Bad Seed

She was being stubborn, but I had to find a way to get her back. She was trying to do what she thought was right for me, but I wasn’t going to quit her. Not by a long shot. She could be stubborn, but I could be even more stubborn. Owning a ranch and raising animals meant I had to be stubborn to my core and stronger than I ever thought possible.

Delia was confusing, and that was part of her allure. Women fell at my feet every day. Hell, they gathered around my fence at the road just so they could throw themselves at me. They tossed their bras and panties at me during concerts. They hunted down Stone to try and become one of the groupies he brought back to the bus. Women were more than willing to take whatever small bone I would throw in their direction.

But not Delia. She had a backbone and she stood up to me. And I loved her for it.

As I washed the dirt and grime from my body, I focused my mind. In a week, I’d be back on tour. I wasn’t sure if the guys were going to be there, so we were advertising it as a surprise acoustic tour. Stone and Landon were complaining about my sobriety, bitching about how I didn’t have an issue and that my alcohol poisoning was a one-time deal. Stone said all great artists go through that moment and Landon flat out told Hank that the tour would be shit because I was at my best when I was drinking.

It was a hard thing to digest, but I remembered my group therapist talking about something like this.

They called them ‘triggers.’ Things that happened in our lives or people we interacted with that endorsed or prompted our addiction. Landon and Stone were partiers, and Hank was worried that if they came on tour with me, I would slip back into my old ways. And by the way they were talking and the things they were saying, he had every right to worry.

So when Hank made the decision to advertise it as an acoustic tour to usher in my sobriety and new relationship with Warner Bros. Records, I supported him on it. I was going to miss the guys if they didn’t show up for the tour, but I understood why this was all happening now.

I was beginning to understand a lot of things now that I wasn’t in a drunken haze.

Stepping out of the shower, I prepared myself for this meeting. I dried my hair and put on some decent clothes, shaved off my stubble and slipped on a pair

of boots that weren’t caked in mud and cow shit. Just as I went downstairs, I heard a car pulling up into the driveway. Glancing outside, I could tell by the way the man was dressed that he was my therapist.

“It’s now or never, Blackthorn,” I said to myself.

As I stepped out onto the porch, I offered my hand for the man to shake. It was a firm handshake, but one that caught me off guard. Instead of being weak or threatened, the man shook my hand like an equal. I could feel the warmth of his skin and the comfort he was trying to communicate.

Fuck. Even handshakes felt different when I was sober.

“Mr. Blackthorn. Wonderful to meet you. I’m Dr. Robert Ainsley.”

“Nice to meet ya, Dr. Ainsley. Welcome to the ranch. I gotta say, the only tea I got here is sweet tea, but I can put on some coffee if you’re a coffee drinker.”

“Coffee will be just fine. Would you like to do the paperwork now or after the session?”

“Let’s go with after. I’m ready to get this shit on the road,” I said.

“I like that type of attitude, Mr. Blackthorn.”

I ushered the man into my home with hopes of getting my life back on track. Somehow, he brought a reassuring comfort with him. Comfort I hadn’t experienced since my father died. I watched the man walk down the hallway, heading straight for the kitchen. I grinned as I made my way to the coffee pot, preparing us a strong batch as the man got himself set up at the kitchen table.

The kitchen table Delia used to sit at.

CHAPTER 26

Delia

I doubled over at my desk, my abdomen rolling with pain. I laid my forehead on my desk as I breathed deep, my hips aching like they were squeezed in a vice. It robbed me of my breath as tears sprang to my eyes, and I felt a hand come down onto my shoulder as I began to panic.

“Miss Jakobson? Are you okay?”

I tried to breathe through the pain, cradling my tight stomach. Something was wrong with my baby.

“No. No—I-I-I’m not. Can you? Get um—get Mr. H-Hart?” I asked.

“Hold on. Keep taking deep breaths.”

My body was under a lot of stress, juggling two jobs. I worked nine to five with Mr. Hart at the counseling center, then wrapped up things with my clients at the P.A. company during my spare time. Early morning counseling sessions, late night schedule toggling, phone calls planned for the weekend. My boss had accepted my resignation with a smile on her face as I explained to her the job I had been hired for. The only condition was that I wrapped up contracts I already had open with other clients.

The money was nice, but the lack of sleep was rough.

“Come on, Miss Jakobson. Let’s get you to the hospital,” Mr. Hart said.