17. Chapter 17
Chapter 17
Ace
A nother day, another city. We’ve left San Francisco behind, the first leg of the tour wrapped up, and now we’re all crammed onto the bus, heading toward Salt Lake City.
I haven’t said a word to Scarlet about what happened the other day. I have no idea how to bring it up because I never wanted her to see me for the broken asshole I really am. When I woke up, I just lay there for a moment, watching her, taking in her beautiful face. But as soon as she sensed my eyes on her and looked over, I just had to get out of there. I’ve never let my guard down like that with anyone before, but somehow, lying next to her on that bed calmed me, and pulled me out of my head. And for the first time, it felt like I could finally breathe.
Xander and Kit ripped me a new one when they found out I bailed in the middle of that interview, leaving Scarlet to fend for herself. But from what I’ve heard, she handled it like a fucking pro. Especially when that prick threw a question at her about my past, asking if she knew whether the rumors were true.
Xander and Kit agreed that it’s best if I avoid the media and just focus on the tour. Honestly, I’m relieved. Xander knows how relentless the media can be once they sink their teeth into something, and he knows how this shit messes with my head. I can’t go back there. I’m not opening up to anyone, and I sure as hell won’t let the world see that side of me. But still, I can’t help but wonder what bullshit story they’ll spin.
While the rest of the band is asleep in the back of the bus, it’s just me and a bottle of whiskey holding down the fort. I take a long swig from the bottle, letting the burn settle in my throat—a reminder that I can still feel something, even if it’s just the sting. Setting the bottle aside, my fingers dance over the strings of my guitar as I work through a few riffs. There’s something here, a sound that might be the perfect fit for what Xander’s been working on, but I keep pushing it, chasing after the right note.
After the third attempt at tweaking the tune, goosebumps rise on my skin. I don’t need to turn around to know she’s there; I can feel her presence like a shift in the air. It happens every time she’s near, this strange, electric current that surges through me. A feeling I’ve never experienced before, and it’s fucking with my head. Maybe it’s because she’s the one girl who’s completely off-limits—the one I should never have touched in the first place. Back in the day, if someone told me I couldn’t have or do something, I’d prove them wrong. Maybe that’s why I’m like this around her—it’s that defiant part of me, always craving what I can’t have.
I keep my head down, strumming a few strings, trying to focus, as she makes her way towards the kitchen area at the front of the bus. I steal a quick glance at her as she stands before the fridge, staring into it like she’s not sure what she wants. She bites her bottom lip, and it drives me fucking wild. My eyes trace over her — that tight t-shirt revealing the bare curve of her hips and lower back, those damn dimples on either side of her spine, and those tight sleep shorts that hug her ass just right.
A surge of desire hits me like a tidal wave, my body reacting, cock throbbing with need. All I can think about is being back inside her, feeling her squirm beneath me, hearing those sexy noises she makes, and getting lost in the smell of her skin. What is it with her? Guys like me don’t get attached. We get our dicks wet, and then we move on. But with her, it’s different. It’s like every time I touch her, I’m hooked deeper. I crave more than just the physical, more than just a quick fuck.
Holding a bottle of water and a tub of yogurt, she closes the fridge. As she turns around, I force my eyes back to the guitar, determined to focus on the music. Being trapped on this bus, with her mere inches away at all times, is pure torture. Her perfume lingers in the air, its sweet and addictive fragrance impossible to ignore. It’s as if every part of her is designed to fuck with my head. My fingers stumble over a few strings, and I have to bite back a curse.
I fight the urge to glance at her, trying to keep my shit together, even though all I want is to turn around, grab her, and take what I know I shouldn’t want.
The silence between us is thick, suffocating. It presses down on me, making it damn near impossible to focus on anything but the raw need clawing under my skin. My fingers strum aimlessly at the strings, but my mind’s a million miles away from the music. I’m trapped in this tug-of-war, torn between the urge to break the silence, to say something—anything—that might cut through this unbearable tension, and the fear that if I do, I’ll just fuck it all up. So I stay quiet, letting the silence stretch on, even though it’s slowly killing me.
Then she says my name—soft but clear—and it cuts through the noise in my head like a damn knife.
“Ace.”
The way she says it sends a jolt through me, making my heart race.
My fingers falter on the strings, and I close my eyes for a moment, trying to gather my thoughts. But before I can stop myself, I’m looking up, my eyes locking with hers. The lump in my throat tightens, and I know I should say something, but the words refuse to form. Instead, I drop my head back down, staring at the guitar as if it’s the only thing holding me together.
She sits down across from me on the small couch, her gaze unwavering, almost daring me to make a move. That jittery feeling rushes through me again, my body on edge like it’s ready for something. I’m trying to play it cool, but the heat of her presence makes it impossible. Every inch of me is wound tight, stuck between wanting her more than anything and fighting like hell to keep it in check. It’s like a battle I can’t win, no matter how hard I try.
