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Kylie hops off, hangs the helmet on the back of the bike, and slams into her father for a hug. He does it one-arm, the other hand stuffed into his pocket. “Daddy! ” She leans up and kisses his cheek. “You’re back! ”

He nods. “Yeah, got in this afternoon. ” He doesn’t take his eyes off me while he speaks. “Who’s this? ”

I step toward him. “Oz Hyde, sir. ”

“Colt. ” His grip is crushing, but not with intent, simply because his hands are just that strong. “Oz, huh? What kind of name is Oz? ”

“Mine. ” I meet his gaze levelly. I see where Kylie got her sapphire eyes.

There’s something in his expression. Suspicion? Awareness? I’m not sure. He glances at his daughter. “Ben said you’d gone off with some guy. ”

“‘Ben said’? ” She says it with a bit of anger. “God, really? Ben is my friend, Daddy, not my boyfriend, not my parent. I don’t have to stay with him just because he says. ”

He has nothing to say to this. He looks back at me. “New in town, Oz? ”

I nod. “Yes, sir. ” I can’t help but be respectful to Colt. He’s dangerous. I can sense it in him. The fighter in me, the survivor in me, recognizes the hardness in him. He’s seen some shit, and he may live a cush life now, but he hasn’t always. Fists remember.

“Where’d you move from? ”

“Atlanta. ”

He glances at my bike, nodding appreciatively. “Nice bike. ”

I grin, and nod at his Triumph. “Thanks. I like yours. What year is it? ”

“Forty-eight. ”

“Damn. Sure is sweet. ”

“Yeah. ” He blinks at me, assessing, thinking. “Look. My daughter is old enough to choose her own…friends. But listen to me, boy. You take my daughter on a ride, you ride careful. Got it? You hurt her, you deal with me. ”

Kylie blushed, embarrassed, and moved between me and Colt. “Jeez, Dad. Are you gonna get out your shotgun next? ”

He doesn’t even twitch. “Who needs a shotgun? ”

Not him, that’s for damn sure.

I meet his gaze steadily. “I got you, sir. She’ll be safe. ”

I see him glance over my shoulder, and I turn to see Kylie’s friend Ben approaching with another man who has to be his dad. I recognize his dad, too, but I can’t place him. He’s a short, muscular man, and he looks like he’s in sick shape, especially considering he has a teenaged son. I didn’t leave things with Ben on a great note, and I have no desire to rehash the territorial aggression with him, not in front of his dad, and Kylie, and Colt. Talk about outnumbered. Shit. Time for my getaway.

But before I can mount up, they’re behind me. Ben’s eying me with open hostility, and his dad sees this, glancing from him to me to Kylie. He reaches out and shakes Colt’s hand, pulling him in for a man-hug. “Colt! Good to see you. Been back long? ”

“Jay. Good to see you, too. No, a few hours. ”

Suddenly I know who this is: Jason Dorsey, wide receiver for the Tennessee Titans. He played for the Saints for several years at the start of his career, and he was with them for all three of their back-to-back Super Bowl wins. He was a huge part of the reason they were so good, honestly. The QB was nothing astounding, but he could hit Dorsey from anywhere in the field, and once Dorsey had the ball it was a guaranteed TD. He was acquired by the Titans twelve years ago as a free agent, and he’s been here ever since, racking up numbers that’ll likely get him into the Hall of Fame.

And Ben’s his son.

I swallow my nerves. “Mr. Dorsey. ” I shake his hand. I force myself to be casual, neutral, and pleasant to his son. “Ben. ”

“Call me Jason. ” He eyes his son again but says nothing. At least not in front of me.

Ben shakes my hand, but the hostility in his eyes could drill holes into my skull. “Oz. ” He fairly growls it through it gritted teeth.

I’ve got to get out of here. Colt is just standing there, a threat merely by his presence. Jason Dorsey is trying to figure out the source of the tension between me and Ben, and Kylie clearly just wants to go inside. I give her a grin. “I’ll see you later, Calloway. ” I give an awkward wave, a nod. “Colt, Jason. Nice to meet you. ” I don’t bother with saying goodbye to Ben.

