I told him not to travel. With how old he was, it wasn’t worth it, but again… He was a hardheaded pain in the ass.
When I found out my mom OD’d, I didn’t shed a tear. When Pops died, I sobbed like a goddamn baby. He was tired andmissing his wife when we met, but he said I gave him a second wind.
He gave me as normal of a life as was possible, considering the family who legally adopted me were rock stars. And like every year, the anniversary of his passing hits me just as hard as it always does.
Rarely do I drink.
Almost never, in fact.
It seems like some twisted sense of fate that I’m drinking a beer in Pops’s honor, when he spent the majority of his life sober.
Maybe it’s fitting.
Hell if I know.
Without him, I likely would have ended up an addict, exactly like my mom and brother. Not that I can blame Dexter. He emulated what he saw when he was a kid. If our mom hadn’t died when she did, I would have been just as screwed up.
I almost laugh.
Hell, maybe I already am.
Damian lies stretched out on the couch across from me, drinking a beer of his own. He’s not twenty-one, but I’m not about to parent his ass. I figure, if you can serve your country at eighteen, you can have a beer.
Then again, I’m the fun uncle—not the parent—and for a damn good reason. Kids are a hassle I want no part of, and it’s not like it’s hard to figure out why.
My childhood was enough to traumatize anyone. I’d rather not risk fucking up the next generation.
Cove shuffles out of the bedroom at the back of the bus with a blanket tossed over her shoulders. The entire space is basically her nest, so I only go in there when I need to pass on information or if she invites me.
Okay, she’s never actually invited me in, and I frown at the coffee table.
Damn, I had a second and third beer while commiserating about Pops.
She peeks at me and focuses on Damian, who seems entranced by whatever bullshit plays on the TV.
I’ve mostly tuned it out in favor of getting lost in memories, but I think it’s a documentary about bands in the early nineties.
“Can I snuggle with you?” the little omega asks Damian, coming to a stop at his side.
His head rolls around the pillow he’s leaning against. “There’s not much space, but you can wedge between me and the back of the couch.” He chuckles. “Or lie right on top of me.”
Cove scurries forward, shoving herself between Damian and the back of the sofa. It leaves her facing me, and I lean forward, scooping up my beer and taking a long swig.
I must be buzzed from not having had a sip of alcohol in over six months since this ill-fated tour began. There’s no other reason an uncomfortable pang of discomfort sits heavy in my stomach.
Seriously, Cove and I do nothing but bicker.
If she came to sit in my lap, I’d have to check in to see if something was wrong, so I have no clue why my system rebels at the sight.
Damian wraps his arm around her, and she snuggles close with her head on his shoulder. Cove’s long hair falls around Damian’s chest as he fluffs the blanket, making sure she’s tucked in.
They sure look cozy.
I’m not jealous a bit.
The intestinal upset I’ve developed must be beer gas. I probably need to burp. I swivel my chair to face the television that I’ve been ignoring and pat my stomach.
Nothing comes up, and the ache is still there.
