Un-fucking-believable. “You're psychotic.”
“I'm the love of your fucking life,” she growls. “And the woman you're marrying next spring.”
Laughter bubbles out of me as I call her bluff. “Not a chance in hell.”
I turn around and walk out the door, flashing her the middle finger just before it closes.
Good fucking riddance.
Thinking back on it now, I should have stayed and called the cops. I should've filed some kind of protection order. But I was mad and went back to the tour bus to get drunk off any alcohol I could find. It wasn't until the next morning—when I woke to fifteen missed calls from my publicist—that I realized I fucked up.
Apparently, after I left, Lindsey proceeded to beat herself to the point where she looked like she was jumped by a gang. Both of her eyes were black and blue, her lip was split wide open, and she managed to break her own cheekbone.
And of course she blamed me.
Police rushed onto the tour bus and took me into custody before I even had time to take a piss. I was dragged down to the station and interrogated for hours. No one wanted to believe that she did it to herself. Who would? The story itself is outlandish. No one is that psychotic, right? Wrong. Apparently, the girl I've spent almost the last decade with is.
Lucky me.
It took a few hours before they came in and said that she dropped all the charges, but that doesn't change the fact that all the media outlets already had a story printed. She told them that I beat her when she tried to leave me. Now the whole world sees me as a woman-beating prick with abandonment issues.
The guys and I tried to rough it out, wait for it all to go away and continue to do our thing, until the night of our show at Madison Square Garden. A fight broke out between a bunch of girls—some saying I was an abusive prick, and some trying to defend me. It was then that we knew we needed to take a break.
Two platinum records.
Nine VMAs.
Three Grammys.
All thrown down the fucking drain because I decided to get engaged to the devil herself.
Our publicist said that the best course of action was to go on hiatus. Basically, to take a few months break, maybe even a year or so. At least until everything dies down. She even tried to use the whole Chris Brown and Rihanna situation to ease my worries, but it didn't, because I didn't do anything fucking wrong.
The only bright side to this is that I'm heading home for the first time in almost five years. Maybe it'll be nice to lay low for a bit, out of the eyes of paparazzi and fawning fans. Where everyone loves me because I'm H, and not because I'm Harland Storm of Sound the Sirens.
Pulling up to the house, it almost makes me laugh at the way it looks exactly the same. No matter how much I tried to bribe my mom to move out to LA, she refused. And now that I'm back here, I can see why. This humble abode is our home. It's the place I learned to ride a bike. The place I got my first guitar. It's every memory of my childhood all inside beige walls.
I walk through the door and toss my bag down. “Anyone home?”
My mom's squeal from the living room brings a smile to my face as she comes running toward me. My mother has always been a tiny little thing, but I love that about her. My 6'4” towers over her, and she needs to arch onto her tiptoes to hug me.
“I've missed you so much,” she tells me, kissing my cheek.
“I've missed you too, Mom. It’s good to see you again.”
“I wish it were under better circumstances,” she answers.
I drop my head and nod. None of my family ever liked Lindsey. They all swore from the start that she was bad news, but I didn't listen. I really wish I had.
Looking around the house, I notice someone is missing. “Where's Ash?”
My little sister graduated college last summer and still ended up moving back home. It's no secret that she's been mad at me since I missed her graduation. I tried to be there, but it was rained out and changed to a day where I had a show. No matter how many pleas I made to change the date of the show, they couldn't. Tickets had been bought and people had already flown in for it. I was stuck.
“Oh, she'll be home soon,” my mom tells me. “Come. Let's sit down and talk. It's been a while.”
I follow her into the living room, but while she sits down, I can't help but look around at the small differences of this place. Framed pictures of me on the wall aren't from my childhood anymore, but from award shows. She even has the article of when we sold out MSG for the first time in a frame on the mantle, next to one of the VMAs I sent her to hold onto.
“So, other than everything with that wench, how have you been?” My mom questions.
I chuckle at her choice of words. “Can't complain. It's exhausting but exhilarating. I love it so much.”
“I always knew you would. Ever since you first picked up a guitar at five years old.”
Looking over at her, I smile. “The yellow Fender Strat. You bought it for me for Christmas.”
She gleams back at me. “And you did nothing but play it for years until you got a new one for your ninth birthday.”
That's one thing I've always loved about my mom—she’s supportive to a fault. No matter what Ashlyn and I have ever wanted to do, she was always there, cheering us on and pushing us to be our very best at it. Being a single mother to two rambunctious kids couldn’t have been easy, but she never faltered.
I go back to looking at the mantle when one picture catches my eye. It's a little boy I've never seen before, but something about him is oddly familiar. He can't be any older than two in this photo, but I think I would’ve known if my sister had a baby. Or at least I hope someone would have told me. I stare at it for a moment before finally asking.
“Who's this little guy?”
My mom gets up and comes to stand next to me. “Oh, that's Hollis, Emery's little boy.”
I damn near choke on air at her words. “Emery has a kid?”
With her parents' strict religious rules, I can't believe it. I used to think there was actually a chastity belt under those jeans of hers, or that she would end up being a nun. Then again, I know differently, don’t I?
“Yeah,” my mom answers. “Poor thing ended up pregnant a few years ago, no father to be seen. Her parents dropped her like a hot potato.”
“Fucking seriously?”
She nods. “Ashlyn and I have been there for her as much as we can. You know that girl is like family to us. But she ended up having to drop out of college to raise him. She's done an incredible job, though. I just wish she could have at least gotten through school. Dropping out only months into her freshman year was rough on her.”
Everything freezes inside of me, and time stands still. My eyes meet the little boy in the photo, and all the familiar things about him stare back at me.
Oh my God.
Chapter Three
Emery
I throw myself down on the couch with a grunt. After getting off work, the last thing I want to do is chase around a three-year-old, but I have no choice.
“Mommy!” Hollis shouts as he climbs up and jumps on me.