake my head, and a dry laugh escapes my throat. “Right. Great. I’m the father on the birth certificate. It’s stated in a letter she wrote. But the little girl has Whitmore as a last name. Help me make that make sense because...it fucking doesn’t.”

“I get you’re upset. I understand why you’re bucking this,” she says evenly. “That’s why we take a paternity test, get the results in a few days, and be done with this.”

She says it so matter-of-factly—like it’s a run-of-the-mill test—but inside...inside I’m freaking the fuck out. “She’s not mine,” I whisper as fear creeps into my voice. “Can’t be. I always used protection.”

Sandra lifts a brow. “Always?”

“Shit.” I drag a hand through my hair. How many times do I jacket up after having a few too many? Did I do it right? Did I fuck up? Did...“Yes. No. Fuck this, Sandra.”

“Like I said, a paternity test will clear this all up.”

My heart pounds in my ears and drowns out reasonable thought. “Doesn’t Olivia have parents or siblings? Wouldn’t Penelope—”

“Poppy.”

“Right. Poppy . Wouldn’t Poppy be better off with someone she already knows instead of some random man she’s never met before? And then what? Me, a certifiably unqualified bastard, is supposed to raise her without any warning or history of parenting at all?”

“While I can’t disagree with you, Olivia explicitly stated in her letter that she didn’t want her parents to have custody. Reading between the lines, it seems like they had some kind of falling out and so she wanted her to be with you. Not them.”

I scrub a hand over my face and groan. The bottle of gin on the far end of the kitchen counter calls to me, begs me, to drink this all away and pretend like it’s not real.

But Sandra standing in front of me with papers in her hand, ones I’m choosing to ignore, tell me otherwise. That this is very fucking real.

“Rocket. Gavin,” she says quietly, her expression softening just enough to chisel away some of the shock.

“We need the paternity test. I’ve brought a cheek swab kit to do that and get the ball rolling.

Until that’s confirmed or refuted, no one is doing anything.

The results will give us our next steps. ”

“Next steps.” I blow out an exaggerated breath and lace my fingers behind my head. Normally, I’d laugh this shit off and not worry, but something isn’t sitting well with me. Something...has dread weighing heavily. “You said car accident?”

“I did. On I-405 a few nights back. Drunk driver hit her and Poppy.”

“The kid was in the car?” Jesus fucking Christ . I blink hard and look away while my gut twists simply for the fragility of life.

“Yes. Poppy was there.”

Right. Poppy. Fuck.

“Where is she now? Are Olivia’s parents watching her in the meantime?”

“No. Child Protective Services has temporary custody of her. They’ve moved fast since her window of stability is small.

They’re looking to find someone to help ease the transition to whatever is next for her.

Someone who can build trust. I was told they’re looking to place her temporarily with a nanny who is familiar with trauma and might provide support while everything is figured out. ”

“A nanny?”

“Yes. Perhaps if this goes that way, it’s someone who can stay on and help you with the transition as well, seeing as she’ll already be vetted.”

“Don’t.” I hold up my hands. The last thing I want to talk about is nannies and toddlers and— “Let’s not get ahead of ourselves, okay?”

I blink hard and look around my place. Around the trophies of my life—Grammys and platinum records and pictures of a life lived alone—and wonder what the fuck is going on?

My bandmates are married. My bandmates have kids. I’ve watched each of them succumb to it over the years...but it’s not something I ever had on my future radar .

Sandra sets the letter down in front of me. “The letter is short. You should read it.”

I stare at the papers like they’re a live grenade, but not reading them doesn’t change the situation. My fingers tremble as I take it.

Rocket,

If you’re reading this, then something’s happened to me. I know this isn’t fair to spring on you, but I didn’t know how else to do it. Poppy is yours. She always has been. One look at her and you’ll see it.

Our night of fun created this incredible little girl.

You never asked for any of this and so I chose to keep her.

I chose to love her. And even though I know those choices made her my responsibility, that doesn’t mean that I didn’t want to tell you a hundred times, but I was scared you wouldn’t want her.

I was scared you’d reject her like my parents wanted me to do.

But if you are only finding out about her now, I should have told you.

I hope, more than anything, that you’ll want to know her.

And that since you’re reading this, that you’ll try to give her what I no longer can.

-Olivia

I stare at the handwriting until the letters blur. I shuffle to the one beneath it—a birth certificate with my name clear as fucking day under the section for “father.” If the letter didn’t give me a jolt, then the birth certificate sure as shit did.

Father : Gavin Aaron Caldwell.

Mother : Olivia Francis Whitmore.

Child : Poppy Grace Whitmore.

Everything inside me goes still.

“She could be lying,” I say hoarsely.

“She could,” Sandra agrees.

“Why name me on this if she wasn’t going to tell me?” I ask, trying to reason with logic in a situation that’s completely illogical.

“There are legal ramifications that come from your name stated as the father. It allows the mother to ask for support at any given time. Things like that,” Sandra says.

“But she didn’t. In past cases, I’ve seen mothers do this—name the father—maybe planning on telling Poppy the truth later in life, but. ..that’s a guess.”

A three-year-old little girl.

“This has to be a mistake. A total mistake.” My heart hammers, and my hands shake in a way they never have before.

“Again, that’s why we test. But if the results come back that she’s yours...you need to be prepared for that. This little girl has just lost everything she’s ever known and will need you.”

My head drops, fingers clenched around the letter. I should feel anger. Panic. Fear.

But all I can manage is focusing on the insanity of this. The randomness on a Friday morning. The ability this might have to fuck up my pretty fucking terrific life.

“She’s just a kid,” I murmur. “And if she’s mine...” I trail off, the weight of that if pressing harder than I expect.

Sandra doesn’t answer. She doesn’t need to.

Because I already know—my life might have just changed irrevocably.

And fuck if I want it to.