“What’s going on? Do you know this guy, Indie?”
This guy?
This guy?
The fucker better not have touched my baby, or I would have to kill him, deportation or not. Besides, what the hell did he mean, ‘this guy’? Had she not told him she’d had Alex Winslow’s baby? I wasn’t some arsehole from the street. Even if he didn’t know who I was—fat chance, but some people just have bad taste in music—she still ought to have mentioned I was, in fact, a famous musician of some sort.
“Yeah, I…” she said slowly, still clasping the baby to her chest.
“Don’t.” I took a step forward, shaking my shock off. “Don’t downplay us. Not right now, and especially not after what I’m seeing here.”
“And what, exactly, are you seeing here?” She held my gaze. How could she say that? While holding the product of what we were to each other. Did I turn the women in my life into cold bitches, or was I naturally attracted to them and Indie had just been incredibly good at hiding it so far?
“We need to talk.” I breathed through my nose slowly, slowly, so fucking slowly, trying to incorporate every single piece of advice I’d been given in rehab. No one had warned me that the outside world I was being sent to had turned upside down while I was sitting in a circle clapping for people who bragged about not drinking their mouthwash to get high when their mother-in-law was in town.
“Maybe it’s not a good idea.” She sighed. Jesus, what the fuck? She didn’t even want to talk about it?
“No.” Another step forward. “Stardust, you listen to me. I’ve been through hell the last few months. For you. I’m not asking for a medal, or even for forgiveness—though that’d be really fucking grand, mind you—I’m just asking you kindly, respectfully, pleadingly, to listen to me.”
She put the formula bottle down on the bench and hugged the baby to her chest. He was cute. Cute, but he did not resemble her, and I was starting to grow incredibly confused. For one thing, he looked closer to a year old than a newborn. Secondly, I wasn’t much of a gene expert, but little guy had a head full of raven hair, and both Indie and I had brown hair in different shades. Mine was more chestnut; her original hair color was honey-ish, flirting with blond. I knew that because sometimes she forgot to wax the hair off her p—actually, it didn’t really matter how I knew that. I just did.
“Now’s not a good time.”
Her voice was quiet and guarded, and why in the world had the guy beside her not punched me yet? If this were me sitting beside her, the first fist would have been thrown the moment someone had even approached my girl. My girl. Was she his girl? I was going to be sick.
“When’s a good time?” I asked, still standing too closely and staring at her too eagerly. She looked left and right, blowing a lock of hair that fell from her braid aside.
“I don’t know, eight? Would you still be around?”
Would I still be around? I had no intention of fucking leaving this neighborhood until we had a lengthy talk. I nodded, pointing at the baby. I had to. Even though I knew I was going to hate either answer, though for very different reasons.
“I’ll wait outside your door. Just one thing, Indie. Is he mine?”
She looked down at the baby, and smiled at him, and he smiled at her, and oh, fuck, she looked like the perfect, wholesome mum. She opened her mouth and spoke to me, but looked at him.
“No.”
I knew he’d be there, so I stalled.
Alex had never been good at waiting. Everything was given to him quickly, urgently, easily. I wanted to see if he had changed. It was stupid, and small, and petty, but also necessary.
I was babysitting Clara’s grandson, Grayson. Grayson’s dad, Ollie, had gotten back from work early and decided to join us at the park. It wasn’t out of character for Ollie to show up, but it was completely unexpected for Alex Winslow to be there.
Shortly after Alex came back to the States and I’d sought refuge somewhere he couldn’t find me, Clara called and told me she’d broken her hip and was no longer able to look after Grayson for the upcoming months. She asked if I wanted the job, since I was a friend of the family and got along nicely with her son and his wife, Tiffany, and I immediately said yes. I didn’t need the money particularly, but I needed the company, and the temporary accommodation before Alex left for rehab.
I liked my job, but that didn’t mean I liked my life.
I hated my life. My life was Alex-less, and that was the worst way to live your life once you’d had a dose of the rocker.