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Colt’s hand touches my back. It’s a soft touch. He doesn’t rub, just lets it rest against my ribs. He’s standing so close I can hear him breathing in a slow, calm rhythm.
“He said that?” Colt asks. “If you love someone, set them free?”
I answer with a nod.
I see his reflection in the window. Colt responds by crossing his arms in front of his chest, exhaling hard, and muttering one word: “Fuck.”
33. Will
COVERT IN COPENHAGEN
Two-and-a-half weeks into this tour, I’m only barely present and beyond grateful to have Aiden along, taking over on stage while he learns how to be the new Will Power … or Fire Power, as he wants to brand this next generation of the Come Into Power seminars.
Works for me. Hell, he could call himself Fucking Power and I wouldn’t argue, as long as I never had to do this again.
Aiden and I share suites in every hotel. His idea, and I’m not sure if it’s because he doesn’t want to be alone or doesn’t want to leave me alone. I suspect he’s worried since I’ve joined him in having an alcoholic beverage at the end of each day. Just one. Or two. Enough to take the edge off this feeling that I waited far too fucking long to take control of my life.
The upside, I’ve noticed, of having three or four drinks, is that if I dream, I’m not waking up with nightmares anymore. They say alcohol is a trigger for having bad dreams. They also say parasomnia has a genetic factor. So maybe, if you’re genetically coded to have nightmares, alcohol does the opposite. Don’t know and don’t care. All I know is that none of it matters if it’s too late to make things right with Virginia.
She’s been replying to the two or three texts I send her each day, but she hasn’t called me. My calls go to her voicemail. I don’t even know if she’s listening to them.
I’m not upset with her. I understand self-preservation—in theory, at least.
Aiden joins me in the suite’s living room. He’s dressed in workout clothes and has a small duffel bag over his shoulder.
“Come with me. I’ve got the gym reserved for forty minutes. The entire team will be there.”
“I’ll pass.”
“Not an option, Will. You’re getting flabby. It’s a lazy look on the family. Doesn’t show much …willpower,” he jokes.
“Fuck you.” I’m in no mood to be the butt of the most overdone joke in the universe or to give a rat’s ass about whether my appearance makes the all-powerful Power family look bad.
Aiden gets up in my face. “Hey, I’m the good guy in this scenario. You want to be pissy with someone, get your ass to the gym. There’s a punching bag with Colt’s face on it.”
I laugh. “Fine.” Aiden’s right, of course. Sulking and being a slug are not good for me. The exertion of lifting weights and punching a bag—even without my twin’s face—seems to reset my neurons from their “fuck the world” position to a slightly more optimistic “fuck you, world.” A subtle change, sure, but I’m feeling a little more empowered and hopeful when I step from the shower.
Aiden and I go over our cheat sheets for tomorrow’s seminar. For each of the six times we’ve shared the stage so far, Fire Power takes on a bit more of the script. He’s a natural. It’s obvious he loves the attention—in an alternate universe, he would’ve been groomed to be the ringmaster of our family circus.
And me? Who knows what I’d have become? After forty-two years with no choice, I can’t even begin to imagine where my interests might lie—except for one thing. Well, one person: Virginia “Can’t Get Her Off My Mind” Beach.
“So, are we done here?” Aiden asks.
I realize I’ve zoned out and have no idea whether we’re done or not.
“Yeah. Whatever.”
We deliver the Hamburg seminar over the next two days, and it goes well. I dial it back, and Aiden picks up my slack with his own style. The audience responds with enthusiasm, and so far, we’ve had no complaints or refund requests. That’s all I care about—I don’t want any reason that might persuade the board to vote against Aiden replacing me on stage.
Next up, my second-favorite European city—Copenhagen. In past years, I’d be enthusiastic about this stop. I always book an extra two days to visit a museum or an attraction, to eat out, to relax and recover at the halfway mark on the tour. This year, I regret being forced to stay away from home for these extra days.
I text Virginia to let her know I’ve landed safely at Kastrup International airport. It’s after eleven p.m. in Vancouver, so I don’t expect a reply and pocket my phone.
A car meets us on the tarmac to take me, Aiden, and two of our security detail to a line-free customs check-in. The rest of the team has to go through the normal process.
As always, I’ve invited Savi to be a tourist with me. And for the first time, she declines.
“I’d rather risk being mocked for my abysmal Danish than spend an extra minute around your sad-sack energy,” she says.
