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Four years ago—Navarone’s house, Los Angeles
It’s two in the morning when Steve, one of Drifters crew members, drops me off at Navarone’s doorstep in LA. I have been touring with my brother and cousins for three straight years. I’m tired as fuck. I’ve made the decision to go home and figure out who I am going to be. I’m done hiding out on my brother’s tour. I need to let Navarone go. Say goodbye and move on.
I keep repeating in my head what I should tell the man in question. He is still trouble. Still the same wild one I left four years ago backstage at the Ryman. But no matter how many times he broke my heart, a part of me still wants him.
“You okay, kid?” Steve asks. He toured with Dad in the 80s, and at sixty, he is still one of the best security guys in the business.
“Yeah, thanks, Steve.”
He helps me with my bags and I look up at the house.
“Sure he’s sober enough?”
I shrug, taking in the beautiful Mediterranean-style house.
“Guess I’ll find out.”
He hugs me, and we say goodbye. I wave, watching him drive away and back to my brother and cousins who are flying out to Canada to start the next leg of their tour without me.
Staring up at the mini-mansion Rone bought when the checks rolled in from Regulator, my stomach does a little backflip.
“Here goes nothing,” I sigh, walking up the steps to the big oak front door. The lights are on, and a soft guitar melody fills the air.
I knock and a guitar scratches, followed by shouting. “What the fuck, Ari?” Navarone growls out. “I know it’s two in the fucking morning, and I wasn’t that loud.” When he opens the door, his eyes go big. “What are you doing here?” he asks, looking at my luggage then back to me.
“Are you going to let me in?” I ask, tapping my Vans on the concrete while I check him out.
The smell of booze reaches my nose. It isn’t fair, even drunk and messed up, he takes my breath away.
Navarone steps back, his hands are shaking. “Yeah sure. It’s still your house,” he says, picking up my luggage and letting me in.
I scan the living room, the fireplace, the art on the wall. All the pieces I put together, the home I made for us but never lived in.
“You haven’t changed a thing?” I gasp, while he drops my luggage on the floor.
“Why would I?” he asks, tugging on the sleeves of his black shirt. His hair falls in front of his eyes as he shuffles through the room.
“Are you drunk?” I ask, with what I hope is a militant stare in my gaze.
His eyes narrow and roam over my body. “What do you think,” he states, slurring his words. His smile morphs into a mischievous grin. “Fuck,” he mumbles, avoiding my stare as he walks over to the table filled with liquor bottles and empty packs of cigarettes. Rummaging through it, he finds a half pack.
With shaking fingers he takes out his Zippo lighter. The flame dances in front of his cigarette. He waggles his eyebrows when he catches me staring before plopping on the couch and blowing out the smoke through his nose.
Watching him take another drag, a shudder works through my entire body. Sighing, I say, “Still smoking, I see.” I shake my head, walking around the room and looking at the pictures and books lying scattered on the floor.
“If you came here to bust my balls, I’m all yours,” he says, grabbing his crotch to underline his point.
His menacing smile turns me on when I know it shouldn’t. In fact, I shouldn’t have come here at all. What the hell am I thinking? Biting on the inside of my cheek, I stop. I’ve been thinking about his dick and nothing else.
I roll my eyes. Hank Williams is singing about love on the record player. “Hank didn’t drink as much as you,” I utter, giving him my best mocking smile.
“Whatever, babe,” he says, grabbing a half-empty bottle from the table, pouring himself a full glass of vodka, and throwing it back in one swig.
We keep staring at each other. I am the first to look away.
“How’s the tour working out for you?” I ask, sitting on the edge of the couch.
“You know how it’s been going. Adam is a son of a bitch. Still, the ladies love him. We’ve sold out every show.” He holds up his glass like he is making a toast. “How’s your tour going? The one you left me for?”