“Ace,” she says. “Why have you been avoiding me since that day we did the interview?”
I try to brush it off. “I haven’t,” I say, but the lie hangs heavy between us, and she can see right through it.
“Please, just look at me,” she insists.
I hesitate, gathering the nerve to meet her gaze. When I finally do, the genuine concern in her eyes catches me off guard.
“It wasn’t anything to be embarrassed about, if that’s what’s bothering you,” she says softly.
“It’s not,” I say, though deep down, a part of me is screaming that it absolutely is. I can’t stomach the idea of going down that road with her, letting her see all the broken pieces I’ve tried to hide for so long. She pulled me back from the edge that day, out of my own fucked-up head in a way no one ever has. She deserves better than the way I’ve been treating her, better than all the bullshit I keep putting her through.
I take my time, setting the guitar aside on the couch. I know I owe her at least some kind of explanation.
I grab the whiskey bottle from the table, hoping it’ll give me the courage to say something—anything—that might explain why the fuck I am the way I am. As I unscrew the cap and take a long swig, the burn in my throat grounds me, preparing me for whatever’s next, though I have no idea how to even start. I’m not about to spill all my baggage—not to her.
“Sometimes… things from my past creep up on me. Stuff I thought I buried a long time ago.” The words scrape out of my mouth, rough and jagged, like I’m pulling them from a place that’s been locked up tight for too long. “Things from my childhood that still mess with me. They just… trigger something inside, and I lose control.”
I steal a glance at her but quickly look away, avoiding the pity I expect to find in her eyes. “I don’t wanna get into it—not because I don’t trust you, but...” My voice trails off as I stare at the bottle in my hand, wishing I could just down the rest to avoid this conversation. She doesn’t need to know all my demons. Scarlet has this light to her, this brightness I don’t want to dim with my shit. I can feel her gaze still on me, and I finally raise my head to meet it. “I don’t want to drag you down with me. You’re better than that, Scar—better than all of this.”
She stands up and comes forward. The moment she sits down beside me, my heat races, and my mind zeroes in on the urge to touch her. But I push those thoughts aside as she turns her head and speaks.
“Ace, whatever it is, I can handle it. I want to be there for you, no matter how dark it gets.” She reaches out, her hand brushing against my arm, and that simple touch ignites something inside me—feelings I’ve been trying to shove aside. Strange feelings that confuse the hell out of me.
“I’ve seen how things get with Theo,” she continues, her voice steady. “I know it’s heavy, but I still want to be there for you, no matter what.”
Footsteps echo behind us, and Scarlet quickly jerks her hand away just before Theo stumbles out, half-asleep. His hair’s a mess, like he’s been through a rough night. He stands there in nothing but his boxers, his bare chest on full display—and, of course, a waking boner. Scarlet immediately averts her gaze, her cheeks flushing.
Theo shuffles over and flops down on the couch, staring straight at me while rubbing his crotch. Why the hell is he touching his junk while looking at me? Is he still half-asleep, or is this some weird sleepwalking shit? With this guy, anything’s possible.
His eyes shift downwards to the bottle in my hand, while he continues to scratch his junk. “Gonna share that shit?” he asks.
“If you stop looking at me while you touch your cock,” I snap, shooting him a glare.
He smirks, that shit-eating grin spreading across his face. “What’s wrong, Ace? Afraid I’m thinking about you while I’m doing it? You should be flattered.”
“Fuck off,” I growl back. “Save your fucking fantasies for someone else.”
Theo just smirks and winks. “Maybe I’m just practicing for your next big show.”
“Alright, you two,” Scarlet interjects, her voice cutting through the banter. “Theo, see that couch cushion over there?”
Theo turns, looking genuinely confused. “Yeah?”
“Grab it and put it in your lap,” she orders. “Nobody wants to see you sitting there in your underwear, especially not me.”
Theo snatches the cushion and hurls it at me, then drags another one over his lap. “Happy now?” he grumbles at Scarlet before turning his attention back to me. “So, are you gonna share that drink or what?”
I can’t help but smirk as I lean forward to pass him the bottle, taking note of the firm, no-nonsense tone Scarlet used with Theo. It’s impressive how she manages to get him to listen, especially given how often he brushes everyone else off. But with her, he actually pays attention.
I’m sprawled out on the bed in my hotel room, trying to figure out how to kill time. I could hit up Xander, but he’s out with Neil, heading to the airport to pick up Poppy and Alex. They’re flying in to be with him tonight.
A knock at the door breaks my boredom. I swing it open to find Theo standing there, decked out in shorts and a t-shirt, a towel draped around his neck.
