Worlds Collide (Fan Service #6)

1. Wolf

ONE

WOLF

Start of May—Malibu

Annoyance, resentment, borderline rage—all the things I shouldn’t be feeling on my brother’s wedding day, and still here I am—brimming with all of them.

“To the newlyweds!” I fist my hands and clench my jaw as everyone cheers then drinks from their glasses.

I’m pretty sure that was the last speech of the night—fucking hallelujah—and it was by far the worst in my opinion. Carter, Derek’s Brit college friend, made everyone laugh with his poor impression of Deedee, and then made everyone chug whatever it is they’re drinking in celebration of his friend’s nuptials to my brother.

Everyone except me, that is.

Because I’m sober.

Six months sober actually, and shouldn’t I feel at least some pride over that fact ?

I don’t.

Of all the fucking feelings that have inundated my body ever since I stopped dimming them with booze, pride hasn’t been one I’ve had to deal with. I bet my sponsor would have a lot to say about that if I ever told her—which I won’t, what would be the point in that?

In any case, my grumpiness is probably just exacerbated because I’m tired. Today started extra early for me, and my brother wouldn’t be surprised to find out that I barely slept a couple of hours—my insomnia is his and Deedee’s fault after all.

Who in their right mind would ask me to marry them?

I thought no one who truly knew me would, but Deedee and Birdie are the only two people in the world who really know me, so I guess I was wrong.

At half past three in the morning I still had no idea what exactly I was going to say in front of all the guests when I married Hawk off to our best friend, but it was around four in the morning that I remembered Mom’s letters to us.

She left a whole box for Hawk and did the same for me, so I sprung up from the bed that was acting as my mental torture chamber, and raced to the room that’s supposed to be my office. It’s still full of unopened boxes from the move and I knew exactly where I’d packed the hardwood box, so it didn’t take me long to locate it. Then I flipped through what seemed like fifty envelopes until I found the one I was looking for.

“My Hawk’s Wedding Day” was written in her lovely cursive letters.

I didn’t open the envelope, I didn’t dare peek in because those aren’t the rules. Actually, the rule is that Hawk’s supposed to read the letter alone when I decide it’s time to give it to him, but I didn’t do that .

I brought Mom back to life for a precious, way-too-short minute in front of everyone my brother and our best friend decided to invite to their wedding. I let her speak through me, and honestly, nothing I could’ve ever come up with would’ve measured up to her words.

After that, I relaxed and knew there was no way I could butcher this wedding, not after I’d already made sure it was unforgettable.

Then I started off the party by singing “Some Kind Of Wonderful” so they could have their first dance, and as far as I’m concerned my duties of the day were fulfilled.

I felt inspired after, and wrote down a few lyrics that came to mind on my phone when I could get away from the party for a few minutes.

Now, though... Now I don’t know what to do with myself.

Apart from the Grammys in January and the Super Bowl in February, I haven’t been to any big events, so not drinking has been pretty easy. The only time I have to control myself is when I go to the grocery store and honestly, it’s not that hard.

I really wanted to toast my brother’s wedding today though, and having to do it with stupid sparkling water seems like such a loser move.

Of course, I don’t just feel like a loser, I’m well aware that I am one.

Weak, stupid, and guilty loser.

Those are the only words I can honestly use to describe myself.

Though I guess I’m a pretty good brother, too. I did something I definitely didn’t want to for Birdie, and now I’m at this party, surrounded by alcohol, when I want nothing more than to flee to my house and do my best to drown the music which is probably sounding all over the ranch that’s not a ranch—we don’t have cattle no matter how much Hawk wants us to get some.

From across the pool, I see Derek reluctantly reach for Hawk’s hand and pull him in for a dance. Sitting on the end of a lounger alone, with my stupid sparkling water, I feel more alone than I have since I left rehab. I’m surrounded by people, some of them I know well, some I even like, but none of them would do for me what they would do for Derek and Hawk.

I’m not in the friend group, just by association.

I don’t want to be, in any case. I don’t need a million friends butting into my business every day. Having so many people to care about can only lead to pain.

The sting of thinking about why I’m like this is as sharp as ever. I rub my eyes to try and push the memories back. I can’t think about Mom any more today. Normally, I only let myself think about her when I’m in a meeting. That’s when I feel the strongest because it’s when I have undeniable evidence that I’ve conquered myself, that I have control over my life. I talk about her a lot in AA, it’s the only thing that gets me through it actually. Knowing that I can talk and cry and wish she was here without anyone else suffering because of what I say.

