Page 108 of Revel
He leans closer, our noses and foreheads touching before kissing me softly. “When I was in rehab, they had me write letters to everyone I’d hurt. I wrote them, but then I burned them. Not once could I write one to you though,” Revel admits, his arms circling around my back, holding me tight. “I’m sorry about New York… behind the stage. I should have never. . . I shouldn’t have been like that with you. And I’m sorry about Denver.”
“I know.” My nose rubs along his jaw, his trembling hands finding my hips.
“Do you?” Revel pushes me away by my hips and turns me around to face him. “Do you know how fucking badly it hurt to watch you walk away?”
Did I know?
No, I didn’t know because I wasn’t Revel. But I knew why I couldn’t stay with him at the time. “It wasn’t just about what happened with Breckin.”
“I know, but it doesn’t make what I did right. When I saw him touch you on that stage….” He laughs, but it’s not from entertainment. There’s an edge to it. It’s malicious. “When I looked at him, that’s what killed me. I wanted to murder that motherfucker, and at the time, I blacked out. I don’t even remember anything after that first hit.” His smile fades. “I didn’t know what I was doing.”
I’m afraid to move, afraid he will stop talking and shut down, so I listen. With an open heart, I listen.
“That wasn’t what scared me though,” he adds, watching my face as he speaks. “I was afraid after what I did that you would leave me. That you’d finally see what a fuck up I really am. You deserve better.”
“You’re not giving yourself enough credit.”
He moves some of my hair behind my ear and pushes his thumb along my bottom lip. We make eye contact before he looks away with a smirk. “Red?”
“Yeah?”
“I love you.”
I suck in my bottom lip, sinking my teeth into it. “Why don’t you show me the meaning of Revved then.”
REVEL
THREE YEARS LATER
Madison Square Garden
NEW YEAR’S EVE
Remember the dragon on my back? It’s still there, but it’s no longer the most talked about tattoo in the music industry. My daughter is. Not that she has a tattoo, but me being a dad. . . you’re surprised too, aren’t you?
Why is she the most talked about? Because, again, they have nothing better to talk about. Could be that. More than likely it’s because I’ve yet to even confirm my relationship with Red, let alone our marriage, daughter, or her being pregnant and ready to pop again. True to form, I’ve given some seriously bullshit answers because it’s none of their goddamn business what my daughter’s name is or the sex of our unborn baby, or even that we’re married. Why do I do this?
It’s what I do.
I avoid.
Deter.
Distract.
Lie.
I do this because I live in a glass box and if I want to keep my family to myself, then I fucking will. Do you share everything in your life? Didn’t think so.
Liz pops her head in the dressing room. “Showtime, boys.”
I still hate being told what to do, but my attention is more on the two-year-old trashing our dressing room.
“No, no,” I warn, smiling at my daughter.
Pouty lips and blue eyes that mirror my own scowl at me. “Mine.” Her eyes are about the only thing she got from me, aside from my temper. Though even that can be argued when you’ve pissed Red off. Once, about a year ago, she threw a glass at my head. I have the three-inch long scar to prove it. By the way, I deserved it, probably. I don’t remember.
Navy is, in fact, a spitting image of my wife. Even has her fire-red hair.