He and I are going to tangle at some point, and it’s going to be a rough one.

Kylie waves at me as I swing onto my bike, letting it roll down the driveway. I wave back and then gun the engine, twist the throttle so my Indian kicks forward. As soon as I’m out of the sub and on the freeway heading home, I open the throttle and let her purr. All the way home I’m thinking of a tall girl with strawberry blonde hair and big round tits and a smile I could kill for.

Fuck. Maybe I’ll be the one to suggest we move this time.

TWO: Wishes At Night

Colt

Kylie is sitting at the island, sending yet another text to who the hell knows who. I lean against the fridge, slicing cheese off a block and eating it off the knife. She’s been quiet this evening, and I think I know why.

“You like him? ” I ask, wrapping up the cheese.

She sets the phone down, all too carefully. “Who, Daddy? ”

“New guy. Oz. With the bike. ”

She blushes and looks away. “He’s…surprising. ”

Not a typical answer, and it has me intrigued. “Surprising? What’s that mean? ”

She shrugs. “Just…not what I was expecting. I kind of judged him by the way he looks, honestly. He has the bike, and the jacket with the patches, and the tattoos, and I guess I thought he’d be—I don’t know. Not what he is. ”

“Which is what? ” I don’t know exactly why I’m pushing this with her. Except I see something in the kid, something I recognize. And it scares me that she’s interested in him.

“Smart. Polite. Easy to talk to. ” She scratches a smudge on the screen of her phone with a fingernail. “He held the door for me at the café, and he paid the bill without even telling me. ”

“Wait, the café? ”

She bites her lip and shrugs. “We had some fries, that’s all. That’s not the point, Daddy. ”

“What happened to telling us if you’re going somewhere? ”

“Sorry. It was a last-minute thing. ” She glances at me. “And besides, I’m in college now, Daddy. I shouldn’t have to check in anymore. ”

I lift an eyebrow. “You’re not in college yet, Kylie. You’re taking college classes while still in high school. There’s a difference. ”

“Ugh. You’re impossible. You’re acting like I’m still a kid. I’m almost eighteen. Trust me a little. ”

I sigh. “Fine. But at least text Mom or me so we know where you are. That’s not checking in—that’s just being respectful. ”

“I will next time. I promise. You’re getting off topic, Dad. ”

I let it go. She’s a good kid, with a good head on her shoulders. “So he’s smart and he’s got manners. What’s Ben’s issue with him? If looks could kill, our boy Ozzy would be long dead. ”

She shrugs yet again. She needs to learn a new gesture. “I don’t know. He didn’t want me to go with Oz, I guess. ”

I can’t help but wonder if she knows Ben is head-over-heels for her, and has been since fourth grade. Guess not. Or if she does, she’s in denial. “I guess. Just…he’s your oldest friend, Ky. Don’t make a habit of ditching him for something new and shiny. ” Not my place to tell her Ben’s in love with her. She’ll figure it out, or she won’t, and I wouldn’t be doing her any favors by interfering. As long as no one hurts her, her love life is her business.

Nell may not agree, but what the hell do I know about teenage girls and their social lives? Jack shit, that’s what.

Speaking of Nell, here she is, finally emerging from our basement studio. We’ve been together for over eighteen years, and I swear to God she’s even more stunning than the day we met in New York. She beelines for me, tucks up against me. “Baby, ” she breathes, tilting her face up to mine.

“Hey. ” I run my thumb over her lips before I kiss them. “Get the track laid down? ”

She rolls her eyes. “Yeah, finally. It only took about fifteen takes for me to get that one note right. Kept hitting it off-key. ”

“You? Off-key? ” I laugh. “Never. ”

She shoves at my chest. “Jerk. You know I have trouble with notes that high. ”

“Then why’d you write the song with that note? ”

“It was the best fit. ” Nell leaves my side to stand behind Kylie and wrap her arms around her. “How’s my baby? ” she asks with a kiss to the top of Kylie’s head.

