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“It’s on the table.”
Hearing the awe in his voice made me smile. In his mind, he was still that boy from Bristol, Virginia, playing seedy bars with four guys he barely tolerated, my uncle Grayson included. By some chance, Harris Cutter had heard them perform and offered them a year contract of playing a weekly live show at his then brand-new club in LA, First Bass.
He’d promised them that they would have a record deal before the year was up. At the first show, Emmie Armstrong saw them and changed their lives even more. She got Tainted Knights one of the top five biggest first-record deals in history. To date, the deal she’d gotten my mom was still the biggest any artist ever received as a first-time contract. Which was made even more monumental because it was for a woman.
Emmie Armstrong might not be a rock star, but she was a god in the music industry. She could make or break a person’s career. Not only did she manage the biggest names in the business, but she’d started her own recording label with Demon’s Wings’ bassist, Shane Stevenson. As a girl, she had started life with an abusive, drug-addict mother in a run-down trailer park in Ohio. Now, she was a self-made billionaire with literal royalty in her phone’s contact list.
And my mom called her Auntie Em. To my sister and me, she was simply another honorary grandmother who included us in every family event. I adored her, even if she did intimidate me. But I didn’t know a single person who wasn’t at least a little scared of her, my dad included.
“That sounds exciting, Daddy. I’m so happy for you.”
“It’s not definite yet.”
“Please,” I scoffed playfully. “It wouldn’t be on the table if Aunt Emmie wasn’t already sure.”
He laughed. “You gonna come watch your old man play on the same stage with legends, kiddo?”
I rolled my eyes and started walking toward the library again. “Dad, are you getting so old that you forgot you played a sold-out arena last summer with Poppy and the rest of the Demons? Or that you were a special guest at OtherWorld’s Central Park show five years ago?”
“I am pretty badass.”
“The most badass of them all,” I agreed, not even trying to hide my snicker.
To the rest of the world, he was a hard-core rocker. But to me, he was just my dad. The man who’d sobbed uncontrollably when he dropped me off for my first day of school and again at my high school graduation. He was the one who kissed my boo-boos and chased away the monsters under my bed.
I had pictures of him playing princess tea parties with Ali, Hayat, and me, decked out in a plastic tiara, clip-on earrings, and a glittery tutu. For my first dance recital, he held my hand when I got stage fright and started crying, dancing beside me the entire time so I wouldn’t be scared.
Jace St. Charles might rock out for tens of thousands of fans in sold-out venues, but he was my hero.
“You didn’t answer my question,” Dad complained.
“Which one?”
“When will you be home?” I hesitated, and he groaned. “I already dislike what you’re going to say next, Abi.”
“I’m going to fly down for a few days before you guys leave for Sydney,” I promised.
“Yup, hate it.”
Laughing at his petulant tone, I stepped into the library. “I thought you would be relieved that I was going to spend the summer here in Creswell Springs and not terrorizing all of SoCal with Hayat.”
“How about we compromise, and you come on tour with your mom and me?” he negotiated. “I’ll feed you and Ali cake, cookies, and ice cream for dinner every night, and then you two can terrorize the entire crew while on a sugar high.”
“You know I’m not ten anymore, right? Also, Mom would murder you if you fed us only junk every night. I mean, toss in a carrot or some broccoli just to even it out. Because, well, diabetes.”
“I’m not hearing a no,” he said, sounding so hopeful, I had a moment of regret for what I was about to say.
“I will be confirming my summer schedule next week.” His hissed exhale told me how much he didn’t like that plan, and I tried to soothe him. “Dad, you’re going to be so busy in Australia, you won’t even notice I’m not there.”
“I miss you, Abi-cakes,” he said so forlornly, I felt tears sting my eyes.
“I miss you too. But—”
“Stop. Whatever you’re about to say, don’t. I’m not trying to guilt you into disrupting your plans, sweetheart. Whether I like it or not, you’re an adult now.” Another harsh exhale and I could picture his face scrunched up from the displeasure of that statement. The word adult and either of Jace St. Charles’s daughters in the same sentence always made him a little green. “Why did you have to go and grow up on me, though, Abs? Couldn’t you stay my tiny little sweet pea? I’m not asking for forever here. Just, ya know, maybe twenty more years.”
“Sorry, I think it’s too late for me. Maybe you can find someone to invent a device that slows down a daughter’s aging process before Ali turns eighteen.”
“Don’t give me ideas,” he grumbled.
