Chapter 28
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Ross
Things have been busier than ever now that Wynter is gone.
It’s almost like the band and the universe were giving me a bit of a break so I could spend time with her because now it’s like one crisis after another.
An amp blowing a fuse during a show. Damage to Tommy’s drum set during transport.
Kingston having a slight setback because he catches an actual cold, which then the rest of the band gets as well.
At this point, I’m the only healthy member of the band and I’m avoiding them all like the plague because if I go down, we’ll be in deep shit.
At some point, something’s got to give because while I love performing, I can’t be on stage every night for two hours and then spend all day dealing with the technical and business side too. The money’s nice but I’m tired.
Not to mention sexually frustrated.
I’d forgotten how nice it is to go to bed and wake up with the same person.
To make love without lingering worries about broken condoms or other issues.
But it’s so much more than that. I’ve always liked her as a person.
Always thought she was pretty. Now that we’re intimate, there’s a soft, vulnerable side of her that perfectly complements her strength and independence.
And I like it.
I loved Clara. I’ll never try to minimize the love I had for the woman I planned to spend my life with. But she’s been gone infinitely longer than we were together and the man I am now has fallen hard for Wynter.
Which is why I don’t want to start over at forty-two.
I want to play some music, that’s a given.
If I can be the band’s opening act during the European leg of the tour this summer—it’ll take that long to put together the musicians and rehearse the set list—that’s the option that gives me the best of both worlds.
I don’t need to be a star. To go back to being broke while the woman I love is out there working twelve-hour days to support us. Not because she can’t but because it’s not necessary simply so that I can pretend to go back in time. I will never be the Ross from Ross & the Rock-its again.
I’m Ross Rockit, yes.
I can play those songs, maybe even a few of my new ones, but in the end, I crave stability and love more than the spotlight.
Maybe I can record one or two of my new songs—on my own dime—and see what happens if I release a single. That’s something I can do. But I’m done chasing fame and fortune.
I want love.
A family.
Stability.
There are no guarantees in life but this is something I have at least a modicum of control over.
Decision made, I suddenly feel lighter.
I’ll tell the band in a little bit, right after soundcheck. We’ll have some downtime between that and the show, so I can bring it up while we eat dinner.
I head toward the dressing room just as Pete comes jogging over to me.
“Hey. Sasha sent this overnight. Said they had to sign for it at the office, so she thought it might be important.”
“Thanks.” I stare down at the envelope curiously.
The return address is for a Los Angeles law firm that looks vaguely familiar and it was sent certified mail, which can be a bit nerve-wracking. I stare at it for a bit, hoping it’s not bad news, and then slowly tear it open.
The words in front of me swim for a beat.
…writing to tell you that Mr. Thomas Bancroft passed away on Sunday…
Thomas Bancroft.
The name alone makes my chest tight and my stomach clench.
Thomas fucking Bancroft.
I try not to think about him—ever.
The man driving the truck that drove headfirst into our tour bus. Killing Clara. Joey. Rambo. Dixon. Jerry our driver. Clark our manager. Everyone but me.
And I don’t feel an ounce of sympathy or grief for the man that did it. He was drunk, twice the legal limit, and woke up after the crash with a few scratches and no memory at all of the accident. Of the people he’d killed.
Nope, I don’t give a flying fuck about him.
I can only hope that motherfucker is rotting in hell somewhere.
“Who’s Thomas Bancroft?” Pete asks, reading over my shoulder. “Were you close?”
I close my fist around the letter, crumpling it.
“Isn’t that your real name, Tommy?” Z asks, looking up from whatever he was doing on his phone.
“What?” My voice is a croak.
“It was,” Tommy says at the same time. “But I legally changed my name to Bane thirteen years ago. Why?”
“Your name was Thomas…Bancroft?” I ask, staring at him with a frown.
“I mean, that’s the name I was born with. Why?”
For a second I see red but common sense prevails as I remember that nineteen years ago, Tommy was twelve. And I was at the trial for the fortyish-year-old man that killed my band and the woman I loved. It definitely wasn’t twelve-year-old Tommy.
Except…my chest tightens all over again.
“Was Thomas Bancroft…your father?” I ask, suddenly frozen in shock and horror.
“That was his name, yes. Why?” Tommy looks confused.
“Because the son of a bitch is dead,” I grind out, staring at him like I’ve never seen him before.
“He is?” Tommy frowns. “I don’t—”
“Did you know?” The growl leaves my chest before I can stop myself, and I pounce on him, grabbing him by the shirt.
Tommy is still frowning. “Did I know what?”
“What he did? Did you know he killed my fucking family?!” Both hands are balled into fists with his T-shirt in a death grip.
“Hey, come on.” Z moves close to us, putting one of his hands on mine. He’s a good five inches and fifty pounds bigger than me, but I don’t care.
“Did you?!” I yell, shaking Tommy.
“Know what?!” Tommy finally reacts, which is what I’ve been waiting for. He shoves me back. “What the fuck are you—”
I don’t let him finish as I pull back my fist and catch him in the jaw.
“What the fuck?!” Tommy shoves me again, this time side stepping my swing.
“Knock it off!” Z grabs me from behind as the band surrounds us. They’re all worried, confused, and I can’t blame them.
But Tommy…
Jesus fucking Christ.
All these years I’ve been working for the son of the man who killed everyone I loved. How did I not know this? And how could he keep it from me?
“You trying to say you didn’t know your dad was a killer?”
“Yeah, I fucking knew!” Tommy snaps. “Why do you think I changed my fucking name?”
The rage shooting through me is like kerosine on an already burning flame. It ricochets through my veins with such ferocity I’m momentarily blinded. Then I lunge.
Hard enough to break free from Z, landing on Tommy and taking us both down as I swing wildly. He’s surprisingly strong—probably from sitting behind a drum set for the last fifteen years—and shoves me off him. But I’m too blinded by rage to do anything but keep swinging.
Somehow, they get me off him. In my peripheral vision I see the ladies clustered together, eyes wide, staring at us. Z and Kellan pulling me back. Kingston and Devyn pulling Tommy back. There’s blood on his face and he’s going to have a black eye tomorrow.
Good.
“What the fuck is happening?!” Z yells.
“You fucking knew!” I hiss at Tommy. “And you let me make an ass of myself for nearly a decade! Fuck you! Fuck all of you!” I yank my arm free from Zee and Kellan. “I fucking quit.”
“Would you tell us what the hell you’re talking about?” Z growls, obviously irritated now.
“Ask him!” I motion at Tommy with my chin. “Let him tell you about his father.” I turn and run for the door.
“Ross, wait!” Kingston calls after me but I can’t stop moving.
I just have to get away from them.
All of them.
They probably all knew. Tommy would have told them. I know they did a background check before they hired me and I never hid my identity as Ross Rockit. They all knew and never said a word.
For all I know, everything about this has been pity. A way for Tommy to assuage his guilt.
I see the startled glances from the crew as I head out the back of the arena.
“Ross!” I hear Pete’s voice but I don’t stop.
I can’t.
It feels like someone just ripped the band-aid off and I’m bleeding out emotionally. The grief comes roaring back like this just happened yesterday, and I almost can’t breathe.
All I can do is keep moving.
I’m going to pack my shit and get on the first plane out of here.
I don’t even know where I’m going, I just have to get the hell away from here. From this. From them. I thought they were my friends. Found family. And it turns out they’re all liars. That hurts almost as much as losing Clara and the Rock-its all those years ago.
That pisses me off all over again.
Fuck this and fuck Onyx Knight.