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It wasn’t Riggan’s fault that Abby died, or that he couldn’t keep doing something that Abby was so involved in after she was gone. She’d been there since the beginning. She was a part of us even though she didn’t play an instrument. We all mourned her death in our own ways. It didn’t feel the same without her. And I know he felt guilty over her death, like he caused it. That exact deal was why they were fighting to begin with.
Even though it was a step forward for all of us, none of us were angry with Riggan when he backed out. We would have all made the same call walking in his shoes, but that doesn’t mean I wasn’t bitter at the situation. It was our chance to shine. We deserved it as hard as we had worked, as many hours as we put in. I also understand loss. When Dustin died, it felt like I lost a brother as long as he and my sister had been together. It fucks with you emotionally, and music is just as much mental as it is skill. Two people dying that close to home is like a kick to the gut when you’re already on the ground fighting for air.
“Come at me with that shit when you’ve been there. Answer the question.”
She shoves at my chest—Paxtyn’s famous move when she’s throwing a tantrum. I grip her jaw to keep her attention on me. “Because I’m not sharing you with the sea forever!”
My heart starts to race over a confession such as that one. Guys talk offshore. When you’re around each other half the year, you get close in ways. Some have wives just staying for that oil field money, which means they’d rather their husbands stay gone. Some guys pick up extra hitches to avoid going home. She wants me close, and that says a lot. “I’ll get a land job. I told you that. The money just has to be right.”
She shoves at me again, clearly angry, her tits bouncing with her movement and making this serious talking thing difficult. I already have a chub. “Get off me. You’re not getting some lame job you hate just to be with me. I can’t do this goodbye thing every two weeks forever either. It gets harder to watch you walk away every time you leave. At least if you become famous my crazy ass can go with you and keep your dick in check from all the groupies. I’ll cut a bitch for trying to fall on my dick.”
“Only you would do that,” I joke, referencing the day in the basement, because it’s the better alternative to my heightening emotions.
She closes her eyes when the smile spreads to smother it, reopening them seconds later. “Until you’ve exhausted all odds, you’re doing this. If the band hasn’t progressed in a year, we’ll readdress the job situation. I’ll be out of high school by then. And if you still want to quit when the time comes, I’ll take you seriously. I promise.”
That day couldn’t come soon enough . . .
“Okay.” I give in. I hate having to pretend we aren’t together if she can’t use a fake ID or easily lie about her age in California should she get asked. The irony. Never imagined being in this situation until I was already in it. I wasn’t exactly planning to nail a seventeen-year-old when I met her. Had she not come on to me, I wouldn’t have; looked, yes, touched, no.
I never admitted it, but I was nervous during prom—chaperones and all—especially after I knocked that sick fuck out that tried to rape her. Bile still tries to rise when I think about that.
At least among the general public she looks older, like in overly populated places such as concerts or sporting events, which has become our thing to go out for dates. Hard to lie about your age when you’re a high schooler in a setting where everyone knows exactly how old you are. I don’t have a baby face either. Her mom, her, and me had a whole sit-down conversation about the seriousness of our age difference in their state since she’s an attorney.
Luckily, her mom informed me the day I showed up at her door and introduced myself that she’d never press charges if she allowed it in the first place. She does expect me to do right by her daughter, and to respect their rules. Easy.
Florida is at least closer to my side in terms of law with her, but I did just turn twenty-five, so I’m teetering on the law there now too. September couldn’t come any faster.
I roll off her and stare at the ceiling, lost in my head, not giving a shit that I’m completely naked on top of the bedding in a hotel room. The back of her hand brushes the back of mine. “Don’t be mad at me.”
I grab her hand. “You remind me a lot of her.”
“Uh . . .” She doesn’t sound amused, but then she probably doesn’t have the slightest clue who I’m talking about. The corners of my lips rise a little before they even back out. At least she’s not raging mad like when you compare her to her sister.
I’m the one that never talks about her. Abby was more on the serious side like me, down to earth, nothing to be bitter about in terms of her home life like Riggan. She was a good girl but didn’t mind getting a little dirty from time to time, and she never had the guilt associated with it like Maddox did, which is probably why Riggan appealed to her. She wasn’t an extrovert but she easily made friends. She was nice to everyone. She wasthe girl next doorin every aspect of the phrase.
When the shit hit the fan at school with my parents and football coach,Abbywas the first person to come to me. She genuinely cared about the wellbeing of those close to her, both mentally and physically. She fit in with the band even though she was a girl. Losing her felt like losing Layken. It forced me to actually imagine that, and for a while, it fucked me up.
“Abby,” I specify, and then I turn on my side to face her, my arm draping across her pelvis and hips. “Her and Riggan were as opposite as him and Sayler, but Abby and Sayler were nothing alike either, which is proof that he doesn’t compare her to Abby. It’s hard to explain if you didn’t know both of them.”
I laugh as it all aligns in my head. Paxtyn just stares at me, completely relaxed like she always gets when I talk. I have no idea why it’s so interesting for me to tell her things, but Paxtyn could be fighting mad at me and if I start telling her shit about myself or my life or my past, she’s mellow. “She didn’t even like rock, really, but the thing about Abby was she was always supportive of her friends. She was an all-in kind of girl. In high school she was always making band flyers and burning CDs for demos, hunting for places for us to play. Our band social media pages are a shrine of Abby in ways. She recorded us every time we played, and she narrated them with information, so she’s talking in almost every one of them. Riggan deleted the apps off his phone until last year when he was serious about Sayler and getting the band back together. Abby was basically our manager. Whoever comes close to her role has big shoes to fill, and honestly, I don’t think that person is your sister. She’s all over the place. She’s more like the band mom, or wife, whatever. She takes care of the personal needs but not the business if that makes sense. Abby was behind the scenes. She didn’t do anything for credit either. She was irreplaceable. She’s been missed since the day she died. You want this band to have a chance at making it? That’s what we need. As much as it pains me to bring up your Instagram’s past life, you have a way of drawing attention. If anyone could take her place, it’d be you.”
Paxtyn turns on her side to mirror me, and it’s then that I see the tear drip from the corner of her eye and run down the length of her nose. Her lip quivers a little. “That’s the nicest thing anyone has ever said to me.”
The grin in response is instant. God, she’s infectious. “Don’t get used to it.”
I laugh when she softly slaps my cheek. “Behave. You’re ruining the moment.” The room goes silent except for our breathing and the air conditioner, but it’s comfortable between us. After several lax seconds, she breaks the ice. “Do you know the logins for the band accounts?”
“Yes. As long as Riggan didn’t change them, which I doubt. He’s notorious for keeping things the same so that he doesn’t forget.”
“Log them in on my phone and I’ll work on it.”
“Hand it here,” I tell her as I sit up on the edge of the bed and reach down for my boxer briefs on the floor. The second I’m upright and about to shove my feet into them, she snatches them out of my hands and tosses them across the room. My head turns to look at her. “What the fuck are you doing?”
“Not now! Later, when we’re drinking. You’ve been gone for two weeks.”
My shoulders drop. “How late is later? Any drinking should come first. We have an early plane to catch in the morning.”
She rolls her eyes from where she’s sitting on her shins next to me. “Quit your bitching. I’ll have you in bed by midnight, old man.”
