Your different is your beautiful.
I haven’t been able to get that damn comment out of my head. Not after the boutique when he took me to a salon to get my hair and makeup done. Not after dinner on a rooftop with the view of the Golden Gate Bridge. And yet, it paled in comparison to the man across from me.
“What about you, Vince? You’re here now, but where will you go next? After you finish the album. Back to New York? To London?” I take a bite of food, needing to have these answers to cement the many reasons these feelings—that keep growing through all the cracks of my heart like invasive weeds in a sidewalk—need to be ignored. “Do you ever plan on settling down? Settling in?”
Vince tilts his head and stares at me. The same stare he gave me when he kissed the back of my neck earlier in a rare show of true affection. “I don’t know if I’ll ever settle. I’m a selfish bastard, you know that,” he says with a ghost of a smile to cover up the self-deprecation. “The word home always had a bad connotation for me. A place to stay away from, so . . . who knows.” He chuckles, the emotion in his eyes cleared, the wall partially back up. “Maybe in my forties. This industry moves at a lightning pace. People come and go, are forgotten and buried when the next big thing comes. I just want to take the ride as long as I can, as far as I can. Every road takes me farther away from him and the life I never plan to have.”
I think it’s the most honest thing he’s said to me since that night he left my bedroom. And it hurts at the same time.
“What about Bent? About plans for—”
“I don’t make plans for the future. It’s better for me if I just don’t.” He reaches across the table and squeezes my hand. “Enough about me. Tonight’s all about you. Too much of the world revolves around me—it seems like everyone fucking already knows everything and if they don’t, the documentary will help that along.” He lifts a glass of wine to his lips but stares at me over the rim. “So tell me more . . .”
“There’s not much more to tell,” I say, hurting, because the biggest thing in my life, the thing I talk and brag to everyone about, I can’t tell him. If I did, he’d ask for a picture and he’d know immediately.
Jagger was my decision. He is my responsibility. And if there’s one thing I’m learning about Vince today—and the man I had sex with seven years ago—is that he doesn’t want to be trapped by anyone. He’s sick of people wanting things from him. The last thing I want is for him to think I had Jagger to bind him to me. To us. To contain him and prevent him from reaching his goal—conquering the world.
So I won’t burden him with this truth. He’s made it clear a child is the last thing he wants. And I’m okay with that. I’ve more than come to terms with that.
By the same token, I don’t want Jagger to believe he’s not wanted. It’s better to have no father at all than to know you have a father who doesn’t want you.
“I’m sure there’s plenty to tell about your life, Bristol. I want to hear it all.”
Dinner led to selfies on the Golden Gate Bridge. Laughter and antics. So much laughter. Sundaes at Ghirardelli. And to me standing backstage at Bottom of the Hill, with a huge crowd waiting, and Vince about to take the stage unannounced.
I look at myself in the mirror across from me, my hand on my stomach, and wonder who this person is whose reflection is staring back at me.
I definitely don’t look like the mom of a six-year-old . . . and dare I say it feels kind of awesome to be a little of my old self again.
And while I say that now, it’s been less than twenty-four hours, and I miss Jagger ridiculously.
It doesn’t help that my head’s buzzing from the whirlwind of tonight, and every time I look at Vince my heart races a little faster.
“What are we doing here?” I glance up at the neon blue sign that says Bottom of the Hill and back to Vince.
“Giving you your lesson for tonight.” He grins and it makes my pulse jump. He takes me by the hand and pulls me into what looks like a club once we’re inside. He ushers me to a back area and then pushes me forward at the small of my back.
“This is why you brought your guitar with you.” The realization dawns on me that Vince intends to play here tonight. I was curious why it was in the car when we left the hotel.
“Have guitar. Will travel.” He holds it up and flashes me a smile. “I’d planned to play here all along. It was the before playing stuff we did tonight that was impromptu.”
“So then what do you need me to ask—”
“Tim’s the owner. He drives a hard bargain and is a stickler when it comes to his schedule and not messing with it. Ask for him and then–”
“I don’t want to be a promoter, Vince. I want to be an agent.”
“And being an agent is advocating for your client. I’m your client. I want to try out my new stuff tonight. I’m so unpredictable and such an asshole that if you don’t give me what I want, I’m going to trash some shit up and give you even more to worry about.” His shit-eating grin tells me he’s joking, but the point is made. “Now what demands has your unpredictable client required you to fulfill?”
I meet his eyes and sigh, secretly excited by the rush of adrenaline racing through my veins. “Say you want to play but be announced only as a special guest and not by name. That you need to have a quick sound check.”
“Yep.” He looks at the time on his phone. “And they open their doors at ten so we’ve got to get moving.”
“Okay.”
He lifts his chin toward the back of the room. “He’s the one with the dark blue shirt on.”
I start to walk away and am yanked back without warning, met with the slow, seductive warmth of Vince’s lips on mine. The butterflies in my belly flutter to life.
“I wouldn’t be kissing my client,” I say when he steps back and winks.
“I know but I figured we could both use some luck.”
I glance over to Vince. He’s standing alone on one side of the room. His head is hanging down, his hands that have been fiddling with his guitar are now idle at his sides, and one could either think he has the weight of the world on his shoulders or he’s about to take on the world.