I don’t have that with Hawk.

I look away from my brother’s happy face and my gaze lands right on CJ Sounders.

Another one of Derek’s college friends, he moved to LA a few weeks ago because he’s doing his surgery residency at the Children’s Hospital.

All I know about the dude is that he has a hero complex for sure.

He smirks at Adam, and the familiarity I see between those two reminds me of the way Hawk looks at me when he’s being a pain in the ass and knows it.

From what Derek’s told Hawk—a conversation I pretended I wasn’t overhearing—Adam and CJ have been best friends since they were in diapers. “Inseparable and practically family” were his words actually.

With his dirty blond hair, a sharp jaw and nose, his wide shoulders, slim but muscular build, and easy stance, he looks—and is—the typical trust-fund baby. But then again, not just any trust fund.

Everyone knows the Sounders last name. The export and import company is one of the oldest in the country, but still not older than his mother’s family’s fortune. The Clemson family is more infamous than anything nowadays, and CJ is basically the heir to two of the biggest fortunes this country has ever seen.

Not the biggest though , I think as I see Tristan—my PR manager—talking to his billionaire boyfriend. Another man who screams “old-money rich” without making a sound.

I scoff to myself. Why am I musing about how much money the little rich boy has? Who even gives a fuck? I have more money than I know what to do with myself, so what’s the big deal?

The deal is, he’s clearly had the perfect life so far and will probably keep that up forever. I, on the other hand, well, let’s just say “fucked up” has been used to describe me way too many times to count.

“You okay?” I hear from my left and turn to see Derek’s little sister, Gracie, come over and sit next to me. She’s nice, a bit of a smartass like Derek, and she also just moved to the city to work at the same hospital as CJ—she’s a pediatric nurse, so another saint, but for some reason I don’t question her motives, I simply know she’s a good person.

Since she announced her move to LA, and she and CJ found out they would work together, they decided to be roommates—a fact that might’ve made me avoid her the last few times she came over. She’s now family—kinda—and I have to be nice to her.

I want to be nice to her , I correct myself .

“I’m fine,” I tell her, unable to hide my uneasy thoughts. “Just thinking,” I say lamely, and turn my face down so she won’t see me wince.

I’m so fucking pathetic .

“What are you?—”

“Hey, roomie,” I hear the little rich boy’s deep baritone interrupt Gracie, and once more my molars grind against each other.

“You shouldn’t interrupt Gracie, little rich boy,” I drawl as I look up.

Like he always seems to do, he smirks down at me with mirth in his eyes.

Adam, though, has more of a reaction to the nickname I gave CJ the first time I met him after the Super Bowl.

“Watch it,” the muscular quarterback growls at me.

I turn to look him straight on, give him my most unimpressed stare, and stay silent.

“It’s okay,” CJ tells him, but Adam and I keep looking at each other. “Wolf here just seems to have a bit of an obsession with size.”

I dig my thumb nail into my other palm to stop myself from laughing. That was funny, but I don’t want to laugh at his jokes.

I’ve been doing all I can to just stay the fuck away from CJ since he moved here and my brother and Derek decided he just has to be a huge part of our lives now. It bugs the fuck out of me, and the fact that nothing I say ever fazes him only infuriates me more.

It’s been an issue the last few weeks.

So much so, that I’ve actually been spending less and less time around the two most important people in my life because CJ is always around. I thought surgical residents were supposed to have no time off or some shit like that, but he seems to have spent a lot of fucking time at Derek’s place—which is where we lived before our houses here were ready just over a week ago .

I narrow my eyes at Adam when he raises one eyebrow at me. I hear Gracie and CJ talking, but my head is so full of thoughts that I can’t pay them any mind.

CJ being around all the damn time shouldn’t be an issue for me, and yet it is...

It is, even though I know he’s straight and clearly has no reaction whatsoever to me. Not the way my body seems to freeze every time I see him .

It’s a big fucking problem, because I’m less than a year sober and my therapist at rehab told me not to start any relationships, and preferably remain celibate altogether until I reach one year. Then again, Adrian also told me it’d be good if I found a therapist outside rehab but I didn’t do that.

