Page 19 of Sweet Distraction

My breath’s shaky as I scrub a hand through my hair before pulling down on the back of my neck.

Then my feet start moving—anything to abate the . . . who the fuck knows what it’s called that’s coursing through me. I pace across the space like action will keep me from losing it.

She’s three.

Fucking three.

Which means I missed all of it. Her first steps. First words. First everything.

So the fuck what, Rock? You don’t want a kid, right? What does it matter if you missed things people say should be unforgettable?

“Oh my God,” I mutter and bang my forehead gently against the wall knowing it’s going to do nothing to fix the situation.

This is all a bad fucking nightmare I can’t wake up from, and yet she’s sitting on my couch with her pink, chubby cheeks and unruly curls, like I used to have as a kid, telling me different.

She’s mine.

And now she’s here.

With her tiny sneakers and her tangled curls, and a damn suitcase the size of a backpack—as if that’s all she needs. As if that’s all she has.

And isn’t that part of the problem that guts me the most?

Because it’s not just her resemblance or the timing or the way her fingers curled into Willow’s top like she already knows the world isn’t a safe place, but rather it’s the fact that her entire life fits into a zippered piece of carry-on luggage. Like she’s something someone packed up and passed off.

Passed on so that now she’s here.

My breath is as shaky as my hands when I draw it in.

This isn’t a joke.

This isn’t a publicity stunt like Gizmo’s marriage originally was or some bullshit paternity rumor planted to salvage my reputation. There’s a lot of shit like that that goes on in the industry. This? This is real.

The problem is—I don’t know what the hell to do with her now.

I’m not a father. Far fucking from it. I’m a goddamn mess with a crazy tour schedule, a bad temper, a selfish streak a mile long, and a proven tendency to fuck things up.

I’ve ruined relationships, wrecked hotel rooms, and walked off stages mid-set. Christ, I couldn’t even get my own parents to love me enough to care.

I’ve broken a lot of things.

But this?

This little girl with my eyes and nothing but a suitcase and a stranger to keep her steady?

I can’t break her. And yet, it feels like that and music are all I’m good at doing.

I slide down the wall until I’m crouched on the cold tile, elbows on my knees, head between my hands.

I don’t even think about Willow.

Not at first.

Not until I hear a soft, muffled giggle drift down the hall. It’s not loud, but it’s enough to cut through the fog clouding my thoughts.

“There’s nowhere you can run, Caldwell,” I say to the empty room. Nothing to save me. Nothing to fix this.

I’d beg for the chance to.