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“What? What are you talking about? This was not like last time. You were drunk out of your mind and doped up.”
I see the hurt in his eyes. “That’s no fucking excuse for what I did!” he roars.
“I know, but I ...”
“I need to go,” he says, getting behind the wheel.
“Rone, stay,” I beg, going after him.
“Nathan needs me. I’ll talk to you later.” He slams the door of the truck shut before speeding down the road and leaving me alone on the porch.
“Don’t go,” I whisper, heading back to the house, staring at the empty spot in the driveway and hoping he will come back and stay.
I don’t talk to him for a week. I need to go to Kansas to check out a couple of distortion pedals Dad had ordered. I text Navarone and call him, but he doesn’t respond.
During the ride over to Grandpa’s after I drop off the new stuff at the studio, I debate what to say. Should I scream? Yell at him for buying Grandpa’s house? I tackled Gunner to the floor after Rone left, and when I threatened to never make him pie again, he let slip Grandpa had sold his house to Navarone.
As I stop the car, I take in the ranch house. The wraparound porch, those blue shutters mocking me. Grandpa is still living at home. We will all help him move after Axl’s show in Bethel Woods.
It is still beautiful. Even with Rone’s Harley parked in front. I climb out, and country music is blasting from the garage. Stomping up to the open door, I stop in my tracks when I see him. He is busy working on his beat-up truck when I step in.
“Navarone,” I call, my voice faltering when I take in his broad, naked, muscular tattooed back.
He turns, staring me down. His eye is swollen and black, and then there’s his poor bust-up lip. We stand there, not saying anything. He’s been working out as well, judging by the weights lying around. He wipes his hands on a grease-stained white shirt, like he did the day we met.
His body language screams impatience. His eyes are hard and make me take a step back. This is a bad idea after all. I should have made sure he was okay after Gunner and Evan beat him up.
“What do you want?” His voice is deep, the hard glint in his stare softens, taking my breath away.
“Did everything work out with Nathan? I didn’t hear from you.”
He nods. “Yeah, one of the kettles started acting up, but we have it under control.” His eyes cut through me like he sees everything I try so hard to hide from him. “How did you know where I was?” he asks, turning the music down.
“Gunner spilled the beans after you left last Friday.”
He raises a brow. “Fuck.”
“Why did you buy the house?”
Anger flashes in his eyes. “You still ask questions you know the answer to? Fuck, this isn’t working.” Rolling his shoulders back, he gives me a shrug.
I spread out my arms. “What?” Shit. I came here to apologize and instead I put oil on the fire raging inside of him.
“I don’t know. Leave it,” he grunts.
“No, I,” I start, taking a deep breath. “I came here.”
“If you came here to yell or scream at me again, or punch me, get in line.” He grabs a wrench.
“Rone I—”
“Jack already yelled at me to get my head out of my ass, as did Grandpa. Gunner came by yesterday to pick up your truck, and apologize for punching me which was a nice reprieve. But even Axl called me from fucking Toledo to remind me they still know how to stick my sorry ass in cement,” he says, huffing out a breath. “Frankie and Evan gave me the stink eye when I went by the bar. Austin threatened to tattoo asshole on my forehead when I called him. I think I’m pretty good at being the punching bag in this fucking family.”
“I’m sorry they had it out for you. And you know they all love you.”
He shakes his head. The hard lines in his face melt away, giving me a glimpse of the boy he once was.
“I knew it was a bad idea to record here. It was a bad idea to buy the house.” He throws the wrench on the workbench. “They still see me as the same fuck-up who’s going to hurt you,” he mumbles.
