The private jet landed in Los Angeles and, the minute my feet hit the pavement, we were up and running. Welcome back to the grind. The paparazzi. The army of security personnel. The screaming fans. All for me—the guy who, two days ago, was crawling around the floor of a Marshall’s clothing store blowing bubbles down my girl’s shirt. That’s where I wanted to be. Not here.
Sometimes this world made me feel like I was floating in zero gravity.
In the heat of the melee, with hands ripping at my flesh, I turned to my father. “Do you know there’s no angry way to say bubbles?”
Brows furrowed in frustration, Tucker pushed through the crowds grumbling, “Fuck that.Bubbles.”
I’ll be damned. You could remain angry. I laughed, wishing I could call Breeze and share the news, but she was gone.
Not for long.
Security protected our heads as they ducked us into a vehicle that whisked us away from the circus. Tipping my head back on the seat, I exhaled. “Dad.”
“Yeah?”
“I hate this shit.”
With a sigh, Tucker let his head fall back as well. “I know.”
* * *
Because of my headline-making week, interview requests had poured in and, to my surprise, my father actually asked my opinion on the matter. He was trying, and I gave credit where it was due. In the end I agreed to an interview, but only if it was focused on the entire band and not just me alone. The fact thatAnyDayNowhad become the Bodhi show was never far from my mind, and I didn’t want resentment to become the wrench that pried the five of us apart.
My father and I, accompanied by a small contingent of bodyguards, met up with the other guys at a television studio. I was instantly surrounded, heartfelt hugs and unnaturally hard smacks on the back were the name of the game for all but RJ who stayed back, nursing a disgruntled scowl.
I slid to his side and tried whacking him in the nuts for old times’ sake. He was quick to react. And retaliate. Before I knew it, he had me down on my knees, my arm twisted behind my back.
This wasn’t playful fun anymore.
“RJ!” Hunter warned, heading into the fray.
The pressure in my joints eased and he let me up.
I spun around. “What the fuck?”
“That was for making me think you were dead, asshole!”
“Well, it was a traumatic week, dickhead. Maybe I just forgot.”
“Right, so the ice cream, that was therapy?”
He had me there. “I’m sorry, okay? I should have called.”
His shoulders hunched and RJ exhaled. He was worn out… beaten down. “Yeah, you should have.”
Grabbing the broody bastard, I pulled him into a hug. “I’m sorry. I wasn’t thinking. It’s been an insane few days. I’ll tell you everything as soon as we have a quiet moment. Say we’re all good or I’ll tell the interviewer you own a man purse.”
A reluctant smile formed on his lips. “It’s a satchel, dickweed.”
I’d been forgiven.
* * *
While we waited for the crew to take their places, the five of us stood off to the side, conversing. Shawn placed his hand on my shoulder.
“Just so you know, I wrote a whole eulogy to speak at your funeral.”
“That’s nice.”