In any case, I’m only halfway there and the little rich boy, who is never going to be queer, with his perfect hair and perfect jaw and perfect smile, is fucking with my brain.

He laughs, head thrown back and chest bouncing up and down, at whatever Gracie said, and it’s only then that I realize I completely forgot about my little staring contest with Adam.

When I look back, his eyes are narrowed at me and his lips twisted in a way that tells me he knows exactly what I was thinking while gawking at his BFF.

I need to get my damn shit together and there’s no way I can do that while being less than a hundred feet away from CJ, so I stand, nod, and smile awkwardly at Gracie, then make my excuses. “I’m gonna go hang out with Hawk and Derek.”

But I don’t do that.

I walk over to them, but as I do, I see Derek hugging another one of his friends, Mike, and I decide I don’t want to interrupt.

I also maybe avoid them because I know I would be interrupting—I’d be intruding —but that’s neither here nor there. It’s been a long time since I felt like I belonged anywhere, and realizing that I no longer belong with Deedee and Birdie stings a little too sharply, so I turn toward the hill and make my way up to my house.

A house where a lot of the guests are staying this weekend—my Aunt, her new husband and stepson, my Uncle, and my cousins—and where the only time I will get some damn peace is right now while the party’s still going strong.

I go straight to the kitchen to get a glass of still water— in an exciting turn of events , I mentally roll my eyes at how boring my life is.

But when I get there, everything inside me stops. Kinda like it does when I’m unprepared to see CJ, but this time for a whole different reason.

There’s a champagne flute on my marble island.

And it’s full.

Now, not everyone invited to the party knows I’m sober. In fact, most people don’t. The only ones who do are Bennett—who Derek confided in after I agreed it was fine by me— Hawk’s and my relatives, and those who work for us like Tristan, Bruce, Hugh, Ollie, and Cindy. As well as Rich and Tate, our bodyguards—they were right there when everything happened last Thanksgiving.

Everyone who’s staying here knows, and I bet Hawk warned them about not bringing any alcohol into my house.

I have to relax my fists when I realize I’ve clenched them again. It’s an involuntary response, one I’m trying to conquer, but I’ve failed all these months.

Remembering everything Hawk has done to make sure my stint in rehab didn’t make national headlines always has that effect on me. My brother clearly doesn’t want the world to find out he has an alcoholic brother .

Not fair , I remind myself. He only wants to protect me... but still, I know Hawk didn’t want Derek to tell Bennett even after I told him I’m fine with everyone knowing. I don’t know what they talked about after I left the room, but I suspect Hawk made damn sure no one else finds out. If anyone else knows, they’re damn good at not showing it, though.

Which brings me back to the present.

To the full glass of champagne sitting in my kitchen like it’s just waiting for me.

More than six months sober and aside from hating all the damn emotions and the way my brother treats me like I’m broken, I’m fine .

I’m good now.

I have complete control over my drinking and will never go back to how it was when I had the accident. I know I can never reach that point again, and the stiffness in my left hand is the perfect reminder—I’m barely able to play the guitar like a novice now, and I want to get back to where I was last November.

I don’t even know how many stitches were all over my hand when I woke up in the hospital, but the fear I felt when I saw my mangled hand, the fear that I would never again be able to play the guitar... I’ve only felt that once before in my life and it was when Mom told us she was sick.

The fear faded as she battled cancer for more than five years, and when she left us for good it was only a distant memory compared to the emptiness I felt the day of her funeral.

The emptiness I did my best to fill with booze.

But no more. I won’t let myself reach that low point ever again. Even if I did drink that glass of champagne, I would be able to stop after a sip .

And it’s my brother’s wedding day, for fuck’s sake.

I take three steps, slowly, scared that Hawk is going to jump out of nowhere and catch me, but he’s not here. He’s down the hill, celebrating with everyone he loves at the party central.

I pick up the flute and stare at it dumbly for a long-ass minute.

“Jesus, this is ridiculous,” I mutter to myself.

Nothing bad is going to happen and I’m going to prove it to myself.

I’m fine.

I take a sip and... It’s nice. A good bottle of champagne, I’m sure. I put the glass down exactly where I found it, then spin on my heels and go up to my room.

I’ve totally got this sober thing down.

Start of July—Las Vegas

Once fucking more I’m drinking a sparkling water. Lots of ice this time though because we’re in the middle of the fucking desert in the fucking summer under the scorching fucking sun.

