Page 23

Rocket

O therwise, you wouldn’t give me a second thought.

Willow’s words from the other night loop in my head like a hook stuck on repeat. One I keep jotting down but can’t seem to write the chorus for. They replay over and fucking over, and I hate how loud they scream.

Because it’s a total fucking lie. Not give her a second thought? Does she realize that goddam kiss nearly ruined me? That I’ve thought about it more times than is probably healthy?

I groan, dragging both hands through my hair and tipping my head back toward the ceiling of the studio. Because isn’t thatexactlywhat I’ve done? Thought about her? Wanted her? Fought againsttakingher?

She’s just a distraction, Rock.

That’s all she is.

So I don’t have to focus on the terrifying part.

The part that’s three years old and sleeps with a bunny and has eyes that look exactly like mine.

The part that I’m struggling with. I know I need to get over my own fears, I know I need to figure my shit out .

.. and I know my failure to do so is one hundred percent on me.

No one else.

And it’s a fucking miserable place to be .

“Hello?” Hawkin’s voice cuts through my thoughts. “Earth to Rocket. You in there, fucker?”

I blink and look up.

We’re in the studio—guitars slung, mics hot, drumsticks at the ready—and by the jump of colored bars on the computer screens on the opposite side of the glass, the track is still rolling in the background. Apparently, I’ve spaced the hell out mid-verse.

“Yeah. Sorry. I—uh—”

“You just stopped playing,” Vince says from the corner and lifts a brow. “Mid-chorus you just stopped playing. Do we need to be worried? Call an ambulance?”

“Call an escort,” Gizmo mutters, and the guys snicker.

“I’m fine,” I say.

“Oh, so you already got the escort, and that’s why you’re so tired?” Hawkin chimes in.

“When have any of us ever had to pay for pussy?” I flip them off, but by the nods, I’ve made my point.

I yawn, only fueling their speculation that I had a hard night. Too bad it’s not for what they think it was.

“Can we just—can you guys shut up and play?” I ask.

“Wow,” Gizmo says, twirling a drumstick between his fingers. “Touchy-touchy.”

“We can, but if you’re going to drift off to space—”

“ Rocket off to space,” Gizmo adds in a lame attempt at a joke that earns him snorts.

“And forget where you are again? It’s better if we just call it a day,” Vince says dryly.

“Lead us in, Giz,” I say through gritted teeth. I came here today to get lost in the music to find a bit more of myself. It’s what I’ve always needed. Today is no different.

I position my hands at the keyboard on the ready as Gizmo counts us in.

And for a few glorious minutes, I disappear. Into Gizmo’s steady beat. With Vince’s guitar riffs. And with Hawkin’s gritty voice as he plays with the lyrics we’ve been testing on this new song. My fingers move on the keys as my foot taps out the count.

Giz adjusts his tempo and the rest of us quicken the pace.

“Nah, I don’t like that,” Vince shouts over the music as he keeps playing but then directs the pace half a beat slower.

We adjust to him.

This is what ten years together does. It allows us to know each other, to anticipate each other, and for now, to work like a well-oiled machine.

Because there are definitely times when we’ve been at each other’s throats.

I close my eyes and just play. This is what I’ve needed.

It’s one thing to sit in my studio at home and play.

It’s another to be with my brothers and let the music we create grab hold of something feral in me.

The ache. The anger. The want. The confusion.

And it burns through my veins like gasoline.

The chords are dirty. The drums hit hard. The lyrics blur into noise.

But . . . I feel like I can breathe.

We finish the chorus, sweat on our brows, chests heaving, and the reverb still humming in the floorboards.

“Damn,” Hawkin says, pulling his shirt over his head, wiping his face with it. “Should we test that out next leg?”

“Feels like something,” Vince agrees.

There’s a collective nod between the four of us as Vince pulls the guitar strap over his head and Giz sets his drumsticks down before guzzling a bottle of water.

“Hey, Rock?” Giz says.

“Hmm?”

“Are we going to talk about your ... situationship?” he asks and has Vince and Hawke looking my way for a reaction.

“There isno situationship , whatever the hell that is.”

“Situation and relationship combined,” Gizmo says. “Duh.”

Hawkin barks out a laugh. “Hendrix has you watching way too many episodes of Real Housewives or whatever if you’re using terms like that.”

“No clue what the fuck you’re talking about,” Gizmo continues. And I’m fine with that. So long as the focus is on him, it’s off me. “I heard it in the bakery the other day. I stopped to pick Hendrix up and overheard some girls in the front using it.”

“No doubt those girls were teenagers speaking, so let’s save our dignity, Giz, and not bring them here,” Vince says with a chuckle, but his arms are crossed over his chest, and he’s leaning back. He’s thinking. And then he turns and looks at me. “The man does have a point.”

“And what is that?” I ask, feigning like I already forgot.

“What are you going to do about the tour? The nanny coming?” he asks. “Or is she staying home so you can go back to fucking your way through each city like the good ol’ days?”

I laugh—but it’s hollow. “Sounds tempting.”

Except it’s not.In fact, it’s the last fucking thing on my mind.

“ Sounds tempting because you’re already fucking her and over her, or sounds tempting because it’ll keep you occupied so you don’t fuck her?” Hawkin asks. There’s sarcasm in his tone, but there’s also something else. Curiosity? Speculation? “Which one is it?”

“How about it sounds tempting because it’s none of your fucking business?” I say and flash a smile I’m sure doesn’t reach my eyes.

“They were right,” Vince murmurs.

“Who was right?” Irritation peppers my tone.

“When they brought pizza over the other day for their little party with Poppy, Bristol said the two of you were avoiding each other,” Vince says, referring to when their wives came over two days ago.