Kylie huffs and wiggles away from Nell. “God, Mom! You’re so clingy! ” She laughs as she says it, though. “I’m fine. Same old bullshit. ”

“Language, Kylie Olivia Calloway. ”

“Sorry, Mom. Usual bullcrap. ”

“Yeah, usual bullshit, except for our daughter showing up on the back of some guy’s motorcycle, ” I put in, just to watch the drama unfold.

Kylie gives me a horrified look. “Daddy! You traitor! ”

I just laugh.

Nell seems torn as to who to lay into first. “Colton. I just got on our daughter’s case for her language. You have to set the example. ” She turns to Kylie. “And you, young lady. Some guy? Motorcycle? ” Nell ignores me. “Spill it, Ky. ”

Kylie glares at me, mouths I’m gonna kill you. I just laugh. “It’s no big deal. His name is Oz. I don’t know much about him, except that he has a motorcycle, he’s cute, and he’s nice. ”

I snort. “He may have been nice to you, but I doubt he’s nice. ”

Kylie frowns at me. “He said something similar. ”

“Smart, well-mannered, and able to hold a conversation do not equal nice, ” I say. “Take me, for example. I’m a lot of things. Nice is not one of them. ”

Kylie’s frown deepens. “Yes, you are. ”

I laugh. “I’m your dad, Ky. I’m contractually obligated as your father to be nice to you. ”

Kylie looks to her mom. “Is he nice? ”

Nell snorts. “Nope. To me, usually. To you, always. To everyone else? Depends on how much he likes you. ”

“You weren’t very nice to Oz when he dropped me off, ” Kylie points out.

I crack my knuckles. “My daughter—my only child—shows up on the back of a motorcycle with some tattooed, long-haired punk. It’s sorta my job to scare a little respect into him. ”

“How old is this Oz? ” Nell’s voice is calm, but Kylie and I both know she’s anything but.

Kylie lifts an eyebrow at her mother. “Mom. Really? ”

I watch her gather herself, closing her eyes and taking a deep breath. When she opens her eyes, she’s visibly calmer. “How old is he, Kylie? ”

Kylie just shrugs. “I dunno. A little older than me. ”

“You don’t know, you mean. ” Nell sighs. “Just use your judgment, baby girl. Don’t do anything stupid. Don’t get involved with the wrong crowd, okay? ”

Kylie is clearly done with the conversation. She rolls her eyes and walks away. “I got it, Mom. ” I hear her mumble under her breath, “Everyone seriously needs to chill the fuck out. ”

I chuckle, knowing her mom would’ve grounded her for that. I let it go. Once she’s gone, I voice a thought that’s been nagging at me. “Something about that guy…he looks…familiar. I dunno. I can’t place it, though. ”

Nell doesn’t look at me from where she’s pulling food out of the fridge to make dinner. “I didn’t meet him, so I couldn’t say. ” As she sets a thawed pound of ground beef on the counter she, glances at me, a question in her eyes. “You really thought he seemed okay? You have a hard time denying that girl anything. I don’t want to make any hasty judgments, but bad boy stereotypes exist for a reason. ”

I lift an eyebrow. “Oh, really? ”

She waves a messy hand at me. “You’re an exception, obviously. And maybe this—Oz, is it? —maybe he is, too. But I don’t want to see her get hurt. And what about Ben? ”

I lift both shoulders. “I dunno, babe. She’ll have to figure him out for herself. The hard way, maybe. You can’t learn about love without getting hurt. As for Ben, I’m wondering the same thing. I think maybe she’s not seeing the forest for the trees, you know? ”

Nell nods. “Yeah, I guess you’re right. ” She finishes mixing the taco seasoning into the beef and tosses it into a frying pan. I wipe the counter off while she browns the meat. “I just wish I could protect her. I don’t want her to go through the kind of things you and I did. ”

“Nothing much we can do about that, I’m afraid. ”

She sighs. “I know. I know. I just hate it, is all. ”

“Me, too. ”

Later that night, in bed basking in the afterglow of a slow and thorough lovemaking, Nell seems lost in thought. Deep, private thoughts. The kind I have to drag out of her.

