The Words
Ashley Jade & A. Jade
PROLOGUE
PHOENIX
Four years earlier…
“Come here, you little shit.”
I haven’t been a little shit since the seventh grade. Not that he would know.
Brushing him off, I walk the five steps down the tiny, narrow hallway leading to my bedroom.
I’m twisting the doorknob when a glass bottle hits my back.
It’s empty. Always fucking empty.
Because Vance Walker would never waste a drop of booze.
Seeing red, I turn around and grab him by his dirty shirt. “You’re drunk.”
“And you’re worthless.” He swings his fist, but his coordination is fucked, so he misses and stumbles back. “Bastard.”
The goddamn irony. “Only because you made me one.”
My mind flashes back to a time when my life wasn’t a train wreck. Before the alcohol and drugs. Before this piece of shit trailer in this shithole town. Before the affair. Before the abuse.
Before she left us.
I should hate her for it…but I can’t.
She saw the opportunity for freedom—a chance at a life where cracked ribs, broken noses, and bruises weren’t an everyday occurrence—and she took it.
Even though it meant leaving her seven-year-old son behind to fend for himself.
I look into his hazy, glazed-over blue eyes—eyes I inherited from him—wondering how he let himself slip so far down the rabbit hole.
Once upon a time, my father was a legend. Or at least on the verge of becoming one.
People said he was the next Jimi Hendrix. Hell, some even claimed he was better.
He also had a gorgeous wife who loved him and a son who looked at him like he was a hero.
Once upon a time—he had it all.
And then he lost it.
I refuse to make the same mistake.
CHAPTER 1
LENNON
I’m downing my second bowl of Captain Crunch when my father strides into the kitchen, patting his pockets.
“Have you seen my keys?”
I point to the island where they’re in clear view. “Over there.”
“Ah.” Walking to the marble island, he grabs them. “Thanks, monkey face.”
You’d think someone with his talent would have come up with a better nickname for his daughter, but alas, I’m stuck with it.
According to him, when I was born, I looked just like a monkey—big ears and all.
Instantly, there’s a sharp tug on my heart and I put down my spoon.
Unfortunately, it was the only positive memory associated with my birth for him, given my mom—his soul mate—died minutes later.
“Do you know where my—”
“Over there,” I tell him, pointing to the notebook he placed on the counter next to the fridge.
Relief washes over his face. “Thanks. I have a meeting with Black Lung today.”
That gets my attention. “Black Lung?” I stifle the laugh working its way up my throat, because my dad definitely doesn’t fit Black Lung’s fan base. “Aren’t you a little…you know.”
He adjusts the thick-framed glasses slipping down his nose. “A little what?”
I’m not Willy Wonka, so I don’t sugarcoat shit. “You’re pushing fifty, Dad.”
The confused expression on his face makes it clear he doesn’t get it. “So?”
“Have you ever been to a Black Lung show? Most of their fans are my age.”
Although I don’t know why because they aren’t very good. Even if my dad manages to work his magic and write them some hit songs, it won’t fix their biggest problems.
The band’s lack of harmony.
And the lead singer’s lack of…well, everything.
He shrugs, not looking the least bit concerned. “Their manager sought me out. Not the other way around.”
No surprise there. Age aside, my dad is still the greatest songwriter since his personal favorite, John Lennon. Who—surprise—he named me after.
“Besides,” he continues, popping his collar. “I’m still hip.”
It’s on the tip of my tongue to point out that only old people use terms like hip, but I’ve insulted him enough for one day.
“Knock ‘em dead, Pops.”
He winks. “If I do that, they won’t cut me a check.” His eyes drift to the clock above my head. “Shoot. I’m late, monkey face. Gotta go.” Bending down, he kisses my cheek. “Have a good day at school.”
I stifle a groan because it’s impossible for me to have a good day at Hillcrest High. The place has been my personal version of hell since the moment I walked through the doors.