Chapter 42 Scott - A Star is Born
SCOTT: A STAR IS BORN
Two and a Half Years Later
The bass rattles the riser beneath my feet, and my body remembers before my brain does. For half a second, I’m not standing backstage at a sold-out arena, a laminated pass swinging from my neck, listening to Jake’s name being chanted by forty thousand people.
I’m nineteen again, with sweat slick on my back, and a microphone in my hand, drunk on the sound of strangers screaming my name. We’d thought that was it—the height of cool—being loved, chosen, and untouchable all at once. I’d thought that was success.
The roar inside the arena snapped me back to the spotlights cutting across the stage, the crew in headsets, and the reminder that the cheers weren’t for me.
They were for my son.
The lights went down, and screams tore through the building, followed by chants of ‘McKallister.’ Paul placed a hand on my shoulder, his smile as wide and unguarded as mine. This had once been his dream too, but neither of us had gone the distance.
“McKallister! McKallister!”
“Gotta admit,” Paul said, yelling over the mayhem, “it’s a hell of a thing to hear our last name screamed from the rafters.”
“A hell of a thing,” I agreed, letting the pride settle.
I glanced over and caught tears in my brother’s eyes. He pressed a palm to his chest. “He’s the best version of it yet.”
We stood there, just out of sight, letting the noise wash over us, letting our younger selves have this moment one last time before we watched the kid who’d finished the dream step into the light—and the crowd went wild.
Michelle and I took a moment backstage, just the two of us.
Tonight had hit harder than we’d expected.
Since signing that contract in our kitchen a few years ago, Jake’s music had gone everywhere—radio, Spotify, and now his first show of a sold-out arena tour.
We’d been to plenty of his concerts, carving out time whenever we could to stay connected.
But with each step his fame took forward, it felt like he was being pulled into a life that moved faster than we could follow.
“What are you thinking?” Michelle asked.
“That I’m just… aggressively proud.”
She smiled. “Me too. But I also feel a little sad.”
“I don’t think you’re sad,” I said. “I think you’re feeling nostalgic.”
She considered it. “No, I’m sad.”
“Okay,” I said with a laugh, pulling her chair closer until our knees touched. “Why are you sad?”
“I feel like he’s not ours anymore. The other kids—they’re still part of us. But Jake… he belongs to them now.”
“I get what you mean,” I said, and I did.
It felt different. Jake had been famous before this tour, but tonight he felt iconic.
Like something had shifted. It was a turning point.
Maybe she was right, maybe we were losing him to fame.
But at least we were losing him to that, and not all the other obstacles that had been put in his way.
“He was born for this, Michelle. Tonight he made his mark.”
Tears flooded her eyes. “What if he doesn’t need us anymore?”
“Then we’ll know we did our job.”
Michelle leaned into me and rested her forehead against my shoulder. “I hate this. The kids getting older. I feel useless. What am I going to do with my life when they’re all gone?”
“I was hoping you’d focus on me. I’m still very high maintenance.”
“Yes.” She laughed, lifting her head, and our eyes met. “You’ve always been my favorite responsibility.”
“Really? Because sometimes I feel like you’re not trying very hard. Last week, you let me run out of clean socks.”
“Oh, no. I’m so sorry,” she mocked. “I promise to do better.”
“I ask so little.”
We laughed, letting the weight of the day lift.
“What’s so funny?” Kyle asked, joining us in the corner.
At seventeen, he was all gangly arms and legs and easygoing charm. Like Jake, he appeared to have made it through the worst of it with barely a scratch. And like Jake, I wasn’t sure I believed him. I couldn’t help wondering if there was more beneath the humor than he ever let on.
“Mom claims she’s going to take better care of me.”
“She still cuts the crust off your sandwiches like you’re five,” Emma said, migrating over too. “You’ve been compensated.”
Emma took a seat on my knee and wrapped her arms around me.
Somewhere along the way, she’d become more of a daddy’s girl—though I suspected it was less about preference and more about distance.
Her relationship with her mother had taken a hit, and while Michelle had been trying to repair the damage, Emma seemed unwilling—or unable—to meet her halfway.
Quinn drifted over from the snack table to join our impromptu family meeting, Grace right behind him, already grinning. McKallisters never could pass up a good laugh, especially not at my expense.
“Where’s Keith?” Quinn asked.
Michelle and I exchanged a look. Keith had promised he wouldn’t screw it up. He meant it. He just hadn’t been able to pull it off.
“He had somewhere else to be,” I said.
The door opened, and Jake stepped in. The energy in the room shifted instantly—whispers, applause, phones raised.
People pressed closer, pulled in as if by gravity.
He offered a small, practiced smile, calm and courteous, but kept his distance.
Confident without inviting. Present, but unreachable.
It was a shield he’d learned to wear after the kidnapping, then refined as fame tightened its grip.
Jake scanned the crowd without really seeing it until he found us, and something in him eased.
“Sorry… can I get through?” he said, already moving in our direction.
In this room full of people reaching for him, he chose us. And I knew Michelle had nothing to fear. No matter how far they go, the ones who stay grounded know how to come home.