“Put your dick away,” he says, barging into the room and forcing me to step back. “Want to go for a swim?”
I shut the door, feeling relieved for the distraction. A swim sounds like just what I need. I head over to grab my swim shorts.
“Scarlet’s meeting us there,” Theo adds, flopping down on the couch like he’s got all the time in the world, waiting for me to get ready.
I pause, turning to face Theo, my mind racing. There’s no way I can go now. I need to keep my distance. Seeing Scarlet in a bikini is a fucking disaster waiting to happen. I can already picture it: me in the water, pressed against the wall, trying to hide the boner that’s bound to spring up the moment she walks in. The temptation of seeing her like that, knowing I can’t touch her, will be way too much to handle.
“You know what? I think I might just crash here,” I say, trying to sound casual. “Got a headache from staying up most of the night talking shit with you.”
“Nah, come on, fuck that. We never do anything together,” Theo insists.
I keep my cool, shrugging it off. “Nah, I’m tired. You go ahead. I might go later if I feel like it.”
He gives me a look that says he can see right through my bullshit, but then he just shrugs and gets up from the couch. “Okay,” he says, heading for the door. “Catch ya later, asshole,” he yells over his shoulder just before stepping out.
With Theo gone, the silence in the room wraps around me like a heavy blanket, and boredom creeps in. I grab the remote, flop down onto the bed, and flick the TV on. Some show Xander likes is playing—some Housewives shit where bitches keep tearing each other down. I’ve sat through this garbage at his place a few times, and it never fails to piss me off. I start channel surfing, hoping to find something that doesn’t involve these bitches.
After flipping through about ten channels, my heart skips a beat. As I hit the back button, my mother’s face appears on the screen, sending chills down my spine. The sight hits me like a punch to the gut, dragging me right back to that scared, broken kid with all the scars. Kit never mentioned when the interview would air, and I sure as hell didn’t ask—I didn’t want to know what kind of shit she might spew. But now, seeing her face up close on the screen, I can’t bring myself to change the channel. Something about it keeps me frozen, unable to look away, even though every part of me is screaming to shut it off.
She looks older now, her hair streaked with gray, her face etched with the hard lines of a life wasted on drugs. Those deep creases around her mouth tell stories of every cigarette she’s smoked. When I was younger, I thought she was beautiful, but now all I feel is a deep, seething hate. Hate for the woman who could never love me.
As the camera pulls back, it reveals Jerry Goldman, the hard-hitting interviewer, with his usual no-nonsense expression, ready to tackle the tough questions. But it’s the asshole next to my mother that really grabs my attention—the wannabe biker still dressed like he’s ready for a bar fight. I remember him all too well; the way he pressed his hand against my neck, pinning me to the wall. I can still see Xander clawing at his grip, desperation etched across his face as he fought to pull him off me.
Goldman’s voice slices through my thoughts like a razor. “So, can you tell me why you’ve decided now to come out and set the record straight?” he asks, his tone dripping with curiosity and just the right amount of skepticism.
“With all the attention about the camera incident, I thought it was time that everyone knew the real Ace Roberts,” my so-called mother replies, her voice smug and dripping with insincerity.
My grip on the remote tightens, causing my knuckles to turn white as I listen to her words. Each syllable feels like a punch to the gut.
Goldman leans in closer, his voice probing like a predator stalking its prey. “And what is it that everyone should know?” he asks, as if he’s ready to pry open every dark corner of my life.
The close-up of my mother on the screen leaves a bitter taste in my mouth. How could she possibly know the real me when she never even bothered to give me a second glance? To her, I was just a nuisance, an obstacle in her life. The cruel, fucked up things her boyfriends did to me didn’t matter—she laughed them off like they were some kind of joke, completely oblivious to the pain I endured. From the age of five, they’d beat me mercilessly, shoving me aside as if I were nothing more than a piece of furniture. To her, it was all just a sick form of entertainment.
“Everyone knows Ace Roberts, the rockstar. But nobody knows the person I’ve feared my whole life. The violent, unpredictable son who—” She takes a breath, relishing the moment before delivering the final blow, “who is capable of anything.”
My chest tightens with anger and disbelief. The room feels like it's shrinking, the walls closing in around me, trapping me in this fucking nightmare.
Goldman raises an eyebrow, leaning in even closer. “Anything? That’s a serious accusation, Mrs. Fletcher. Can you provide an example of this “anything” you’re claiming?”
My mother sighs, sliding right into her victim act like it’s second nature. “There was an incident when he was seventeen. His stepfather, Larry,” she glances at the scumbag sitting next to her, “tried to protect me, and Ace didn’t take it well. There was this moment when he grabbed me and wouldn’t let go. That was the day I genuinely feared for my life, truly believing it could be my last. A boy should never lay a hand on his mother like that. I just can’t understand where I went wrong, raising a son with so much hatred in his heart. If Larry hadn’t been there, I don’t know what I would’ve done.”
