The Complete Rockstar Series

“I’m talking about Abby’s need to fix everyone’s problems because of Nick. That’s why she’s a psychologist. I’m sure she told you.” The bewildered expression on my face must give me away. “Oh. She didn’t tell you.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.” I shouldn’t pry Abby’s mom for information, but if I’m ever going to make things work with Abby, I need to know as much as possible. “Who’s Nick?”

Joan’s eyes lose a little bit of their spark and the smile she gives me is forced. “Nick was my son. Abby’s older brother. He committed suicide when he was nineteen.”

Holy fuck. A lot of things suddenly begin to make sense.

Abby

“Mom, I have to do this. I need a vacation. I can’t argue with you anymore.” I stand on tiptoes and yank at the duffel bag I stashed on the top shelf of my closet.

“Honey, you’re running away from your problems when you need to face them head-on.”

My fingers brush the edge of the strap. I try for it again, ignoring my mom’s lecturing even though I know she’s right. Finally, I snag the strap and the duffel comes loose, along with a cascade of other things I tossed up there and forgot about.

“Shit.” I drop the bag and remove the oversize sweatshirt that landed on my head. I stare at the garment in my hand. My eyes burn and my throat closes as I carefully, reverently run a hand over the tattered black material. It’s Hawke’s very first Sphere of Irony sweatshirt, one I used to borrow all the time. Without thinking, I press it to my nose, inhaling deep, but Hawke’s scent is long gone.

I remember curling up on his tiny bed in the room he shared with Gavin, Hawke wearing the sweatshirt while I traced the letters with my fingers. Of course, the touching and rubbing turned us both on, which turned into me pressed beneath him on the bed, clutching his shoulders as he drove us both to a spectacular orgasm. Afterwards, I snagged the sweatshirt off the floor and slipped it over my head, rolling up the sleeves so it would fit. Hawke teased me about stealing his clothes so I could keep him shirtless, which I agreed was my plan all along. I’d never been so happy in my life.

“Abby?” Mom’s curious voice rips me from the memories of the past. “What is it?”

“It’s nothing, Mom.” I drop the sweatshirt and throw the duffel on the bed. Upset, I start pulling things randomly out of drawers and stuffing them in the bag.

“Oh honey, it’s okay to be sad. It’s okay to cry and work through everything you feel.”

My mom puts a hand on my shoulder and I nearly break down. Holding back my emotions, I grab a pile of shirts out of a dresser and toss them on top of everything else. “I’m fine.”

Mom squeezes my shoulder. “Abby, you won’t ever be fine until you admit you aren’t fine.”

I peek over my shoulder, blinking away the moisture. “How did you get so smart? I thought I was the psychologist.”

My mom gives me a knowing smile. “When you’ve gone to as much therapy as I have, you pick a few things up here and there.”

My mom has been in therapy? I don’t know why this surprises me, but it does. When I think about it, it’s obvious. Of course she would need therapy. Her son committed suicide after a long battle with mental illness. The question is, why haven’t I been in therapy?

I turn around and face my mom. My beautiful, kind, loving mother. I don’t blame her for Nick’s death, so why do I blame myself?

“I think…” I swallow the lump in my throat. “I think you might be right. It’s time, Mom.”

She pats my cheek, her eyes glistening, and pulls me into a hug. Maybe I can still turn my life around, find happiness somewhere.

Maybe with Hawke.

Hawke

I tap my fingers on the steering wheel as I stare at the little white beach cottage, trying to gather the courage to get out of the car.

“You can do this. It’s Abby.”

Saying the words out loud does nothing to calm my nerves. My heart is racing so fast, it feels like a herd of horses galloping across my chest. Anxiety blooms in my gut, pulling tight as it swirls and grows. I wipe my brow with the back of my hand.

“Jesus.” I’m so nervous I’m sweating. A trickle runs down my neck to the collar of my shirt. My eyes flick back to my fingers on the steering wheel, focusing on the inky black letters printed across both hands.

DRUM HARD

The H on my left hand covers a large scar where a piece of glass from the accident sliced open my index finger. Nausea burns at my throat. I have to concentrate to keep from puking in the Mercedes.

I can’t believe I’m afraid of Abby. It’s not Abby I’m afraid of, it’s rejection. Abby is good and kind and sexy and everything I’m not. What she ever saw in me is beyond my comprehension. But now that I’ve admitted how I feel about her, how I feel about getting better, I want to be with her for real, permanently, and I can’t wait any longer.