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Dad is the only one who’s heardmymusic. Mom has heard me sing and play plenty of times, but hasn’t been made privy to a single song I’ve recorded.

“You’re biased,” I say.

“You know how gifted you are. And it’s not just talent, Easton. It’s anastoundingtalent. And I think you know that too.” He shakes his head in irritation. “Do you think for one fucking second, I would encourage you in any way if I thought your music didn’t deserve an audience? What you’ve done is mind-blowing, and I’m proud.”

He stuns me with the easy admission, though I’ve seen the way he looks at me after I let him hear a new track. I’ve only allowed him to help me sharpen the sound. So in truth, he has helped produce to a small extent, but most of my work is untouched by anyone. He’s got a lot to do with strengthening my backbone and sharpening my skills as a musician and lyricist, but he’s given me, and continues to give me ample creative space when it comes to my music, knowing I want to do this all on my own.

“It’s all I can do daily to keep from telling your mother we’re finally going to have to share our son—indefinitely.”

He draws the conclusions for my hesitance easily because he’s been absorbed in the meaning behind my lyrics time and again.

“You’re in control of this, son. You made it that way, and I wish to fucking God we’d had it that way when we started out.”

I nod, knowing it’s the truth. Though the Dead Sergeants got signed with one of the biggest labels in music, they were pressured to carry out the will of the label and the other powers that be for years before they were able to negotiate themselves into calling their own shots. I have no intention of following suit in that respect at all.

“It’s just . . . You’ve worked so fucking hard for this. Now that you’re seriously thinking about doing it, it’s literally all I can do to keep from tearing into you to go for it because you know goddamn well the minute you do . . .”

He reads my aggravation and lets out a heavy sigh.

“All right, I’ll drop it for now. But if you don’t come upstairs, you know she’s going to—”

“To what?” Mom snaps halfway down the stairs. Dad visibly flinches, a slight fear in his eyes when she reaches the landing, crossing her arms. “What’sshegoing to do?”

“Jesus, Grenade,” he turns to her, a sparkle in his eye as he pats himself down. I bite my lip to hide my smile because I know what’s coming.

“What are you looking for?” Mom asks, frowning.

“Your muzzle,” Dad deadpans, and I can’t help my chuckle.

“I think I saw it next to myHow to Surgically Remove Your Husband’s Testicles While He Sleeps for Dummieshandbook.”

He doesn’t miss a beat. “Have I told you lately what a pain in the ass you are?”

“Daily,” she lifts a brow, letting Dad know she’s not changing anytime soon—orever. Their tit-for-tat has me thinking again about the blue-eyed beauty I dropped off only hours ago. We’ve been going back and forth similarly the last two days, and I can’t help the widening of my grin because of it.

“What’s that?” Mom asks.

I frown. “What’swhat?”

She gives me a keen stare. “You haven’t smiled like that since you got a digital valentine from Aurora Long in the fourth grade.”

“That’s bullshit, and how would you know?”

“I know things . . . and I know that smile.”

“Stella,” Dad sighs. “Lay off. He’s finally sleeping at home again.”

“Seriously, Mom,” I chime in, taking Dad’s out. “I’m going to go grab that plate.”

“Evading,” she pipes, turning to tail me as I take the stairs two at a time.

“I’m moving out,” I threaten again, knowing it’s low but will be enough to throw her off my scent for now. Truth is, I’m not sure what’s happening with the woman who’s invading my life—and now my head.

I hear Mom’s yelp from the foot of the stairs as Dad hollers from below, mirth in his voice. “Run for your life, son! I’ll take this one for the team.”

“You jackass—” Mom’s protest is cut short, and I don’t have to look back to know Dad is shutting her up in a way I don’t want to witness. Grinning, I click off the light at the top of the stairs and hear their collective protests muddled as I shut them in. Swiping my dinner off the counter, I jog up the stairs to my bedroom for some privacy. I’ve rarely slept at home in the last few years, my obsession taking precedence and consuming me to the point I almost lost sight of any sort of outside life.

Standing under the steaming shower spray a short time later, I catch myself immersed in thoughts of deep blue eyes, glossy lips, and strawberry-kissed curly hair. Thick suds gathered in my idle hands, my body reacts to the images stirring me up, and I go with it, releasing some of the tension before I towel off and toss on some sweats.

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