Page 2 of Sweet Oblivion

He darted to his mother and lifted the shell he cradled in his hands. She admired it, patting his head before moving off once more. He followed, seeming to trip over his feet in an effort to keep her attention.

Nash Porter.

I watched him walk away, the hand that had held the conch now sitting over my hammering heart.

2

Nash

Seven Years Later

Screams ripped through my noise-canceling headphones, making me wince—in the best possible way. I rocked back on my heels, awed by the power of twenty-thousand people cheering for my dad’s band, Quantum.

As the band hit the opening riff, a rush of adrenaline flowed through me, and my fingertips tingled. As the guitars sang through the early measures, my chest throbbed in time with the beat.

Then, Dad began to sing my lyrics. Sweat dripped from his brow, and his long bangs stuck to his forehead. He shot me a wink.

Our little secret, it said.

I grinned back. Oh yeah. As long as I got to come along and see this response to my music, I was more than happy to stay back here. For now. Bieber had been thirteen, a year older than me, when he stormed the world stage. But as my dad had pointed out, he’d made some bad choices along the way.

“Enjoy being a kid, Nash. It doesn’t last long,” he’d said with his hand on my shoulder, gripping it in that comforting way of his before the pat, pat, pat on my back.

The screaming grew to a crescendo.

“Not a bad response, little bro,” Lev said, slinging his arm around my shoulder.

I beamed. He laughed, his voice cracking halfway through it, causing him to slam his mouth shut and blush, tossing a glance at Gemma Cordova, the roadie’s fifteen-year-old daughter. That hadn’t happened to Lev in a while—not since he was about my age. Now, at fourteen, he seemed so much older. Well, until he wanted to impress this girl.

Gemma remained transfixed by the new song, unaware of Lev’s self-consciousness. Pride swelled so hard that it pressed against my ribs, a happy bubble I never wanted to pop.

When Dad arrived in the green room after the show, he came right over and hugged me. “You see that reaction? Nash, my boy, we’re on to something huge.” His eyes twinkled.

I wrinkled my nose at the sweet cloy of perfume and the smear of red across his lip and cheek. Before I could ask him about it, a group of women tumbled into the room, beelining toward my father, all screaming Braaaad. He chuckled as he threw open his arms, stepping forward.

He winked at me and Lev. “The benefits of fame.”

“He’s such a douche,” Lev muttered as he turned away.

Somewhere in the past year, Lev’s devotion to our father had melted into deep-seated disdain.

“Why?” I asked.

Lev sucked on his drink—I was pretty sure he’d spiked his Coke with one of the bottles of liquor sitting on the overladen buffet tables, but I didn’t ask. We were touring with a rock band, and as Lev said, when in Rome…

“He got a blow job backstage from one chick, and now he’s going to bang at least one more.”

My stomach curdled as I watched Dad wrap his arm around a curvaceous blonde with big, teased hair.

“Her shirt barely covers the underside of her tits,” Lev muttered, grimacing. “And her shorts don’t cover her ass cheeks. Classy.”

“But…Mom…”

Lev snorted. “Is shooting that perfume ad in Paris.” He turned to me, dark eyes serious. “And we’re not going to tell her what goes on here. Because she’d cry more.”

Lev’s hands fisted so hard he broke his plastic cup and his drink rained down on his new Air Jordan sneakers and jeans.

“But…”

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