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“Had to try. If I can’t have booze or girls over at your other mansion, you’re all that’s left.” I cock my head, letting my hurtful words dig deep into her heart like her actions did mine. Would I invite other girls over? Fuck no I wouldn’t.
Instantly, I know I’ve landed my mark when her face hardens, and she steps back. “Listen, my kid is asleep on the couch. Can you at least wait until tomorrow? She isn’t feeling the best,” she says softly, avoiding my eyes.
My brows furrow. Right, the kid she had after we left. Who more than likely belongs to Van’s dumbass. Why couldn’t she have been mine? Why couldn’t my swimmers have won the damn race and given me my mullet baby? I clench my jaw and slam my helmet back on my head.
“No can do, Pretty Girl. Now, if you’ll excuse me,” I grunt, revving the engine and taking off.
Or I would have if a little dark figure didn’t run right in front of me, screaming at the top of her lungs and stopping in front of my accelerating bike. I grunt, overcorrecting myself, and narrowly miss her by a fucking millimeter. My heart pounds when my bike wobbles, jostling my entire body until it tips over. I go fucking down onto the road. Hard as fuck. All the breath leaves my lungs as I’m dragged an inch, but it’s enough to inflict some damage. My back scrapes against the pavement as my bike dies and flies somewhere in the middle of the road.
My breaths come in short pants as I stare at the twinkling stars mocking my luck. My entire body heats as pain envelops me, and I groan, thankful for the helmet protecting my damn head from scrambled brains.
“Daddy!”a little frantic voice yells above me, drawing my eyes to her. “He’s dead!” she dramatically cries, laying her head on my chest. “No, wait! His heart is still here,” she says softly, wrapping her little arms around me and squeezing with all her might. “You’ll be okay, Daddy, I promise.”
“Daddy?” I groan, trying to regain my breath as her words register in my mind.
Daddy? Who the hell is she calling daddy? I’m no one’s daddy. I mean, Pretty Girl could call me that as I spank her ass. But, no. Fuck. She wouldn’t.
“Lyric,” River says softly, but I hear the concern laced there when she pulls her child off my chest. Grunting, I reach up and tear off my helmet, throwing it to the side. Fuck. My head pounds. “Hey, Rad. You okay?” she asks, gently running a finger down my cheek. Slowly her fingertips run down my chest, poking through a new hole produced by the fall in my shirt. I hiss, trying to slap her hand away, but my body doesn’t cooperate with me. “You took a hell of a spill.”
“Yeah,” I groan, sitting up and taking stock of my injuries. “I’m good.” The world spins in an array of colors when I go to stand, stumbling into River as she catches me and wraps her arm around me. Her fingers dig into my side as we take a few unsteady steps, wobbling on my jelly legs. She grunts, continuing to hold me up. “Fuck,” I hiss, trying to regain myself and pull away from her. She smells too damn good and fits too perfectly to my side. I can’t fall down this River rabbit hole again, because I know where it leads—to heartbreak.
See? My fucking head is all over the damn place.
“Yeah, I don’t think so,” she murmurs with a resigned sigh. “Come on, let me check you over before you go to sleep. Can’t have the talent dying before you even get started.”
“I’m fine, Pretty Girl,” I murmur, leaning into the warmth of her side.
A pounding headache roars through my brain as she drags me through the front door of her house and settles me into a chair situated in her spacious living room. I squeeze my eyes shut, pinching the bridge of my nose, pleading for the room to stop spinning before I puke. Fuck. My stomach churns, and a knot forms in my stomach when the sweet scent of River’s body wash hits my nose.
“You got some hellacious scratches, Rad,” River murmurs, poking at my aching back. I flinch away from her touch, and she sighs. “Want me to clean the wounds?” I nod without thinking, giving her permission.
“I got bandages!” says the little voice again from in front of me. “Mommy, I’ll help,” she says in a serious voice filled with determination. “Daddy needs them all over.”
“Ly, you and I need to have another discussion about running in front of cars and wandering off. You can help, but we’ll discuss this more later,” River sighs, tugging at the back of my shirt and lifting it to expose my back. “Do you want me to help?” she asks me cautiously in a soft voice.
“Uh, yeah. Thanks,” I murmur, secretly loving the way her fingers feel as they ghost over my aching flesh as she pulls my shirt over my head and places it over the arm of the chair.
I hope she sees the pain I etched into my back via lyrics and musical sheets. I hope she sees the agony I’ve lived in for the past five years inked into my flesh in the form of skulls, knives, and anguish.
“Barbie or fishes?” the little voice asks until I peel my aching eyes open and focus on the little beauty standing before me.
The world ceases to fucking turn, skidding to a halt as my eyes widen. My body weaves back and forth. I suck in much-needed oxygen, trying to clear my vision. Rubbing my eyes, I finally focus on the little River standing before me with her dark hair bordering between brown and jet black. She gives me a toothy grin, holding up two boxes of Band-Aids with colors swirling through them, obviously made for children. I blink a few times, staring into her eyes that look an awful lot like someone else’s who lives across the street.
“River,” I say in a low voice, leaning forward. My lips pop open in surprise. “Either I have a concussion, Pretty Girl. Or I’m staring into the eyes of…” I whip my head to her as she stands beside the chair, shaking her head with tight lips. I go to stand, but River pushes my shoulder down and frowns.
“I’ll get the alcohol,” she murmurs, stepping out of the room, muttering something about a fifth of vodka and needing something to drink.
I turn my attention back to the little girl standing in front of me and really take her in, feeling my chest cave in.
“You want fish, Daddy?” she asks, holding the box up. “You have a boo-boo right here,” she says, roughly poking her finger onto the spot on my forehead. “There’s blood,” she says with a frown, holding her little finger right in front of my eyes. “See?” she asks until I wrap my fingers around her wrist and inspect the small dot of blood soaking into her fingerprint.
“Fishes are fine,” I mumble, blinking rapidly at her as she pulls out a small Band-Aid, poking her tongue out until she’s huffing, trying to peel it open. “Here,” I say, taking the tiny piece from her and peeling back the paper. Her unmistakable mismatched eyes search my face, looking for more injuries. “What’s your name?” I whisper in awe of the little girl roughly sticking a Band-Aid on my forehead.
She frowns, pouting out her bottom lip. “You don’t know my name, either?”
“I’m sorry, Little Pretty Girl,” I whisper, shaking my aching head. “I hurt my head. I can’t remember right now. I totally know.” I try to give her my best smile, but she sighs, staring down at the ground. Her entire demeanor falls, and her shoulders sag in defeat.
“Mommy said my daddies weren’t ready to be daddies. But you don’t even know my name,” she murmurs, sniffling a little. “You don’t remember me. You don’t love me.”
