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“It wasn’t your fault. It is no one’s fault.”
I want him to scream at me. To punish me for what I have done.
All those late hours. The not eating, the loud music. The sleepless nights looking out for Navarone when he lay passed out in his bunk. Or finding him with vomit on his shirt backstage, fucking groupies crawling all over him.
I should have stayed in Nashville. What he did, or tried to do to me in the motel room—he was too drugged up to see straight. He promised to take care of me, and he hurt me.
I choke down the sobs that threaten to engulf me as I think about my mom. I need my mom.
“Alice, honey, listen to me. I love you. Please forgive me, babe.”
“Don’t,” I say. I can’t stand to look at him.
He holds my head between his big hands, forcing me to open my eyes. “I love you. Don’t you dare blame yourself,” he says, raising his voice.
“Let me go.” I scream. “If you hadn’t forced me to go on tour ...” I shout, wanting to hit him with my words.
He tries to hug me. “Don’t, honey, p-please,” he stutters, his voice thick with emotion, his tears still spilling over.
Gunner busts through the door before pulling Navarone away from me and slamming his back against the wall. “You leave her alone,” my brother yells.
Navarone pushes him back and all the guys pile in, trying to break up the fight.
Dad blocks my view of the struggling men. “Oh, Squirrel, it will all be all right.” He winces, while I sob against his arms.
I don’t register hospital security taking the guys away. The last thing I remember is the look on Rone’s face when I don’t fight the others for him to stay, letting him go.