Later, after the kids were settled and the arena lights had dimmed, I finally had my wife alone. And she was in rare form.
“Did you see those women throwing themselves at Jake?” Michelle said, meeting my eyes in the mirror as she removed her jewelry. “Apparently modesty is out of style.”
She was talking about the crowd that had gathered after the show. It wasn’t anything we hadn’t seen before, but tonight the women were noticeably more aggressive.
“And, I’m sorry, but is there a fabric shortage in the United States?”
Michelle was tipsy, and that petty little glint in her eye did things to me. She was usually so controlled, so when something finally slipped under her skin, it was like a whole other version of my wife came out, and I knew if I could coax her into staying there, I was in for a good night.
“I didn’t have a problem with the dress code.” I shrugged. “And neither did your son.”
“I counted at least three women who would absolutely key my car,” she went on, as if I hadn’t spoken at all.
“Could it be the particular tone you’re giving off?”
“Me?” she scoffed. “I’m classically trained in etiquette. No, you should be more worried one of those women is going to name our grandchildren—Ridge, Stormi, fucking Chardonnay.”
Oh, boy. I had a live one.
Michelle didn’t often drop f-bombs, but when she did, it was best to clear the area. Tonight was shaping up nicely.
“No need to worry,” I said. “I’m confident Jake has mastered the art of leaving no souvenirs.”
“Oh, my god.” She laughed. “You’re so crude.”
“Maybe,” I said. “But instead of worrying what our son is—or isn’t—doing with the car-keyers, you could focus that energy on me. I’d like to get lucky too.”
She turned toward me. “Really, Scott? That’s what you got out of this conversation?”
“No,” I said patiently, playing the long game. “I’m just saying, if you’re going to be spicy, I should probably be the one benefiting.”
“Yeah?” Her irritation slid seamlessly into a smile. “You want me to bitch-slap you instead?”
I crossed the room, slid her hair off her back, and bent to kiss the bare skin of her shoulder. “I thought you’d never ask.”
“Scott.”
The word came softer, and out of nowhere, a flicker of exhaustion settled over her shoulders.
I saw the slight slump, and the way her smile didn’t quite reach her eyes anymore.
This was the moment I could lose her to sleep.
But if I stopped trying every time exhaustion set in, I’d never get anything.
No, persistence was key in a long marriage, and I was a go-getter.
I didn’t push. Instead, I let my hand drift from her back, my fingertips tracing over the silk material covering her arm.
I drew a lazy, meaningless pattern from her shoulder to her elbow and back again, the lightest pressure I could manage.
Her skin pebbled under my touch. A good sign.
I kept at the slow, hypnotic caress until her eyes fluttered shut.
She leaned her head against my chest as a quiet sigh escaped.
My other hand came up to her neck, my fingers threading into the soft hair at her nape.
Another sigh, this one deeper, shakier. Her hand, which had been resting on the hotel vanity, reached for mine, and her fingers dug in just slightly.
Our eyes met in the mirror, and there it was: the shift. The moment weariness gave way to want.
I lowered my head, and my lips found the pulse point just below her ear.
“Michelle,” I breathed against her skin, and a full-body shiver wracked her frame.
She arched into me, a silent plea. I pulled her to her feet and found the zipper.
It slid down with a soft buzz, and the air hit her skin.
I slid the dress off her shoulders, letting it pool around her feet on the hotel room floor.
She stood before me in the dim light, and I swear, she was still everything to me.
My hands roamed over her, familiar with every curve, every dip, every scar that told the story of our life together.
I knelt before her and let my lips trace a path down her stomach, feeling her muscles quiver under my mouth.
I took my time, listening to the sharp intakes of her breath, the soft moans that vibrated through her, until her back bowed and her fingers tangled in my hair, her voice crying out my name in a fractured, desperate whisper.
As I rose to my feet, a fire I hadn’t seen all night blazed in her eyes. She grabbed the front of my shirt, yanking me forward until our chests collided. Then she shoved me back onto the bed, her movements fierce and sure, and in an instant, the hunter became the hunted. Fuck yeah!
She climbed over me, straddling my hips with a predatory grace that sent a shockwave straight through me.
Her knees pinned my legs to the mattress, and the look in her eyes was pure, undiluted hunger.
She tore at the buttons of my shirt, her knuckles grazing my skin, and I didn't move a muscle, just watched her, mesmerized.
This unleashed, feral side of Michelle was what I lived for.
With her palms flat against my chest, she leaned down, and her hair fell like a curtain around us.
She captured my mouth in a kiss that was all teeth and tongue and raw need.
She broke away, breathless, and went for my jeans, working them down my legs with an impatient shove of her hands, and I kicked them free.
She adjusted, her body gliding against mine as my hands found her hips, and I pressed my thumbs into her soft skin.
She guided me to her, her eyes locked on mine, and then she lowered herself, taking me inside her with an achingly slow slide that made my vision swim.
We went still. It wasn’t just physical. It was trust. Love.
Everything we’d built together… still holding.