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Rocket

T his silence I’ve been drowning myself in is louder than any amp I’ve ever blown.

It echoes through my house and feels like every bad decision I’ve ever made is screaming back at me.

I haven’t turned on music. Haven’t touched an instrument. Haven’t called the guys. Haven’t done a damn thing but sit and wallow in a bottle or two of whiskey.

I usually love the silence and solitude after a long stretch on the road. I welcome the emptiness of my house and lack of schedule.

Not this time.

Not now.

This fucking waiting for Sandra’s call is going to be my undoing.

The clock ticks. Seconds pass. Minutes drag...hours feel like fucking days. There’s an awareness of the time. The kind you can’t drown out—I’ve tried—even when I’m trying to convince myself I already know what the results say.

It’s not mine.

She’s not mine.

She can’t be mine.

I rub a hand over my face, then press the heels of my palms into my eyes and try to stop the loop from running through my head. The one that’s taken me days to scrape together. The highlight reel is brief and uneventful, save for a few great orgasms.

Olivia. Red heels. Dark hair. Whiskey on her breath and a laugh that carried through crowded rooms.

The last time I saw her, she kissed me like there was no tomorrow, but like she didn’t want there to be one with me either. I think I said something stupid—something about us being fun while it lasted. No promises. No tomorrows. Just fun times and great orgasms.

Her words? “ Good thing I’m not a clingy bitch, or I’d have a hard time letting you walk away, Rocket Caldwell .”

Then she pulled me in for another dick-hardening kiss before winking and walking away with a smirk and a sway to her hips.

I didn’t ask questions. What fucking guy would? We parted on good terms, and I never expected to see her again.

And now this . . .

She can’t be mine. Poppy can’t be—

Fuck .

I pick up my phone out of habit, but there are no missed calls. No messages. No new texts.

The results are supposed to be in today.

They told Sandra it would be today.

I grab a bottle of water from the fridge, crack it open, and take a swig like it’s going to settle the chaos in my chest. It doesn’t. No wonder, given I’ve been living on amber liquid out of glass bottles.

My phone buzzes in my hand.

Hawkin .

I hesitate, then swipe to answer because I can’t fucking hide forever.

“What’s up, man?” I try to sound like my life isn’t in a fucking upheaval.

“You good, man?” he asks, curiosity tingeing the edges of his tone .

“Yeah. Why wouldn’t I be?” Has the media already found out? Did someone get a large payday on this rumor?

“You’ve been quiet as hell. You’ve usually blown up the group text at least twice by now and it’s been silence. You didn’t even respond to Giz’s last comment. It was the perfect opportunity for a classic Rocket cutdown, and you didn’t take it.”

“Shit, man,” I say and run a hand through my hair. “I must’ve missed it. I’ve kind of been on do not disturb. Guess I needed a little recharge. Post-tour coma and all that.”

“Right...” His tone is suspicious. “You’re not dying, are you?”

“Not that I know of. Should I be touched that you care?” I joke.

“Eat shit. You know I care.” He pauses. “You’re acting weird and when you act weird, something’s usually up.”

I pinch the bridge of my nose. “I’m fine, brother. Just tired. Just catching up on sleep and choosing to ignore the world for a bit.”

“You sure? You’re worrying us.”

Us . I bark out a laugh. “Ah, so you’re the poor fucker who was picked to check in on me.”

A pause. A chuckle proving I’m right. A surge of love for this family of mine I never expected to have and couldn’t do without.

“Something like that,” he says. “I’ll let you get back to your solitude or what-the-fuck-ever you’re doing.

Just know we’re here if you need anything.

Want to meet up for drinks on Thursday?”

“Maybe.”

“Maybe?” He snorts. “Now I’m definitely worried.”

“I—I’m just—” Possibly having a kid by then ? Like what the actual fuck do I say? “I’ll get back with you on it. For some reason I think I have something,” I lie.

“Fine. Sure. You know where to find me.”

Hawkin ends the call, and now I feel like shit because I just lied to one of my best friends rather than confide in him. But what good is confiding if this turns out to be nothing?

I don’t even have time to put the phone down before it rings again. Sandra .

My stomach drops at the sight of her name on my screen. I stare at the screen for a long second before answering.

She doesn’t waste any time. “The results came in. ”

My fingers flex against my thighs, and my heart thuds violently against my ribs. My throat hurts when I swallow. “Yeah?”

“Gavin . . . she’s yours .”

Those two words explode like a bomb in my head.