I turn toward her, pulling my arm from beneath her head, propping my cheek on my palm. “What’s bugging you, Nelly-girl? ”

She doesn’t answer right away. “Sometimes I just…I wish—god, it’s stupid. ”

“Wish what? ”

“That we’d had another baby. ”

I wince, and fall back onto the pillow. “God, Nell. I know. We tried for ten years. ”

She shrugs, and I see a glint in her eye. “Why, Colt? There were no problems with Kylie’s birth. The doctors couldn’t find anything. No miscarriages. Except that one, obviously. But…ten years, and just…nothing. Why? ”

I want to get up and leave the room, run from this conversation that has come up at random over the years during our entire marriage. “I wish I had an answer for you, baby. It just wasn’t meant to be, I guess. That’s a shitty answer. A non-answer. But I just don’t know. I would’ve given you another one if I could’ve. ”

“We could’ve adopted. ”

I groan. “Goddamn it, Nell. We’ve been through this. ”

“I know, Colt. I know. “ She wipes at her face. “I just…I wish—”

“I wish, too, Nelly. I wanted a son, or another daughter, as much as you did. You know the reasons why we didn’t adopt. We didn’t have the money, or the time. We were touring with Kylie in a stroller, your mom following us around from city to city. Hiring nannies. And then once we’d settled here, it just wasn’t ever…right. I don’t know. ”

“And now it’s never gonna happen. ”

I blow out a long breath, and I can’t stay in the bed anymore. “I—we’re not—I don’t know, Nell. Kylie’s graduating this year. Are we really going to talk about bringing another child into our lives now? ” I step into a pair of shorts. “I love you, Nell. I just don’t think I can keep having this conversation. ”

“Yeah. ” I hear the bitterness in her voice, and I don’t know what to do about it.

I go down to the garage and tinker with the Triumph for an hour or two, because it’s what I know. I’ve spent far too much time in the garage, tinkering, just to get away from a conversation that has no solution. Nell’s fine, most of the time. But every once in a while, for no reason I’ve ever been able to decipher, she just gets this bug up her ass, and there’s nothing I can do about it. We tried. I tried. We both got tested; nothing seemed wrong with either of us. But she never conceived again. We talked about adoption, in vitro, surrogacy. None of it was feasible, or possible, or it just seemed wrong for us. Not what we wanted. And every once in a while, without warning, she gets maudlin about it, tears up, asks why. And I don’t have the answers. I’ve never had the answers.

I toss a wrench into the toolbox a little more forcefully than I need to, and go inside. I slam a beer standing on the back porch, watching the lights of Nashville, listening to the rush of cars in the distance, wishing I could find an answer for her, something to close the subject once and for all. And, as always, I’ve got nothing.

THREE: Burn Scars and Shredding Guitars

I’m alone in the apartment. Mom’s working. She’s always working. I’ve got a joint in one hand, my lighter in the other. I’m in my room, the window open to suck out the smoke. I turn up the volume on my iPod dock/alarm clock until “We Stitch These Wounds” by Black Veil Brides drowns out my thoughts, buries my mind beneath guitars and drums and someone else’s angst, someone else’s anger, someone who gets it.

I let my head thump back against the wall above my bed and look around. There’s no bed frame, no headboard. Just the queen mattress and a box spring on the floor. I don’t bother with sheets, either. Just a thin blanket over the mattress, and another to cover up if I’m cold. No dresser, either, just a big silver laundry basket with my clean clothes in it, folded, and two black contractor-size garbage bags full of dirty clothes. A bookshelf, filled with novels, mainly sci-fi and fantasy, and several dozen volumes of math texts. Some are textbooks bought for cheap on Amazon, high school and college algebra and physics and calculus. Others are more esoteric, books on quantum physics and string theory and the history of numbers, kabbalah, Sudoku, logic, statistics, books on the relationship between math and chess, and between math and music. The only other thing I own is a battered third-hand Fender Stratocaster, a twenty-year-old amp, and an off-brand pair of over-the-ear headphones.

They are the belongings of a nomad. They’ll all fit in the bed of Mom’s rusted-out Dodge Ram, and the tiny trailer that she bought in Biloxi. Her room looks about the same, although she has a frame for her bed, and a little nightstand she got at a Salvation Army in Colorado Springs.