Both give him a vulnerability I haven’t seen before.
My chest constricts. Instinct has me wanting to walk up to him, slide my arms around his waist, and offer him moral support. But circumstances—our circumstances in particular—tell me I’m not sure that would be welcome. This isn’t high school. He’s a grown man.
Tonight has been . . . incredible. Amazing. Once in a lifetime. The last thing I want to do is ruin it.
“Hey,” I murmur, needing to do or say something.
Vince lifts his head and meets my eyes. His gaze is strong, resolute, and the soft smile and subtle nod he gives me says even more. Tonight has meant something to him too.
His hand goes to his opposing wrist, the one with the bracelet I gave him so many years ago, and he smiles. His smile lights up the room despite the sudden sense of gravity I feel from him. But the moment is fleeting as the staff swoops in and tells him it’s showtime.
I’m nervous for him. The crowd is small compared to the sold-out arenas he’s used to, and yet I still can’t imagine willingly standing onstage and opening myself up to everyone’s criticism, judgment, and let’s face it, adoration.
He’s announced as only a “special guest.” I watch from stage right as the lights go up on him standing center stage, his head down with the hood of his sweatshirt casting shadows over his face, and his hands positioned on his acoustic guitar.
He doesn’t speak. He doesn’t look up. He simply starts playing.
It’s slow and haunting at first. Just Vince and the acoustics. Just bated breath from the audience and chills chasing over my skin. Just his fingers and his talent and a microphone to share it.
It’s one thing to watch him from the nosebleed seats in an arena. You can hear the music there and sense that he’s enjoying himself.
It’s another to stand a few feet from him and watch the music take over him. Own him. Soothe and possess him. Become a part of him from the posture of his body and the tendons taut in his neck.
He finishes the guitar solo, lets the note die until the silence eats the room. And with timing that has clearly been perfected, before the crowd begins to clap, Vince flings his head back, so the hoodie falls off, and kicks into Bent’s most popular song.
The crowd recognizes both him and the song and goes absolutely batshit crazy. Even from where I stand behind the speakers, the roar is insane.
Vince soaks it all in, his presence dominating and a cocky smirk on his lips. He plays the chords without thought before stepping forward and singing the opening bars of the song.
The words Hawkin usually sings.
Play me. Beg me. Take me. Make me.
Be the one to make me fall.
Be the one to take it all.
It doesn’t matter to the crowd, though. They’re still in shock over their luck to be here tonight. Phones are out recording, live-streaming, sharing everything that is Vince Jennings.
I catch the quick glances over his shoulder as if he’s looking for his band—something from years of habit. I notice the stutter of his expression on his face when he realizes his bandmate brothers aren’t there. But it’s slight and it’s quick.
But it’s there.
“How’re you all doing tonight?” he asks after a few songs. He’s breathless, sweaty, and by the grin on his face, loving every minute.
The crowd roars in response. He hangs his head sheepishly and laughs before looking back up at them and taking a seat on the stool that a stagehand has run out to him.
“So, I was in town for a few things and got the itch to play. My people contacted their people and asked if I could play a few songs for you tonight.” He runs a hand through his hair that’s already damp. “I hope you don’t mind that I crashed your evening.”
He doesn’t even finish. The audience drowns out his words with their appreciation.
“I guess that means I’m forgiven.” More cheering. “Smaller is sometimes better. Venues. I’m talking venues, people. Fuck, man. Get your minds out of the gutter.” He laughs. It’s the purest sound to me.
And it sounds just like Jagger.
The thought staggers me when it shouldn’t. The guilt that I’m keeping this incredibly perfect human being from Vince even more so.
But standing here, watching him, knowing him . . . loving him, I know this is where Vince is meant to be.
This was why he left all those years ago.
He belongs to them.
Not to me.
And I was right all those years ago not to try harder to make him something he didn’t want to be, no matter how much I’d love him to be.
“So, I’ve written some stuff for the new album.”
“I love Hawkin!” a woman screams from the darkness.
Vince’s smile is bittersweet, his voice a reflection of it. “I do too, sweetheart, but I have a feeling your type of love might involve knee pads and handcuffs.” He holds his hands up. “To each your own.”
The crowd laughs and the heckler shouts, “Damn right.”
“As I was saying,” he says through a chuckle. “I’ve written some new stuff. I wanted to try a bit of it out. See if you guys like it so I know if I’m on the right track. Do you think if I played it for you, that you could let me know if you like it?”
More riotous applause.
“Okay. Sounds good.” He clears his throat as he grabs his guitar pick and then adjusts the mic. “This one uh . . . it means a lot to me. You see . . . it’s about a girl . . .” Vince looks over at me. His smile softens. His eyes swim with so much emotion I don’t know which to settle on. “A girl whose different is her beautiful. The song’s called Sweet Regret.”
Mistakes. Headaches.
My heart is here, it’s yours to take.
Drowned out. Holding on.
Is your love for me still going strong?
Drawn lines. Mixed signs.
I walked away without a word.
Blocked calls. Punched walls.
Your silent tears I never heard.
You were the one, right from the start.
Because of that, I broke your heart.
I’ve always loved you,
But could never keep you.
You won’t forgive.
And I can’t forget.
You’ve always been my sweet regret.
