The Girl in the Love Song (Lost Boys #1)(123)

But there’s no rush. I’m taking my time and letting it unfold as it should. Not holding back but not throwing myself forward either.

When I was well enough, and when the songs I’d been writing began to take real shape, I flew down to Los Angeles to record an album. But no touring. This festival in Mountain View, California is the first performance and the last performance I’ll give for a while.

I can’t just takeoff now. I have a family to think of.

The thought nearly makes me burst out laughing with crazy fucking happiness into the mic before I greet the crowd. I look down at Violet standing with Sam and a huge swell of love washes over me. Love mixed with fear, the kind that prompted my father to come out of hiding to help me. The love of a father for his son.

From under her big floppy hat, Violet gives me a knowing smile as her arm goes around Sam’s shoulders. I wonder how I’m going to make it through the set.

Me and the guys, my band that had toured with me three years ago, play a set of songs off the new album mixed with some old standbys. I don’t sing “Wait for Me” much anymore. I don’t need to.

Our set ends, and it’s clear three years of relative quiet didn’t diminish the enthusiasm of my fans like I thought it would. They stuck with me through that quiet time of recovery and I’m so grateful for that. I’m finally able to appreciate everything that comes with this crazy job. I give them everything I have on stage, but they give it back to me, tenfold.

A bunch of the other guys are going to hang around and watch the other bands.

“Do you want to come?” Antonio asks. “There are some killer acts here.”

“No doubt,” I say, “but I have plans.”

A ball of tingling excitement expands in my chest, completely different than anything I’ve ever experienced before, and more powerful than what I feel when I take the stage in front of twenty-thousand fans.

I slip out from behind the stage tent into a hot afternoon, and my security team and assistants hustle me into a waiting car to take me to the hotel.

“Who’s got Vi and Sam?” I ask Franklin, my head of security.

“Morris is going to drive them over, ten minutes behind you.”

“Awesome. Thanks, man.”

At the hotel, Tina meets me in the lobby and she’s already beaming. Tina became my indispensable right hand now that Evelyn is off working her way up in a PR company based out of Los Angeles. I have no doubt she’ll will be a huge success. She has a way of bending the universe to conform to her will.

Inside the hotel room, a gift wrapped in blue paper with a green ribbon sits on the coffee table, a thick white envelope on top of it.

“It’s the kind he wanted, right?” I ask Tina.

“Canon EF 24,” she says.

I nod and rub my hands together to give them something to do.

Tina reads my nervousness and wordlessly hands me a bottle of water. “He’s going to love it.”

“Thanks, Tina. I hope so,” I say, but it’s not the camera lens that’s making my stomach tie itself in knots.

I want Sam to have the best. He’s only eleven but his talent is already apparent. Some people just know what they’re meant to do early on. I did and so did Violet. But so many others have to toil at jobs they hate to make ends meet while their true passion stifles and withers for lack of use. So I started a foundation that helps fund arts programs for underprivileged kids. I would love to give the finger to the idea that one has to be lucky, or rich, or have the right set of circumstances align in order to make someone’s passion their job.

Twenty minutes later, Violet and Sam arrive. I clear everybody out and Violet crosses to me immediately, taking off her hat and glasses. The same nervous excitement that’s roiling in me lights up her eyes.

She kisses me. “Are you ready?”

“No.” I laugh. “Are you?”

“I don’t know,” she says honestly. “But I’m going to do my absolute best. It’s all we can do, right?”

“It’s what you always do,” I say. “It’s what you’ve given to me.”

“Same, love,” she says. “We take care of each other.” We both turn and look to where Sam is hovering around the coffee table, circling the gift uncertainly. “Now we’re going to take care of him.”

An ache grips my heart, watching the little boy study the present. The label has his name written clearly on it and he’s still not sure it’s for him.

“What is this?” he asks.

Violet and I join him at the table. “Why don’t you open it and see?” she says.

Sam starts for the thick white envelope. “You’re always supposed to start with the card before the gift,” he says solemnly because he’s a solemn little kid who’s trained himself to be as polite as he can be in the hopes whoever is fostering him will keep him longer. Slow to laugh, cautious about letting in too much happiness. I could relate.

“Not this time, buddy,” I say and take the envelope away from him, hoping he won’t notice how my hands are trembling. “This time around, you start with the gift.”

“Okay,” he says and slowly, meticulously unwraps the present, careful not to tear the paper. To save it or maybe because he thinks he’ll have to rewrap it when he’s done and give it back.