The idea of oblivion, forgetting all the pain, had been addictive to her, so she’d agreed to Miller’s not-at-all-sexual terms.

And they’d become one of the unhealthiest couples to ever grace the planet. He treated her like shit, beat her black and blue when the mood struck, forced himself on her damn near every night. And she despised him right back, only sticking around so she could get her next hit.

When he grew bored with her, he’d pick on me. I can’t remember how many times my mom had watched dispassionately as my dad wailed on me, her eyes glassy and lifeless as she inhaled whatever she was smoking.

On the good nights, when she’d crawl in bed with me to escape him, shaking from withdrawal tremors, she’d tell me about the other baby, her voice far away and wistful as she imagined how good her life could’ve been if only her mechanic had lived.

“I could’ve had a real son,” she would say. “One I could actually love.”

And I’d always kind of hated that other boy, or envied him—whatever—wishing I could be him instead of me, away from this place and probably adopted by some amazing family who actually gave a shit.

Learning about Pick’s past had changed all that though. He was the right age to be that baby, but he had never been adopted by some kind, caring family. After asking around, I’d discovered he’d had a pretty sucky childhood, yanked from one foster home to the next, forced into watching one of his foster sisters get raped and basically having the worst luck wherever he went, landing at only the awful homes.

I owed so much to Pick. He’d let me transform his bar completely and set up a stage for my band. He’d let us have our premiere performance here and then return every Friday. He’d let me create karaoke night and install pretty much any sound system feature in the place I wanted.

I had fans. My dream was coming true. Because of him.

It felt shitty for me to keep my story to myself after what I knew.

Didn’t I owe it to him to tell him I might possibly know who his mother had been?

Well, idiot me, I’d had a little too much to drink after a show one Friday, and I’d made the decision to clue him in, thanks to some help from my buddy Captain Morgan. I’d left him a voice message, spilling everything.

He hadn’t mentioned it afterward, and I sure as hell wasn’t going to bring it up. So I let it go, hoping maybe I’d gotten the wrong number or somehow only imagined that I’d called him.

But an uneasy gurgle in my stomach told me he had received the message, and he hadn’t forgotten about it at all.

“I haven’t quite set up everything yet,” I told him as I entered his office, hoping he’d get the hint that I was too busy to talk, and he’d let me go.

There really was a lot on my plate right now, too much for me to deal with this as well. Women kept coming out the woodwork, trying to convince me they were my Incubus T-shirt girl. I was trying to set up gigs at other places besides Forbidden. And now it seemed I needed to find a new fucking drummer.

“And we open in—”

“The stage can wait.” He kept his back to me as he strolled to his desk and picked up a manila envelope. “Shut the door, will you?”

I felt more like escaping out the door, but I gulped and followed his wishes.

He turned to me, and a shock of uneasy recognition zapped through me as I took in his features. I’d been too afraid to really study him after learning about his past. I didn’t want to know if he could maybe, possibly be my brother.

If we shared a mother, he’d want facts about her, details. He’d want a happy story of how beautiful and kind and loving she’d been.

But I couldn’t give him that. I could only tell him she’d let herself go until she’d turned into a scarecrow, a hollow shell of existence. And then she’d died a brutal death at the hands of my father.

No one wanted to hear that kind of shit about his mom. What if he ended up blaming me, hating me, because I’d gotten time with her that he hadn’t or because I came from the seed of his mother’s murderer?

I shuddered, tempted to flee. Except I couldn’t.

I shoved my hands into my pockets and stared back at a man I’d known over a year, a guy I looked up to and respected and actually liked. And suddenly, I could see my own chin, maybe the shape of my face, the cut of my shoulders.

It freaked me out. Paralyzed me.

“I’ve been thinking about that message you left on my phone.”

“Aww, fuck,” I muttered.

An amused grin lit his face. “Yeah, I sensed you regretted making that call, but I’m still glad you did. Because I’ve always wanted to know where I came from, and this is honestly the first lead I’ve ever gotten.”