I flick the Bic, watch the orange-yellow flame touch the twist of white rice paper. Inhale. Suck deep, and hold it in. It doesn’t hit right away. This is kinda shitty weed, but I haven’t had a chance to sniff out a good hook-up yet. It’ll do, though. It ain’t the danks, but it’s decent. After another long inhalation, I feel it. Light-headed, slow, floating. Cares are gone.

I watch my hand lift the lighter up. I stare at it. It’s my favorite lighter. Red, slim, and translucent, the fluid jiggling low at the bottom. It lights easily, has a good, high flame. It’s got an adjuster, so I can turn the flame up if I want. I do that now, slide the little black piece of plastic to the side, all the way. I roll my thumb across the knob, trying to remember why I shouldn’t do this. I do it anyway. I light it, the flame almost an inch tall now. Holding my palm facing down, I bring the lighter up, up. I feel the heat. It’s a gentle warmth at first. Then, as I move the flame closer to my flesh, it turns to burning. Pain.

Yes.

I suck in another hit, feeling the high whirl through me, tossing me up and away, in the cloud-world of hazy uncaring. The pain grounds me. Brings me down, anchors me so I don’t float away. It’s just my palm at first, heat baking my skin. I trace the flame along the lines of my palm. Not enough. I run it along my finger, up the pad of my index finger. Now the pain becomes real. It’s a true burn. Harsh and furious, deep and aching. The burn sears me, and I relish it. My fingertip reddens. When the heat reaches a threshold I cannot ignore, I let the flame snuff out. I hold my finger up and examine it. It’ll blister.

The song fades, and “Home Sweet Hole” by Bring Me the Horizon comes on. I nod in approval. I like this song. They’re a little screamo for my taste overall, but this is a good tune. Another hit, and I blow the smoke out the window, watch it skirl through the screen and get snatched away by the puff of breeze. I’m in the ether now. The joint is almost gone, just a roach. I pinch the cherry between finger and thumb, not even registering the slight twinge of the heat. Opening the lid of the tin Band-Aid box, I toss the roach and the lighter in, on top of the baggie of pot. The box goes into my backpack, way at the bottom of the front pocket, beneath pens and guitar picks and crushed granola bars.

I lie down flat on the bed, close my eyes, and listen to the music, feeling the aching burn of my palm and finger. “Life of Uncertainty” by It Dies Today comes on, and I soak it up, sink into it. Drifting, drifting.

It’s a fleeting respite.

When unwelcome clarity starts to penetrate the fog, I slide off the bed, grab my guitar and my amp. Adjust the tuning slightly, flick the volume a little higher, and do some scales to limber up my fingers. My index finger hurts, making it tricky to move from string to string, but it’s fine. I’m used to it. The burning is my secret, my release. I smoke pot because it loosens the grip of the anger and the bitterness of my fatherless, nomadic life. The burning is…I don’t know what it is. Rage is exhausting, bitterness is exhausting. Burning is a way to feel something else, to alleviate it. To feel something in this life.

“Breaking Out, Breaking Up” by Bullet for My Valentine comes on. I taught myself this song, and I play along. When the song ends, I grab the tiny remote off the floor and click the iPod off. I play one of my own songs. It’s an instrumental because I don’t sing and sure as hell don’t write no goddamn poetry. It’s fast and hard, technical. My facility with numbers helps somehow. I can’t make any kind of scientific claims about it, but I relate numbers to playing guitar. Each chord is an equation. Each string is a number. I guess I have quick fingers, so that’s part of it, but the real playing happens in my head. I see the riffs like strings of equations, one plugged into another and another until there’s a whole endless skein of numbers slinging from the six strings.

I lose myself in playing, pressing hard with my burned index finger to keep the pain fresh in my head.

I don’t even notice Mom until she reaches down and turns off the amp. I claw the headphones off and glare up at her. “What the fuck, Mom? ”

“You were smoking. ”

I shrug and don’t look at her, reach for the “on” switch. “Yeah. So? ”

She knows I smoke. She smokes with me sometimes. Only when she’s really bad, when whatever it is that’s driving her becomes too much. She gets melancholy as hell when she smokes, like she’s remembering something.

