My dad greets Gemma and me at the door with welcome arms.
“Hey, Dad,” I say as I hug my arms around him.
“Hey, kid,” he replies into my hair.
I love my dad’s hugs.
When we part, his gaze moves to Gemma, and he stretches his hand out to shake hers.
“This must be Gemma,” he says. “You’re the one protecting my daughter now?”
A smile quirks her lips as she shakes his hand.
“I am,” Gemma says.
“You look really familiar.”
I half expect her to tell him we went to high school together, though Gemma is so private, that it also doesn’t surprise me when she bypasses the subject altogether.
“Is it okay if Bonnie crashes here for a few days?” she asks him.
Dad’s eyes move to me as if he’s waiting for further explanation. “Yeah, that tour manager of yours called to say you were coming,” he says, opening the door wide. “I told her anytime my little girl needs to hide from the paparazzi, she’s got a place here.”
I glance Gemma’s way, and she smirks, moving out of the way so I can enter the house before her.
That must be the official cover story.
Rogue paparazzi.
I wish that were fucking true.
My dad goes on about something, pointing out the snacks he has in the kitchen, the ingredients for dinner by the stove—raw tuna tacos, by the looks of it.
Even so, I think I just need some time alone.
The walls keep trying to close-in around me, and there’s a drum kit in my room that’s beckoning me toward it.
I give my dad another hug and excuse myself, letting both of them know that I’m tired and need a few minutes to myself.
If only it was that simple.
I need a reset button.
Upon entering the bedroom, I see that my dad has the sliding door open on the other side of the room. The smell and sound of the ocean fill me, and I pause on the threshold for a moment to take it in. There’s something about the ocean that’s always been calming. The crashing waves are a steady hum that quiets my brain. I love the way it rocks against the sand, yet past the shore, its surface only ripples.
A drum kit sits in the corner that’s begging me to play it. It’s smaller than the one I use onstage or at the studio. Still, it’s perfect for practicing or letting off some steam here.
I place my bag on the bed, shrug my shoes off, and then grab a couple of fresh sticks from inside my bag. Music is what I need to wash this day away, to get me into a headspace that isn’t trying to attack me every few minutes.
I can hear Gemma chatting on the phone outside of the living room balcony, though I can’t discern any words. She had to call Kade and update him that we’d arrived somewhere safe.
Safe.
In hiding is the last place I ever expected to be. I’m too hyperactive for hiding, too in need of jumping from one activity to the next. Staying still makes my head foggy, and when my head gets foggy, I get bored, and when I get bored…
I hang my head and close my eyes, letting the weight sit on my tense shoulders. It’s too quiet, too peaceful. I need a distraction—even chaos.
There’s something to be said about a person who falls asleep easier in chaos than they do in peace. Growing up, I’d fall asleep on the couch in front of the television, and the moment they put me in my bed, I’d wake up. I got in trouble so many times for sneaking into the living room, but it was the only way I could close my eyes. Action movies were the best to fall asleep during. They were noisy. Constant.
