Sweet Regret: A second chance, single mom, rockstar romance
Sweet Regret: Chapter 30

The holding cell is bright and the constant clang of things and chatter of people is enough to make a drunk man sober.

Oh.

Wait.

Never fucking mind.

I’ve been here forever the fuck long and the room is still moving.

Maybe because it’s easier to stay drunk. Simpler to live in the haze than to feel like my chest has been pried open and my heart ripped out for shits and giggles.

“That bad, huh, man?” my cellmate says from where he’s rolling around on his cot, unable to sit still.

“Fuck off,” I mutter.

“Ha. Sounds like a woman to me.”

“Sounds like mind your own fucking business to me.”

“Chill, man. I was just making small talk.”

I grunt and roll onto my back, my forearm over my eyes, replaying the events of tonight. Morning. Who the hell knows what it is because I lost track of time.

Bristol. Her porch. Her words. Her kiss goodbye.

A bar. O’Hallahan’s, I think was the name. I don’t remember. Minding my own business. An asshole. Then another asshole who wouldn’t leave me alone. Then that fucking prick who shoved me because I didn’t want to take a goddamn picture with him.

Bad fucking idea.

Or maybe not. At least in here, I can’t hurt anybody else.

The damage is done.

Done and fucking over with.

I should have tried harder years ago. I should have never listened to Cathy. And as I sit in this hellhole, all I can do is replay the fucking conversation from six years ago over and over again. The conversation that convinced me to forget about Bristol for good.

“Hello?”

“Shug?”

“I’m sorry you have the wrong number.” Something sounds off with her voice.

“Bristol. It’s me.”

The woman laughs. “Hi, it’s me. This is Bristol’s mom, Cathy.”

“Cathy. It’s Vince. How are you? It’s been years.”

There’s a long, measured pause. “It has.”

“I was looking for Bristol.”

“I figured since you called her phone.” She chuckles but there’s something in the sound of it that has me sitting a little straighter. “How’d you get her number?”

I snort and run a hand through my hair. “It’s a long story.” Like how I spent hours scrolling through all my blocked numbers trying to replace it to no avail. Then breaking down and calling Fairfield High School alumni committee to track down someone who might know it. “Is she there? Is it possible for me to talk to her?”

“She’s sleeping right now. Pulling double duty at the moment.”

Double duty? “Everything all right?”

“Mm-hmm.”

“Then what is it?”

“Vince.” A sigh that doesn’t sound good. “You know I think the world of you, but I think it’s for the best if you forget this number.”

“I don’t understand—”

“I think you do.” She pauses and the silence eats up the distance. “Waiting a lifetime for someone to love you back is not a happy and healthy way to live.”

“Cathy . . .”

“Yes, I know. You love her. In your own special way. But your love is looking backward to the past instead of looking forward to the future. She deserves the forward, Vince.”

“I don’t know what to say.”

You’re right.

You’re wrong.

I wish I could, but I can’t.

“You’re a good man, but at some point, you have to get off the roller coaster.” She sniffles, and I swear to God the sound hurts just as much as her words do because she’s right. All of it.

She’s fucking right.

I can’t love Bristol the way she deserves to be loved. Isn’t that why I walked away in the first place? Isn’t that why I’m not putting up a fight right now?

“Why are you telling me this?”

“I’m the one who has to help her pick up the pieces. After she sees you. After she catches you on the TV. After she hears you on the radio. After . . . after this last time.”

Can’t blame her. You blocked her fucking number. You cut her off because you couldn’t deal with wanting a woman you couldn’t have. For loving a woman who deserved more. For doing exactly what her mom is saying you’re doing.

“If you love her, the way I think you do, then you need to let her go.”

“Jennings? You’re sprung.”

“Fuck,” I groan as I sit up. My head feels like Gizmo is using it for a kickdrum. It should be a crime for them to take your sunglasses in here.

“Lucky you,” my cellmate says.

“Eat shit.”

“You first, you grumpy fuck.”

I shuffle out of the hallway, take the bag of my belongings they hold out to me, and do a double take when I walk into the waiting room and see Hawkin standing there.

What the fuck?

My expression must say as much because he says, “Were you that drunk that you don’t remember calling me to bail your sorry ass out?”

I scrunch up my nose and give a shake to my head. I did?

“I take that as a yes.” He chuckles. “Even you can’t talk your way out of those guys pressing charges.”

“I don’t remember much.”

“You did a number on them.” He points to my hands and sure enough, they’re bruised and bloody.

A chair breaking comes back to me. The crunch of my fist connecting with a nose.

“The fuckers were asking for—”

“Save it for outside. You don’t want whatever it is you’re going to say posted all over the fucking place.” He puts a hand on my back and pushes me forward. “Bail’s paid. Let’s go.”

“Wait.” I scrub a hand over my face. “There’s something I need to do first.”

“Like what? Kiss your cellmate goodbye?” he jokes.

“More like post the fucker’s bail.”

“Fine. Go ahead. I’ll wait. But just a warning. You’re going to want to put those sunglasses on and pull that hat down or be prepared to say cheese when we walk out the doors. Word’s already out.”