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A secret thrill runs through my body, having Navarone standing next to me, ready to explain to the other men in my life what the hell we have done.
“Euhh, Dad,” Axl says, worry in his voice as he takes a step toward me and Rone.
“Dad,” Gunner repeats, also moving closer.
“Calm your country asses down,” Dad drawls, looking around the merry band of brothers and stopping right in front of Rone. Navarone pinches my hand, closing his eyes a little, no doubt waiting for my dad to punch his lights out.
Instead, Jack breaks out in a huge smile and hugs Rone, lifting him from the floor. Slapping him on his back, he says, “Welcome to the family, son. And remember, if you ever hurt her, we’ll bury your ass in cement.” He grabs Rone’s face, slapping him a little.
“Dad,” I murmur, and he winks at me.
Navarone swallows and clears his throat. “Yes, sir. I understand.”
Dad grabs Rone’s shoulders. “Got that?”
“Yes, Jack, sir.”
All the boys chuckle.
Dad nods, letting Rone go before taking me into his arms. I bury my face in his chest. The boys walk over, congratulating Navarone. The blood finally returns to his handsome face.
“Squirrel, you keep surprising me,” Dad says, caressing my cheek.
Fuck, does he know I’m also pregnant?I hug him tighter. “I’m happy, Dad,” I whisper, trying to ignore the urge to throw up.
He kisses my forehead. “I know you are, honey. And if you are, I’m happy too.”
To celebrate us getting hitched, we all go out later that evening to Santa’s Pub. After drinking beers and Tennessee whiskey, we party well through the night. Safe to say, the next morning we don’t get a lot of work done, and I didn’t even drink. We do stay in Nashville for a couple of weeks, helping out with the renovation of Dad’s studio. Every day I promise myself, this is going to be the day I tell Navarone. I’m in denial, even the doctor confirmed it yesterday. Prego as fuck. I place my hand on my stomach, I’m a chicken, a disgrace to the badass Colt genes.
“What do you think, Squirrel?” Dad asks, looking around the studio space.
“It’s beautiful,” I croak, waking from my daydream. The woodwork and the old beams give the main room a church-like feel. And the control room with the Neve console is taking up the better part of the studio. I even ordered some art to hang on the walls from a guy who does custom work in town. Dad is going to love the Southern Brick Studios sign I’m having made in red neon for him.
The recording panel takes up most of the open studio. Dad has been obsessed with the board and its specific sound from the moment he laid eyes on it when he was young. He used to get me to sleep by telling me stories about it. Yeah, it went that far. It doesn’t sound like any other mixing console in the world.
After some begging on Dad’s part, the studio that had housed it for decades decided to sell it to him, because Dad wouldn’t take a chainsaw to it and sell each piece individually for tens of thousands of dollars. All the great bands had recorded their albums using it, and now Dad is part of that history.
“I’m in love,” he jokes, his hands moving over the surface of the board. The smell of burning wires and dust reaches my nose.
Axl takes his seat on one of the couches in the lounge area behind the console, discussing the songs he is going to record with our three cousins. The four of them make up Drifters. He sings a tune in his hushed Southern drawl.
I smile. My brother has a great voice. Axl was always writing during those fucked up years when Dad was losing parts of his brain all over Nashville, getting arrested, and being drunk off his ass. He grew out of it, but our childhood—and very little parental supervision—gave Axl enough fuel to start writing.
The first song he ever wrote was some horrible country tune with the cousins, but it started his love for performing. They write songs about love, drinking, women, and the demons they chase. It’s rock and roll with a redneck twang. Axl’s voice captures hurt and defiance all in one Southern husky vocal mix.
My cousins are all talented musicians and have been playing with Axl for as long as I can remember. Jimmy is strumming his bass guitar, his brown shaggy hair in front of his eyes as he hums along with the song. Mason is tuning his dark red Les Paul, and gives me a chin tip, picking the strings. Noah twirls his drumsticks in his hands, both his feet propped on the table between them, his long hair swaying with the beat he is tapping with his boot.
They could easily pass for more of my brothers. My dad’s late sister, Lynn, did backup vocals here in Nashville on the records of many big-name artists before she died from breast cancer. She was the one who gave the music bug to her sons, and in turn, to Axl. Their younger brother, Wyatt, is still in high school and living with Grandpa and Grandma.
I’ve always wondered what effect it had on Axl, having to grow up too fast to play dad to me and Gunner, and big brother to my cousins because Dad was either too wasted or in rehab. That was before Grandpa and Grandma stepped up and took in Mase, Jimmy, Noah, and little Wyatt when their bum of a dad skipped town, never to be heard from again.
I’m glad Dad is finally sober and following the twelve-step program. Not only for us but for himself as well.
Axl steps outside to smoke a cigarette with the cousins in tow. Frankie and Gunner have gone to the local lumberyard to get some paneling. And I’ve barricaded myself in the bathroom when Sterling dropped by, I’m sick to my stomach, kneeling I clutch the toilet seat and swear until my throat is sore. I need to tell them, I can’t do this alone.
I brush my mouth with a paper towel that I then flush in the toilet. After grabbing the sink for support, I slap some water on my face. Staring at my reflection in the mirror I drawl, “You can do this. You’re a bad bitch, what’s the worst that can happen?”
I head back to the studio space and something crashes against the floor.
