Chapter 82
M y mind elsewhere, I sleepwalk my way through the Atlanta show. I head to the hospital afterward, hoping to see Peace, only to discover that she’s been released. I wonder where she went and if Treyall even gave her my message. On the bus ride to Knoxville, I call Peace and everyone I can think of who might know where she is, but no one answers their damn phones.
At my wits’ end, I don’t give a shit about the tour. The next day, I skip sound check and stink up my performance badly. Luckily, the guys cover for me. Carson is off the chain brilliant on lead vocals. He borrows my Epiphone and switches from rhythm to lead guitar when I falter. Levi is his usual force to be reckoned with on percussion. Stevie is just as powerful on bass. Together, my bandmates are the glue. They keep everything together, including me.
“You guys are awesome.” Offstage, I grab each of their shoulders and squeeze. “Thanks.” My eyes are so full of emotion, I don’t see both of them at first, but when I do, I brace. Levi and Stevie are a force to be reckoned with on stage, but they’re barely a seismic ripple on the Richter scale compared to War and my dad. Both look furious. They must have hopped on a plane right after seeing the photos of Peace and me.
“We’d like a word with you.” War jerks up his chin, and I swear the ground shakes beneath the soles of my boots. “Alone,” he finishes when my buddies drift closer to me.
“Right.” I swallow hard.
“I’ll go with you,” Carson says.
“Us too.” Stevie nods and so does Levi.
“I got this, guys.” It makes the wreckage inside my chest almost seem salvageable to know they want to stand beside me. But this mess is mine. “Let’s go to the dressing room, gentlemen.” I head that way, and I know my dad and War follow because I can feel the tremors of their displeasure rumbling the floors behind me. The dressing room is only a couple of yards away, but it seems like it takes years to get there.
Inside the small room, I turn around to face them, and I end up flat on my back on the floor.
“You fucking shit.” Rubbing his knuckles, War glares down at me. “How could you do this to my daughter?”
Even with my jaw loose and my head spinning, I have the wherewithal to keep my mouth shut. I manage to get to my feet, albeit slowly. My teeth ache from slamming together. Feeling warm wetness, I swipe a hand over my chin and discover that I’m bleeding like a sieve.
“You could have at least taken off the rings,” I pop off, glaring right back at War since I have no self-perseveration instincts whatsoever. Why survive if I can’t have her?
My head and body swing around with the force of his second punch. This time his fist connects with my cheekbone, making it blaze.
“That all you got?” I ask, swiveling myself back around.
He cocks his arm again. I brace. I’m seeing two of him, but I don’t do anything in defense. I deserve whatever hurt he wants to dish out.
“Stop.” My dad grabs War’s arm. “Let’s get some answers before you pulverize him.”
“Be my guest.” War gestures as I dab at the gash in my chin with the hem of my shirt. “But if he pops off again, I’m gonna fucking lose it.”
“Why’d you do it?” my dad asks, stepping between War and me.
“Didn’t do it, old man.” I know he’s referring to the photos, know that’s what War is pissed about, and I don’t blame him. “Don’t know who did.”
“Don’t know if I believe you.” Dad’s gaze narrows.
I’m not surprised by this and flick my gaze to War. “How is she?”
“You don’t deserve to know.” His displeasure booms like a cannon.
“I agree. Still gonna ask even if you hit me again. Is she okay?”
“She should be safe at home now.” He gives me a long, considering look.
“Home in Seattle? Or LA?” I ask, my legs wobbling.
“Seattle.” War frowns. “Treyall is taking her home on his jet.”
The ground rolls beneath me knowing Peace is out of reach.
“Who leaked the photos?” Dad asks. “Was it you? Or one of your bandmates?”
“None of the above.” I center all my frustration and anger on him. “But don’t know why you’re even bothering to ask since you never believe anything I tell you.”
He crosses his arms over his chest. “It’ll take time for investigators to suss it out.”
“Doesn’t matter who did it.” War shakes his head. “Damage is done. Because of you.” He points at me. “My daughter’s life is in shambles. You’re the wrecking ball. No matter who gave the media those photos.”
“I’ll take the blame.” I crank my chin up. “I take full responsibility for everything.”
“When have you ever taken responsibility for shit?” My old man gets his own punch in.
“When have you?” I fire right the fuck back. My hands form fists at my sides, but there’s no defense for his verbal blows. “You tossed me aside the moment you found out I was damaged, and you turned a deaf ear when I told you I was getting the absolute shit beat out of me on account of it. You piled and piled the blame on me when I was just a kid. I couldn’t dig my way out from underneath it. I didn’t even want to try until I met her.”
“Peace, you mean?” One arched brow reveals his skepticism, and I resign myself to the fact that he’ll never accept any blame for being a shit father.
“Yes. Fuck, yes,” I reply. “Peace is the best thing that’s ever happened to me.”
“Even better than your career?” my dad asks softly.
“It’s not even worth mentioning in the same breath as her, though I’m surprised you acknowledge that it’s a career and not just a lucky break.” My fingers open and close. I’m angry and I’m reeling. I want Peace. I need her. I crave her, her sweetness, and her soothing touch. “She’s light to my dark. Hope and understanding. Calm in the chaos. The home I never had. And it sucks to be completely in love with someone who’s too good for me.”