She’s fucking lying. Twisting the truth to put on a show, just like she always does. My pulse pounds in my ears, a relentless beat fueling the anger already building inside me. I can feel it rising, heat creeping up my neck, and the rage clawing at me, begging to be unleashed as I stare at the screen, watching her spin her web of lies.
“So what you’re saying is that Ace has always been an abusive person?” Goldman asks, looking straight into the camera.
My mother keeps going, her voice trembling just enough to sell the lie. “I’ve always been terrified of what he might do to me. His father, and his sister, not being able to cope with Ace's violent outbursts, ended up leaving.”
“Really? His father and sister left because of how violent Ace Roberts was?” The camera zooms in on Goldman’s face, and I can see the wheels turning in his mind. He smells the blood in the water, ready to expose me as the monster she’s making me out to be. My anger boils over, yet I can’t look away from the screen.
Goldman shifts his gaze to that smug bastard, sitting next to my mother. “Larry,” he says, “is it true that Ace Roberts, a well-known member of the most successful band on the planet, is a dangerous man?”
The smirk on Larry’s face widens. “You know, Jerry,” he starts, leaning in like he’s about to drop some juicy gossip. “Ace has always had a temper, even as a kid. He’s got a wild streak a mile wide, and fame just made it worse. I’ve seen him snap, and when he does, it’s like a switch flips. I’ve had to step in more than once to keep him from doing something he’d regret. So yeah, I’d say he’s dangerous. You never know what he’s capable of when he loses it.”
My pulse spikes, anger bubbling up, ready to explode. He’s feeding them the exact bullshit they want—painting me as the fucking villain.
I hurl the remote at the wall above the TV, the plastic cracking against the drywall before bouncing off and clattering to the floor. But the impact doesn’t do a damn thing to ease the rage boiling inside me; it only fuels it, making me want to lash out even more.
Goldman leans in closer, his eyes narrowing as he ramps up the tension. “So you’ve witnessed Ace Roberts snap? Can you share what that moment was like and what led up to it?”
“Well, Jerry, it was just before I threw him out of the house for his violent outburst. Lola and I were hanging out in the house one day, and he came in wanting something—”
“What did he want?” Goldman presses, eager for more dirt.
“Well, you know what, Jerry, I can’t really remember,” the asshole replies, casting a glance at my mother.
“You can’t remember, you lying piece of shit, because it never fucking happened!” I scream at the TV.
“Go on, tell us what he did,” Goldman presses. He’s practically salivating, ready to feast on the drama.
“I caught him stealing money from my wallet,” the asshole says, leaning in like he’s about to drop a bombshell. “When Lola confronted him about it, he just lost it. He grabbed her by the throat and threw her to the floor. That’s when I knew I had to get him out of the house, because if he stayed, I shudder to think of what could’ve happened next.” He glances at my mother, his smirk widening. “I knew I had to do what was right. No man should ever lay a hand on a woman, especially not a son against his mother.”
“So, Lola, your son Ace actually physically assaulted you. He grabbed you by the throat and threw you to the ground,” Goldman says, pausing to emphasize the moment, as if he’s savoring the drama.
“No, I fucking didn’t!” I scream at the screen, desperate for my voice to break through the barrier between us and set the record straight.
Something inside me snaps. My vision goes red, and before I can think twice, my hand is reaching for the lamp beside the bed. The anger surges through me like a wild current, and I feel like I might explode.
My mother’s face flashes onto the screen, eyes brimming with fake tears. At this moment, I know that anyone watching—especially with Jerry Goldman, the ratings king, leading the charge—will probably believe every word this bitch spews, painting me as the villain in her bullshit story.
“Yes, that’s true, Jerry,” my mother sniffs, delicately dabbing at the corners of her eyes with a tissue. “Ace Roberts is a violent man.”
The rage detonates inside me like a fucking bomb. I snatch the lamp off the bedside table, the cord yanking out of the wall with a violent tug as I hurl it straight at the TV. The lamp crashes into the screen with a sickening crack, glass splintering everywhere as the image distorts and fades to black. But even that destruction fails to calm the storm raging within me—it’s not enough. Not even close to the release I need.
I jump off the bed, fists clenched, and grab whatever I can find to unleash my fury. The chair goes flying across the room, crashing against the wall. The coffee table gets flipped over and slammed into the drywall until it splinters into pieces. Next, I target the mirror above the dresser, my fist smashing into the glass, shattering it into a million shards. My breath comes in ragged gasps, my hands raw, but none of that matters. Nothing fucking matters because all I can hear is her voice echoing in my head, branding me as a monster. And maybe that’s exactly what I am.