Page 25 of Sweet Distraction

“You left a three-year-old alone at your house?” Hawkin says, eyes widening but tone playful. “Pretty sure that will get you a call from CPS.”

“It’s crossed my mind,” I say.

“That’s one way out of this for sure,” Gizmo says. “But seriously, let me repeat myself. What the actual fuck, dude?”

“I found out last week. Was waiting for the paternity test to disprove what it proved.”

“And now your silence makes sense,” Hawkin says, meeting my eyes and nodding. “You could’ve told us.”

“I know. I just . . . I’m here now,” I say, realizing I probably hurt their feelings by not saying shit. That wasn’t my intention. “Found out last night she’s mine. She showed up on my doorstep today. Well, CPS, her nanny, and her.”

“Fuck,” one of them sighs out.

“That about sums it up.” I chuckle.

“Wait. Showed up at your house? Where is her mom?” Vince asks.

“Passed away in a car accident. That’s why Poppy’s here.” Acid churns in my stomach, and I feel like a dick for saying it so nonchalantly.

“Poppy?” Hawkin asks. He’s sitting forward now with his knees on his elbows.

“Yes,” I say.

“Okay.” Gizmo holds his hands up. “We need details because you know the minute we get home the wives are going to say we neglected to ask the right shit. But first, before you say all that”—he pats a hand on my leg—“you okay? How are you doing?”

“Fucked in the head. Not believing it when there’s proof. Trying to figure out how the fuck to go from here when it feels like I’m staring down shit I never wanted to stare at.”

“Understandable,” Hawkin says.

And then I give them the details. How Sandra called me out of the fucking blue a week ago. The shock. The denial. The waiting game for the paternity test, and now Poppy sitting in my house somewhere right now while I sit here like a chickenshit.

“Should we remember Olivia?” Vince murmurs as if he’s trying to place her.

“I hate to sound like a callous prick, but not more than any of the others. I mean—”

“We get it,” Gizmo says. “We’ve been doing this a long time. Hard to remember every face we meet and every woman who’s occupied our beds—”

“Or dressing room,” Hawkin says.

“Or tour bus,” Vince adds.

“Or basically any-fucking-where.” I shrug and chuckle, grateful for the levity. For them knowing what I need. “It is me, after all.”

“Especially in those early years,” Hawkin says, and we all laugh as he lifts his beer to his lips. For a moment, it seems as if each one of us see reruns of those freshman years in our heads. “Fuck, man. A kid?”

“Yeah,” I say quietly as everyone stares at the fire lost in their thoughts over the news. As they accept that I’m a dad. Me. Rowdy, nonstop, life of the fucking party, Rocket.

And maybe that’s what I needed. To be among the people who I know would accept me—mistakes and all.

Vince clears his throat and is the first to speak. “What do you need?”

I blink. “What?”

“You didn’t call us because you wanted to relive your greatest hits with Olivia. You called us because you’re spiraling. We know you.” His eyes lock on to mine. “So, we’re here. What do you need from us?”

I exhale and hate that tears of frustration are burning the backs of my eyes. And then the fact that they’re threatening makes me even angrier. “To turn back time to four years ago and tell me not to sleep with Olivia Whitmore.” The words are out and even though they are true, it bugs me that I said them.

Huge green eyes and bouncing curls flash through my mind.