Page 45 of Sixty Days Of Summer

“There’s never been a relationship with her. She’s not someone I fucking talk about.” I push off the couch, shoving the coffee cup back into her hands. No way in hell am I having a therapy session with Kit about this shit.

As I move across the room, I can feel her eyes drilling into me, and it’s fucking infuriating. It’s like she’s peeling back my layers, exposing the little kid inside who was never loved—the little boy who used to cry when one of his mother’s asshole boyfriends thought it was fun to put out a cigarette on his arm. If she keeps looking at me like that and pushing this shit, I’m about to fucking snap.

“Ace,” she says, her voice cutting through the tension like a knife.

“No, Kit, I don’t want to fucking talk about it, alright?” I snap, grabbing a shirt from the floor and yanking it over my head. When I turn around, she’s not on the couch anymore—now she’s standing at the end of the bed, giving me that intense look that makes my skin crawl.

“You might not have a choice about that,” she says, her tone steady. “The press has been digging around ever since that incident with the paparazzi, and my sources just told me that your mother and her husband are doing a sit-down interview with Jerry Goldman.”

Just hearing Goldman’s name sends a chill down my spine. The guy’s known for his brutal interviews, cutting right to the heart of the matter and exposing everything. He’s a fucking master at pulling in ratings, and now my past is about to be dragged out for everyone to see, like dirty laundry hung out for the world to scrutinize.

She pulls out her phone and turns it toward me. “Do you know this man?”

The photo on the screen displays a guy I know all too well—the wannabe biker who almost took my head off back in the day, but he’s slightly older. He had me pinned against the wall, swinging at me, barely missing my face.

“Judging by your expression, I take it you do,” she says.

The fury in my eyes must say it all. “What’s she saying?” I ask, dropping onto the edge of the bed, struggling to make sense of this mess. I haven’t seen her in years, and the last thing I need is for her to stir up shit now. Kit takes a seat beside me, her expression serious.

“She’s painting you as a ticking time bomb,” Kit replies. “She claims you’ve always acted out, that your temper’s completely out of control. According to her, you attacked her husband in a violent rage, and he had to throw you out to protect her.”

I lift my head, locking eyes with Kit, my heart racing. “That’s bullshit. The fucker attacked me. I was just a seventeen-year-old kid trying to defend myself. Xander was there—he’ll back me up.”

“Xander’s not on the call sheet for today’s interview, and you should know this topic might come up,” she says, her expression grave. “He won’t be there to back you up if they bring it up.”

Shit. Xander mentioned last night that I have an interview with Scarlet scheduled for today. I stand up from the bed, restless, and begin pacing back and forth, running my hands through my hair. The thought of unearthing the past, the memories I’ve fought so hard to suppress, is messing with my head.

Kit rises from the bed, her eyes fixed on me. “If they bring up Goldman or anything about your mother, just redirect the conversation back to the tour and Scarlet. That’s why she’s with you—to squash all those rumors about her landing the gig just because she’s Nate’s sister. After she killed it last night, we need to make her the main focus.” She steps closer, placing a hand on my shoulder. “You’ve got this, Ace. You’re the spokesperson for the band. This is what you do.”

Her words hang in the air, but they don’t do much to calm the storm raging inside me. I nod, fully aware of how relentless the media can be, always on the hunt for a story to boost their ratings. Why didn’t I listen to Xander in that damn car? What the fuck made me throw that camera?

“If you need me, Ace, just give me a call,” Kit says, making her way to the door.

I don’t respond, still lost in my thoughts. It isn’t until I hear the door click shut behind Kit that I snap back to reality. Grabbing my phone, I dial Anita’s number, praying like hell she has some legal bullshit that might be able to shut down this interview with my mother before it even starts.

Sitting in the car next to Scarlet, for once my thoughts are not filled with the usual fantasies I have about her. I’m still fuming over what Kit dropped on me this morning, and the anger only grew when Anita told me there’s nothing she can do to stop that damn interview. No matter how deep the media digs, they won’t uncover the full extent of my messed-up past because I’m not bringing that into the light. It’s better left buried where it belongs.

So lost in my thoughts I don’t notice we’ve stopped at the studio until the door swings open for me to get out. I climb out of the car, and as Scarlet slides across the seat, I instinctively reach out to help her. She looks up and smiles, and I can see the tension from last night melting away between us. Once the car door slams shut behind us, we start moving forward, but Scarlet doesn’t let go of my hand, and for some damn reason, neither do I. In this moment, her touch feels like a lifeline, grounding me and pulling me out of my head.

As we’re led into the studio by a young guy with a clipboard and an earbud, we navigate a long, bright hallway. Scarlet’s thumb gently brushes the back of my hand, and when I turn to look at her, I find her gaze already fixed on mine.

“Are you okay?” she asks, sensing something is off. “Kit didn’t say much about what’s going on, but she mentioned that if anything comes up, just steer it back to the tour. I’m guessing that’s what’s got you down.”

“Yeah. You could say that,” I reply, not really in the mood to spill the details.

She takes the hint and redirects her attention to the guy leading us, who’s taking us through a maze of doors. He eventually stops and swings one open, gesturing for us to step inside.

“Someone will be in soon to set up your mics,” he says before walking out and leaving us alone.

The moment he departs, Scarlet swiftly releases my hand and strides towards a nearby table. She snatches a paper cup and fills it with water. I watch her for a moment; her calm presence feels like an anchor right now.

The door swings open, and in walks a guy with big front teeth and a man bun, holding two portable mic packs. He sets them on the small counter to the side, then turns to us, grinning wide. "Hey, great concert last night," he says, his gaze fixed on Scarlet. "You really rocked it out there."

“Thanks,” she replies, tossing her empty paper cup into the trash.

“Now, you’ll both be seated at the far right end of the set. The interview will last about eight minutes,” he says, pulling out one of the microphone packs and heading over to Scarlet first. “There will be three people asking you questions.” He hands her the pack. “I’ll let you clip this onto the waistband of your jeans.” I can’t help but appreciate how he shows her respect by letting her handle it herself. Most guys would be itching to touch her, but he keeps it professional.

Once Scarlet’s all set up, he moves over to help with my mic.

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