Epilogue
Loralei
Four Years Later
"Dums!" Demi shouts, stomping her foot and glaring at her daddy like she's two seconds from a screaming tantrum if he doesn't listen to what she's saying to him.
"Baby girl," Ash says, kneeling in front of her with a book in his hands, desperately trying to convince her that books are more her speed. "You'll love this book. It's about a giant red dog. You love dogs."
It's a familiar argument. It's also one she isn't buying.
No matter how many books he puts in front of her or what they're about, she always chooses the drums. And no matter how many times she chooses the drums, he always tries to change her mind.
My husband does not want his baby girl to grow up rock n' roll.
Unfortunately, his baby girl has different plans.
At three, she's already strong-willed and fiercely independent.
And she has no problem laying down the law.
And the law, according to Demi, is simple: Books are for bedtime, and drums are for every other moment of the day.
"No dog!" she cries. "Dums!"
Ash looks to me for help, misery glinting in the depths of his eyes. He hates when they argue. He hates when she's mad at him. And I know, deep down, he's afraid she'll grow up to follow in his footsteps, facing the same problems he faced when the whole world was screaming his name.
But that isn't his story anymore. It hasn't been in four years. He writes music now instead of performing it, and he's happier than ever. On the rare occasion when he does hop up on a stage, it's for a good cause.
It's funny. Before I met him, when I only knew him through interviews and photos in magazines, I always thought he was happy. He smiled all the time, laughed all the time. And then I got to know him—really know him.
Turns out, people hide a lot behind fake smiles.
The real ones are the ones that count.
There's a difference you'd never notice with his smiles unless you knew him. I didn't back them. I do now. His eyes crinkle when he's genuinely happy. His laughter booms. His fingers tap out melodies only he hears.
They aren't tapping right now. His eyes aren't crinkling either. My man is not a happy camper. But his story changed a long time ago. He wrote a new one. And his story won't be Demi's either.
She's three. Who knows what she'll love when she's sixteen? Or eighteen? Or thirty?
Sooner or later, he'll figure that out.
Right now, he's just trying to hang on to his baby girl for as long as possible. And God, I love him for it. I love the way he loves us, and the way he wants to protect us from every hard day he ever faced.
Once, I thought that was because he didn't think I was capable of handling it. I know better now. Ash knows what it's like to struggle. He knows what it's like to wake up, staring at rock bottom. And he never wants me or our kids to ever face the kind of pressure that led him there.
He loves us in a way that steals my breath every damn day.
I'll love him the same way forever.
"Sweetheart," I murmur, stepping into the fray before it gets ugly. "We can't play the drums right now. Your baby sister is sleeping, remember?"
Demi narrows her little eyes on me, and then huffs loudly. "Dums amorrow, Mama?"
"Yeah, baby," I promise, rubbing her head. "You can play the drums tomorrow."
She considers my promise carefully for a long moment, then huffs again, shoots her daddy another dark glare, then plucks the book from his hands and scurries out of the kitchen.
"Fuck," Ash mutters, his head drooping. "If the baby isn't a bookworm like you, I'm going to lose it, Loralei."
"You won't," I say softly, stepping up beside him to sink my hand into his hair. "You're just worried, Ash. But you aren't going to lose it."
He tips his head back, his wide eyes meeting mine. "She's already too fucking talented, baby. And she's headstrong. And stubborn."
"She's just like you."
"Yeah," he groans through a laugh. "I am not prepared for her to take the world by storm."
"She's only three, Ash. You have plenty of time to prepare her not to make the same mistakes you did if she decides music is a future she wants to pursue.
" I tug on his hair, smiling at him. "And I know you'll do it because you love her too much to let her risk passing out behind a wheel with no memory of how she got there. "
He swallows hard, regret glinting in his eyes. "I still hate that I ended up there."
"I know, but you aren't there now. You're here with us. You've been sober for nineteen years." I tug gently on his hair again. "You have me, and Demi, and Gage, and a whole future of writing music, arguing with Jazz, and stalking me at the library. You're good now."
He's been good for a long time. Sometimes, I think that's what scares him.
He loves every minute of his life, and he never wants to do anything to screw it up.
He works hard to ensure he never does, but I know he still worries about it, the same way anyone who has ever drowned themselves at the bottom of a bottle worries.
He stares at me for a long moment before hooking his arms around my waist and slowly lowering me down until I'm straddling him right there in the kitchen. "You're so fucking smart, baby," he breathes, his lips brushing mine. "How'd I get so lucky?"
"Simple." I loop my arms around his neck, clinging to him. "You almost ran me over in a storm, kidnapped me, then held me hostage in a cabin."
He buries his face in my throat, his body vibrating with laughter. "Is that how we're telling the story now?"
"Yep," I whisper, nipping at his throat. "Sounds way dirtier this way, doesn't it?"
"Mmhmm." He grabs my ass, grinding me against him. "Especially if you leave in the parts about chasing you through the woods, fucking you against a tree, and licking that tasty little asshole on top of your rental…"
"Those are my favorite parts," I moan softly, pulling his hair to get his mouth on mine.
"I know," he chuckles against my lips. "But you're my favorite part, Loralei. Always will be."
I melt against him, my whole body going soft.
God, I love this man. More and more every damn day.