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Present day—Sterling’s house, Nashville
Navarone is still standing behind me; the heat of his body is unmistakable. Turning around. I press my back against the jukebox.
“Nice song you put on there,” he says, his eyes hard.
Looking up, I tell him, “I Cross My Heart” is still one of my favorite songs. Can’t help if it’s tainted with bad memories.” The moment the words leave my big fat mouth, I cringe.
He draws in a breath, a storm gathering in his eyes. I know I’m being a bitch and I shouldn’t push his buttons like this. I’m hoping for some kind of reaction from him but he hangs his head, turns, and stalks off to the porch.
Evan asks him something. His lips quirk in a sideways grin, followed by his rumbling laugh, and it hurts. Frankie lights a cigarette and hands him one. He takes a drag like he’s the star in his own remake of The Wild One.
“Wow, you are a bitch,” Gunner mutters from his seat on the couch.
Axl pushes him in the shoulder. “Don’t be an ass.”
“I’m not an ass; she is for putting on that song,” he says, pointing to me.
“Shut up,” I counter.
“You shut up,” Gunner says, dodging another one of Axl’s punches.
Axl raises his eyes to the ceiling. “You two are still acting like a bunch of sixteen-year-olds when you’re together.”
“Shut up,” we tell him at the same time, laughing in unison.
We look over when Evan hollers, “Dinner is ready, you fucking freeloaders.”
We migrate to the porch and eat dinner together. We talk about touring life, about the new music the guys are writing, and the tour Axl and the cousins will undertake all the way to the UK for the festival season in Europe. Although Navarone and I are seated at opposite ends of the table, our eyes meet when we laugh at the same jokes. It’s annoying as fuck.
As the evening progresses and the liquor flows, the guitars come out. The guys start up with a full-out jam session around the fire pit. Frankie hands Navarone a water. I roll my eyes—who are they kidding? He used to drink vodka and whiskey by the truckload so the pills he took went down easier. Damn, but that little voice in the back of my mind says the man is clearly making an effort, I shouldn’t be such a bitch and keep reliving the past. Maybe he’s really trying to change.
“How’s work, Rone?” Axl asks, waking me from my daydream.
Navarone’s eyes dart to me and back to my brother. “Nothing to complain about. The last two weeks have flown by.” He drags his thumb back and forth over his lip before sitting back in his chair.
“Still got the house out in California?” Gunner asks.
He nods. Lighting another cigarette, he holds his face to the side. I shift in my chair and he sees it, a smug smile tugging on his lips as he pretends not to look my way.
“It’s a good place to write songs,” he murmurs, and I snort.
“Fuck you,”he mouths, squinting when smoke from the cigarette floats into his eyes.
“Screw you,”I mouth back.
“With pleasure.” He taunts, his voice low and deadly.
The guys share a look between them, while “Pour Some Sugar On Me” by Def Leppard drifts out from the jukebox inside.
“Keep lighting them up. Why don’t you pour yourself another drink while you’re at it, so you can blame it on the beer, or was it the whiskey?” I huff out, taking the first step toward what I’m sure is going to be an epic blowout.
I remember the time he had a break from touring and he forgot smoking a cigarette while drinking vodka, didn’t go well together as he tried to light the fireplace. Or the time he was so strung out on God knows what that he walked all the way to Venice Beach. It took me three frantic hours to find him. He was staring up at the night sky, singing a fucking Metallica song. Or when I had to bail him out of jail because he got into a fight at the Viper Room on Sunset Strip.
Oh, the good old days.
He blacked out countless times, and didn’t remember what shit he pulled the next day. I’d find him slumped in a stall with vomit on his shirt, his pants wet because he didn’t reach the toilet in time. I don’t remember how many nights I had to undress him and help him shower while he was drunk of his ass. It still tears me apart.
His jaw ticks; no doubt he’s trying to hide his temper. “You should know.”