“Glad to know they have a pulse on things in my house.”

“Dude, why the fuck are you so uptight?” Gizmo says.

“Because he needs to get laid,” Hawkin whispers.

“She’s not like your usual type,” Vince says out of the blue.

“What the hell does that mean? You’ve never even met her.”

“You’re right. We haven’t because we’ve been giving you space because we’re good like that. We’re waiting for you to invite us over,” Hawkin says.

“And have you harass her like this? No fucking way,” I mutter.

“Well according to Hendrix, Willow’s hot but definitely not your type,” Gizmo says.

“What does that even fucking mean?” I shout. I’m so fed up.

“It means,” Hawkin jumps in, “that she’s not down for a quick fuck and posting a social media picture to brag about who she spent the night with.”

“You guys have never met her so your opinions are moot.”

“ Moot ?” Giz asks, lifting his eyebrows. “Rock always goes for the thesaurus when he gets defensive. The question is, what are you defensive about?”

“Unless of course, you like her,” Hawkin says. “And it doesn’t take a thesaurus-wielding rocket scientist to know a woman who spends her days taking care of other people’s kids and living in their house isn’t exactly a fuck-her-and-chuck-her woman.”

“Jesus,” I mutter.

“And to emphasize Hawke’s point, it’s not like you can just sleep with her and wash your hands of her like you typically do,” Vince says.

“Like we all used to do,” I say. “Just because you’re all married fuckers now doesn’t mean I don’t remember.”

“Look, asshole,” Gizmo says. “They have a point. You sleep with Willow, you ruin that whole situationship. If Willow leaves, then Poppy gets the short end of the stick. Again .”

I rub the back of my neck. “Can we just play? Please?”

“Dude, you have a fucking kid,” Hawkin says and shakes his head. “I mean fucking the nanny is all good and well, but why are we focusing on that instead of Poppy?”

“Because it’s way fucking easier,” I shout. Silence weighs down the studio as they all stare at me. Shocked.

“Talk to us,” Vince says.

“And say what? I’m a horrible father?” My voice cracks, the admission eating me alive inside.

“I refuse to believe that,” Hawkin says.

“We all had fucked-up families. Isn’t that partly why we commiserated so well in the beginning?

We understood each other and where we were coming from.

We all get it. The fear of failing our kids.

Of being our parents. Of fucking our kids up more than our parents did us. ”

The lump in my throat grows bigger with each passing second.

“But here’s the thing, Rock,” Vince says, “if you don’t show up, then you’re letting that fucker who walked out on you when you were one year old win. You’re letting your selfish, revolving-door-of-a-mother win. You’re better than both of them. All of us can vouch for it.”

“The best thing about kids is they forgive and forget and are willing to love you for simply nothing. That’s why our parents’ actions hurt so bad,” Gizmo says.

“We know it’s hard, but you’ve gotta show up. You have to try. Be there for Poppy even if it’s just to watch the same stupid show over and over and over until your ears bleed,” Hawkin says, and Vince chuckles.

Fuck. Tears well, one falls over, and I wipe it away as fast as I can as I turn my back from them and take a few steps to compose myself .

My chest burns with shame. But there’s also... hope and a desire to do what they’re saying I should. From knowing they understand me when no one else possibly could. From knowing they believe in me.

I sniffle and am just about to turn back around when Gizmo says, “You’re right. Talking about fucking the nanny is way easier than this.”

Laughter rings out. God, I love these guys .

“So for clarification, have you or have you not fucked the nanny yet?” Hawkin asks.

My middle fingers go up, and I feel the ground steady beneath me a bit more. I welcome it.

“Must be a world record for him,” Gizmo says. “Three whole weeks. No pussy. Write it down, boys.”

“Oh shit, someone call Guinness,” Vince adds, tapping the snare. “Get this man a trophy.”

“Or a condom.”

“Or a cold shower.”

“No, no,” Hawkin says with mock seriousness. “I feel a song coming on.”

Gizmo kicks in a quick beat on his drums. Without prompting, Vince grabs his acoustic and throws in some chaotic chord progressions. Hawkin starts singing in an exaggerated and horrible falsetto.

She walked in with juice boxes, hair in a bun,

Thought she was here for the kid, not the fun.

Vince starts in, and you can barely hear the lyrics through his laughter.

She’s a sweet distraction, pure satisfaction,

Got the nanny cam catching all the action.

They both point to Gizmo and wait for him to add on. He’s on it in a second.

She’s in the kitchen making grilled cheese,

He’s behind her like, drop to your knees.

Hawkin holds his hand up to indicate he’s going next.

Finger-paint on the fridge, bra on the floor,

Who needs a tour bus when she locks the door?

They’re laughing so hard Hawkin nearly drops his water. Giz is bent over his drum set holding his stomach, shoulders shaking, and Vince just shakes his head like he’s already finishing writing the chorus in his brain.

And as if on cue, all three look my way, and I do the only thing I can do—I laugh with them. “You guys are regular fucking comedians. ”

“We can keep going,” Gizmo says and lifts his sticks.

“No. Please.” I hold my hands up. “That’s the last thing I need repeating in my head when I go home and come face to face with Willow.”

“One more,” Hawkin says and jumps right into the lyrics.

So don’t ask where he’s been or what he’s doing tonight ...

He’s busy with the nanny.

And she’s doing him right.

“Please tell me we were recording that,” Vince says as he wipes tears of laughter from his eyes.

“That’s our next Grammy winner right there. Sweet Distraction,” Gizmo says and hits the cymbal to accentuate his words.

“Fucking hilarious,” I say with a heavy dose of sarcasm in between bouts of laughter.

“You’re laughing. That means we did our job,” Hawkin says.