She grabs my wrists, jerks them up. Shit. I resist, and when she tries to overpower me, I tear my hand from her grip. “Let me see your hands, Oz. ” She lets go, but kneels in front of me. Concern fills her gray eyes.

I can’t look at her for long. I keep my hands flat on my knees. “It’s fine. It’s nothing. No big deal. ”

“Show…me. ” She bites the words out.

I roll my eyes and turn my palms up. She immediately sees the fresh burn on my left hand, the redness on my palm and blister on my finger. “I’m fine, Ma. It’s no big deal. ”

“You burned again. You said you weren’t doing that anymore. ” She sinks back to sit cross-legged on the floor in front of me. She still has her apron on, the server book stuffed inside, fat with cash. She’s never been real modest around me, and now is no exception. She works at a nightclub as a cocktail waitress. Which means short skirts, low-cut shirts. I look away at the wall, out the window.

I shrug. “It just happened. I’m fine. ”

“Burning yourself is not fine, Oz. ” She pulls the book out of her apron and counts out the cash, stacking it into ones, fives, tens, and twenties.

I watch her count slowly. “Mom, god. I’m fine. For real. It’s just a little burn. I’m not…I’m not actively burning again. I swear. ”

She looks up at me, examines me, the cash now stacked in her hand. “Oz, why do you do it? I don’t get it. ”

I shrug again. “Fuck, Mom. I don’t know. You ask me this, and I can’t tell you. I would if I knew. I just don’t. It just…helps. ”

Mom tilts her head back and sighs. She pulls a pack of Pall Malls from her apron and hunts for a lighter. Comes up empty. I dig my tin out of my backpack, find the lighter, light her cigarette for her. I take one for myself from her pack, light it, return the lighter to the tin. We smoke in silence, Mom thinking, me trying not to.

Eventually, she breaks it. “Oz, do you hate me? ”

I’m shocked. Stunned. “Hate you? What the actual fuck, Mom? Why would you ask me that? Of course not. I love you. You’re my mom. ”

She glances around the bedroom for somewhere to ash. I grab the black plastic ashtray from the foot of my bed and hand it to her. She taps the end of her cigarette against it, staring at the orange cherry. “But I’m not a good mom. ”

“You’ve done the best you could. ” It’s a meaningless response, and we both know it.

She frowns up at me. “Which means no. ”

I shake my head. “Jesus, Mom. How am I supposed to answer that fucking question? Huh? ‘No, Mom, you’ve been a shitty parent. ’ Is that what I’m supposed to say? Or how about ‘Well, gee, Mom, it’s been great. You’re a goddamn miracle worker, raising an ungrateful little shit like me. ’”

Her head jerks up, and her eyes are hurt, angry. “Fucking hell, Oz. Really? ”

I let out a breath. “Sorry. I just—what am I supposed to say? I don’t know. You’re the only mom I’ve ever had, the only parent I’ve ever had. We don’t have a typical life. We’re not a typical family. But it’s what we are, and…that’s it, I guess. ”

She nods, blowing out a thin stream of smoke. “I guess. I’m just sorry I haven’t done better for you. ”

“What’s this all about? ”

She lifts a shoulder, stabbing the cigarette out. “You, burning again. You shouldn’t…that shouldn’t happen. But it does. And it’s my fault. ”

I’m not sure what to say her. I wish I could say I didn’t blame her, but I do. Shitty, but true. I resist, at great effort, the urge to stab my cigarette out on the back of my hand. Mom watches me, as if knowing what I’m thinking.

Tell me about my father. My lips tingle with the question, but I hold it back. I’ve asked it a million times, and she refuses to answer. Once she was a little drunk and I asked her about him, thinking the booze would loosen her tongue. Instead, it loosened her hand. She slapped me, hard. She immediately felt horrible and started crying and begging me to forgive her, but she never told me a damn thing. She never hit me before that, or after, but she never told me about my father. The burning is a daddy issue, I think. A shrink would have a field day with me, if I gave enough of a shit to go.