Stunned silence reigns. Moments tick by. My confession is the real wrecking ball. We all sway from a truth that packs more of a wallop than one of War’s punches.
“You’re in love with my daughter?” War’s disbelief is written all over his face.
“Yeah.” I nod, owning it. “You don’t have to tell me that she’s better off apart from me. I know it. I’ve always known that. But having her with me on this tour…” I trail off and rake a hand through my hair. “Fuck. How was I supposed to resist her?”
War slow blinks as he stares at me.
“You know her job was to stick close, to keep you out of trouble?” My old man poses his questions because he’s not done laying into me.
“Yeah,” I reply. “I know.”
“She was here because she had to be.” He shakes his head. “Because Melinda insisted, and I asked her to keep an eye on you.”
That last bit is news to me. It explains why he was talking to Peace that day in the studio.
“You can love her all you want,” he continues, “but she was just doing her job. Whatever you two were doing together, it wasn’t real. And it’s fucking over now.”
He got that part right. I nod tightly.
“Stay away from Peace,” War orders. Guess he’s over the shock of my confession. “If the media asks you questions, you’ll say no comment. We’ll do our best to get the photos taken down.” He drags a shaky hand through his light brown hair. “But we all know the damage is done.”
I agree with him up to a certain point, but I don’t accept that the damage is done. “Is there anything else I can do for you, gentlemen?” I ask, my sarcasm heavy. It’s all I have.
“That’s it,” War replies. My dad doesn’t say jack.
“Well, there’s the door.” I point and my gaze snags on an unopened bottle of Jim Beam on the dressing room counter. As they file out without another word, I wrestle with my conscience. I want a drink so badly I can practically taste the bite of the alcohol on my tongue. But I’ve tried drowning reality before. It doesn’t work. There’s not a substance on this earth that can make me forget Peace or the void that my life is in her absence.
There’s a knock. I rip my gaze away from the booze and realize seeing her in the doorway that my shit night isn’t shitty enough.
“Melinda.” I acknowledge the Black Cat CEO as she comes inside. Her wand sweeping back and forth, she walks straight to me.
“I fucked up,” I admit preemptively.
She blinks a few times. “Is that what War and Bryan were here to tell you?”
“Um, yeah. Because I did. And I’m sorry.”
“Did you take the photos?” she asks.
“No.” I shake my head.
“Hire someone to take them?” She tosses another question at me.
“No way.”
“Someone stole a very private moment between you and Peace and made it public,” she summarizes the situation eloquently. “Do you know who?”
“No, I don’t.” I shake my head again reflexively even though she can’t see me. “Wish I did.”
“That’s what I thought.” She nods. “My team is focusing our efforts on getting the photos taken down. That’s our first priority, then we’ll worry about who’s to blame.”
“That would be best for Peace.” Melinda getting involved is the only good I can see so far in this shitty situation.
“You and Peace are victims. When we discover who took and turned over those photos to the media, we’ll come after them.” She tilts her head. “I heard War clocked you pretty good.”
“He threw a few punches.” I downplay it.
“Peace is his daughter.”
“I’m aware,” I say wryly. Didn’t really need the reminder ripped into my flesh.
“Dads don’t always know what’s best for their daughters,” she says softly.
“I agree. Wholeheartedly.” Or dads with their sons, mine in particular.
“Before all this happened,” she says in a confidential tone, “I spoke to Peace about her singing.”
I’m surprised by the change of subject, but it must be said. “She’s phenomenal.”
“I agree.” She nods. “She shared why she won’t consider singing publicly. Did she tell you about that?”
“Yes, she did,” I admit.
“So whose idea was it to do that number at the guitar shop?”
“Peace’s. She wanted me to perform something for the fans. I convinced her to sing with me.”
She taps her chin. “That’s very interesting.”
“How so?” I ask.
“Peace is a natural talent with a lot of untapped potential.” Her lips twist with her displeasure. “She’s staunchly opposed to developing that potential.”
“She prefers reading and writing.” But preferences don’t tell the complete story. I shed a little light on how musically talented Peace is. “Most of our lyrics came about from the poetry she wrote.”
Her blue eyes widen. “Why isn’t she credited?”
“Tried to get her to accept the credit. Tried to compensate her. She flat out refused both.” I shake my head. The movement causes more blood to flow from the gash on my chin. If only my blood being shed could wash away my sins.
“Do you think you could convince her to sing again? Publicly?” She fires questions at me. “Potentially professionally?”
“No.” I quash that idea. “I doubt Peace will talk to me again.” Bryan’s words are a bullhorn blaring between my ears.
“But if she listened,” Melinda presses, “would you be willing to try to convince her that it’s wrong for her to neglect her gift?”
“I would because I do believe it’s wrong,” I confirm. “But I acted like an asshole to her. I ruined our friendship. She’s not gonna take advice from me.”
“If you care about her”—she lays things out—“and are really her friend, then you’ll do whatever it takes to make things right and regain her friendship.”
“I do care about her.” My shoulders slump. “But it’s not me she needs. After all, she had me and look what it got her.”
“Everyone needs a true friend. Someone who believes in them. Someone who understands them. Someone who doesn’t let fears or the criticisms of others hold them back from being the best they can be.”
“Peace is that kind of friend for me.” Or she once was.
“Don’t you think it’s time you were that kind of friend for her too?”