Page 130 of The Fix

Venues stocking their green rooms with alcohol, stadium owners offering me drinks, fans throwing their open cans on stage during the show …

I’ve done it, but it’s been a real bitch not to slip.

Some days are good, great even. Others make it hard to climb out of whatever hotel bed I fell asleep in.

With her, I manage.

She’s my lantern in the shadowy night, the glow at the end of the tunnel.

My sea of a thousand black X’s.

Anna has been a fucking rock when I needed it, and in the moments when her expertise, her love, hasn’t been able to scrape the surface, the doc from rehab has willingly stepped in.

With the offer of a fat paycheck and the chance to tour the world with a rock band she’s apparently fond of, Doc signed up to be As Above’s on-staff shrink.

I probably should disclose her name, but to be honest, calling her doc just makes it more fun for me because it’s begun to piss the woman off.

Not to mention the ragtag gaggle of fucks I call brothers and their undying support.

Snickering, I hike up the collar of my leather jacket—the one with the torn pocket that’s been sewn back into place—and turn my face out of the chilled wind as I walk.

The path is winding and long, as has been my entire journey, but the sun is shining and my guitar is nestled in the gig bag strapped to my shoulder.

Looking out beyond the plumes of fog my exhales make, I feel the pit of my stomach twist up further with each echo of my boots amongst the salted pavement.

The rolling hills inside this place break up the stones along the way, the perimeter held back by lines of trees for just enough privacy that a fence isn’t necessary, and for some reason, that sits better with me.

Fences hold things in.

And this is one of those places that shouldn’t be contained.

I clear the lump in my throat and force myself forward, into the emotion instead of away from it, and finally crest the final hill to my destination.

It’s the highest point of the acreage, and its view has my breath hitching in my vibrating chest. All greenery capped in undisturbed snow, with the mountains in the distance as the backdrop.

It’s perfect.

Sniffling against the cold, I come to a stop a few feet short with numb fingers and a crawling restlessness rifling its way through my gut.

“Shit.”

The urge to turn away and run back to the parking lot, to the car where I left Anna to chill with Lugh, and call this a job well done is stronger than I’d like to admit.

My hardened gaze wanders over the sight in front of me and I grit my teeth when I finally allow the carvings to register.

Keith Jeffers.

My eyes burn.

Loving father.

The center of my chest explodes with an ache so deep, it steals the rest of my breath.

Gone too young.

A sound of pure anguish escapes my throat, echoing off the trees surrounding me, and my knees decide I need to be closer to his grave. To examine the letters embedded in the stone. To feel the snow melting beneath my grasping palms.

“Pops.”

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