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“What if I’m like him, Sienna?”
“Like who?”
“My father.”
“What do you mean?”
“Alcoholism is genetic, yeah?”
“There are studies to prove that theory, yes. But not in all cases. Everyone has a distinctive chemical makeup; some people are just more susceptible to addiction than others.”
“Do you think I’m capable of hurting someone like he did?”
No hesitation. “Absolutely not.”
“I have a temper, I know I do. I wanted to grab him by the throat before and wring the life out of him. What if I’m just like my father in more ways than just being an alcoholic? What if I’m capable of hurting someone I love? I don’t want to be that kind of husband someday, and I definitely don’t want to be that kind of father.”
I reply with absolute certainty. “You won’t.”
“How can you be so sure?” He presses his lips together, squeezing his eyes closed briefly. “I take after him in all the bad ways.”
“I’m not saying you’re incapable of losing your temper from time to time, everyone is guilty of that. But it doesn’t mean you’re wired the same way just because you share DNA with the man. There might be echoes of him in there somewhere. But those echoes aren’t what make you who you are. They’re just echoes that grow fainter and fainter the further you push them away. That’s the thing about echoes, they eventually disappear altogether. You’re the one who gets to change the course of history.”
“Don’t leave me,” he says quietly.
Strong arms suddenly wrap around my body pulling me to him. His grip is firm, as if he’s terrified I’ll fight him on this. Reject him. Cast him aside. But I don’t plan on doing either of those things. His whole body shakes, the tremors passing over me and shaking me to the core.
“I’m here, Kael. I’m not going anywhere.”
My hands slide up and over his shoulders, and I just sit there, at a gas station, in a suburb I don’t even know the name of, being held in the arms of a man who was once a complete stranger to me, and the overwhelming need to comfort him outweighs the threat of someone catching us like this.
I can’t even begin to explain what he means to me.
Cold Neptune rehearses in an enormous industrial-style warehouse on the outskirts of the Hell’s Kitchen area, a block back from the Hudson River.
We arrived about an hour ago, and all I’ve done so far is sit in the corner of the room on an enormous storage container, swinging my legs, watching as Kael and the rest of the band have a meeting up near the front of the stage.
The warehouse is full of amps and equipment that sit all over the ground and rolls of cables snake across the floor in every direction.
Jeans and torn black T-shirts, bandanas, leather jackets, or variations of this seem to be the required uniform; same goes for the roadies and stage hands who rush all around the room, making themselves look important and mostly useful.
There’s music playing in the background, instruments being tweaked, and someone is talking on a cell phone in the office behind me—a female voice, a rather loud and obnoxious female voice.
I’ll give you two guesses. I’ve yet to lay eyes on her though, so I’ll take that as a win.
Kael switched into business mode the instant we walked through the side door, and you’d never know he’s just had one of the worst days of his life.
It was impressive to say the least.
He’s totally in his element here. Cold Neptune, music, his bass, all this right here is what he lives and breathes for.
The meeting drags on and on, and for a while I flick through a magazine, but my eyes keep drifting up toward the stage where the band is deep in talks with Nick and three other guys who are all wearing expensive-looking suits, the studio executives no doubt.
“Hi, you must be Sienna.”
The deep, almost sultry, voice of the tiny brunette standing in front of me makes me startle, lost as I was in my wandering thoughts.
“Nick said you were stopping by,” she continues, plonking herself down beside me, sitting on her hands. “It’s nice to meet you. I’m Reed’s girlfriend, Brinley Thomas.”