I thought I’d braced for the reality of it. Convinced myself that I alreadyknew—that I didn’t need a lab report or a blood test or legal documentation to confirm what I’d felt in my gut.

But this?

This is different.

This is real. Indisputable.

Jesus fucking Christ.

The weight of it compresses my ribs like a vise. My breath burns in my chest. My tongue feels swollen behind my teeth.

I don’t move. Can’t .

Don’t breathe. Don’t think I could if I tried.

She says something else, but I don’t hear it.

Mine .

Fuck me.

She’s mine.

“Sandra.” Her name is barely audible.

“You okay?” she asks solemnly.

“You’re sure?” I croak. A little girl. A three-year-old whose mom just died and no doubt whose world is more fucking upside down than mine is right now.

“I’m sure.” She gives me a moment to absorb this, if that’s even possible.

And I don’t. Can’t. I do what I’ve always done before and focus on what’s next.

On shoving how I feel—lost, helpless, forced, unprepared—down and moving one foot in front of the other while I let the fog of confusion consume me.

I need logistics and tangibles. Something other than the thudding of my heart.

“What does that mean?” My throat feels like acid poured over sandpaper. I’m sure it doesn’t sound much better either.

“Your introduction and her placement with you will be tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow?” I screech.

“It’s being arranged as we speak.” Her voice is so steadfast there’s no wiggle room, and yet I ask my question like there is .

“What do you mean tomorrow?” I shove up out of my seat and let my long legs eat up the length of the room.

“You’re her dad. You’re where she belongs.”

There has never been a more ludicrous statement spoken before. Not when it comes to me, anyway.

“I’m the furthest thing from a dad. I didn’t even have one to know how to be one. How am I supposed to—” Full-on panic sets in. I’m split between wanting to jump in my pool and sink to its bottom, or getting in my car and driving as far the fuck away from here and her as possible.

Both make me chickenshit. Both make this real.

I love my life. I have a damn good one. Like...

“No one expects you to walk into this with a degree in parenting. You’ll take it one day at a time. I have faith in you that you’ll figure it out.”

While I appreciate her encouragement, it falls on deaf ears.

“So...what? I have no say in the matter? Just ‘surprise, you have a kid,’ and it—she’s dropped on my doorstep?”

“She’s not a piece of luggage, so no, she won’t be just dropped per se, and no, Rocket, you don’t have any say in the matter because the test proved she is yours.”

“She can’t come tomorrow. I can’t...I’m...” On tour . But I’m not so I can’t use my go-to excuse for this. “I’ve got a schedule and appearances and a fucking life. I can’t just become a dad and—”

“Look,” she says sternly, pulling me from the spiral I’m going down. “I know this is a lot.”

“A lot? Sandra...I’m not dad material.” How can I be when my own never set anything close to an example? When my own didn’t even want me?

“If you think you’re lost, think of her . Poppy. She’s a little girl who just lost her mother and is being taken away from everything she’s ever known to come live with a father she’s never met. If you think you’re confused, think how she feels.”

Fuck. This isn’t happening.

“Gavin? You there?”

That silence I had drowned in all week slowly suffocates me until my chest burns and my body shakes.

“I need you to listen to me, yes?”

“I’m here.”

“She currently has a caretaker...a nanny, so to speak, who’s been looking after her this week.

Apparently, Poppy’s taken to her well. The nanny’s name is Willow Adams. From what the CPS officer has expressed, Willow has the experience and skills that are needed—someone Poppy trusts.

The state has paid for Willow’s services during this transition, but it would probably be for the best to keep her on until you find someone who suits you—”

“Vet her. Hire her. Keep her on.”

“Rocket, you haven’t even met her.”

“But that’s what you were suggesting, right?

Keep on the one person with any experience in this situation?

Fine. Done. As we’ve established, I don’t have the first fucking clue about having a kid.

None. Nor do I know what would be needed in a nanny.

If she’s as good as you tell me she is, if Poppy has taken to her, then keep her on.

” One less fucking thing I have to do and one way to keep everything at arm’s length for a while.

“Pay her the fucking world to keep her on. Give her whatever she asks for—”

“I don’t think—”

“Do you actually think I’m in my right mind right now to make any of these decisions? Poppy likes her. Fine. Done.”

“You’re not just an everyday Joe, Rocket. You have privacy concerns and—”

“Then do your job and make sure she signs an NDA and does whatever the fuck needs to be done. You’ve done it with everyone else who works for me, right? Then do it for her.”

There’s a slight pause. A sigh of measured frustration.