I’m pretty sure Harrison Crawford is a smart man, but the fact that he planned a surprise wedding for Tristan here , at this time of year, and midday , has me questioning the man just a little bit.

I mean, come the fuck on.

If you have billions just lying around you could get married in way more comfortable settings, but he chose this?

“I told you to get a linen suit,” I mutter at a sweating Derek, and drink about half the contents of my glass in one gulp. I’m wearing a linen suit and still suffering, so I can’t even imagine what he must be going through in his cotton shirt and normal suit pants .

“Shut up.” The growl is like a familiar hug to me, and I take a moment to appreciate it.

So much in my life is unfamiliar nowadays.

No going out, no late-night sessions at a studio with some drinks, no touring, no recording or writing new music... I haven’t really stopped writing even if I’m not setting out time in the day to do it. It still comes to me from time to time.

Hawk and I should be working on our next album—we decided we’re finishing and recording our favorite unreleased songs that we wrote with Mom, but neither one of us has really pushed it. We’re in a sort of break, and it seems to be working out a lot better for him than for me.

“I’m getting another drink,” Deedee tells us and leaves Hawk and I to our awkward existence. We never used to be like this.

Talking to my brother used to be the easiest thing in the world, but everything’s changed since I went to rehab.

I don’t know how I’m supposed to talk to him anymore. I don’t know what we’re even supposed to talk about. It’s all jumbled inside me, and I can’t seem to snap out of this weird state I’m in.

Because it is a me thing—I’m sure about this.

Birdie is fine, more than fine, he’s the happiest I’ve ever seen him, and it sucks big time that I can’t share any of his happiness.

Speaking of... I see Tristan on the other side of the covered garden and he looks fucking radiant. It might be because of the heat, but his smile doesn’t lie. He looks over to us and his smile gets even bigger and brighter.

Holding Harrison’s hand, he walks over to us, and I feel... lighter for a fraction of a second. I let myself be relieved that everything’s the same with him. Nothing about the way we interact is different. Until his eyes shift to me and down to my hand holding the condensation-covered glass .

He gets a worried look in his eyes that he can’t possibly disguise fast enough for me to doubt it was there. Tristan has one of the best poker faces in the world, but he’s clearly off his game today.

“Don’t even start,” I tell him gruffly, when he opens his mouth as soon as he stops in front of me. “I’m fine.”

Tristan moves in to hug Birdie wordlessly but he doesn’t take his eyes off me. It’s like he’s trying to look deep inside me.

“Thank you for coming, guys,” he says and finally looks away. He’s genuinely grateful, I can tell, and that mollifies me just a little.

“We wouldn’t miss your wedding to your sugar Daddy,” Birdie says teasingly.

“You’re such a little shit,” Harrison tells my brother, but he does it with a fond smile so I grit my teeth and let it go.

Today is his wedding day and I know for a fact he likes Birdie, I remind myself. No need to deck the billionaire for talking shit to my little brother.

Deedee comes back and steals Tristan’s attention again, which is more than fine by me, since I really don’t feel like talking anymore, and when they leave to go greet other guests, I’m still mildly annoyed.

It fades quickly, though, when I catch a glimpse of Ed Trent walking over with his wife, Samantha Sawyer, on his arm. They’re both clients of Tristan too, her a country singer and him an old school rockstar. They look amazing considering they’re in their fifties, and both have been great friends to Hawk and I forever.

They knew Dad well, and Mom of course, so they feel like family friends of sorts to me. Just saying hi to them and catching up does wonders for my mood. So much so that I don’t even get a twinge in my chest when Deedee and Birdie walk away to greet the few of Derek’s friends who got an invite to the most secretive event of the decade .

I take a quick look at who’s here a few minutes later, and my breath stalls in my chest when I see CJ.

What the hell is he doing here? How did he get invited?

He isn’t close to Theo—Harrison’s son—and also isn’t one of Tristan’s clients like we are, so what gives?

Just then I see him walk away from the group and go over to Harrison.

What is the little rich boy doing? I wonder silently while I see his face shift to a serious expression.

Harrison nods and pats his shoulder amicably. I involuntarily narrow my eyes at the gesture. I focus on that hand as they walk over to a wealthy-looking woman. I have no idea who she is but there’s no way she could ever hide her wealth—not that she seems to be trying to anyway.

She has a big-ass diamond on her left ring finger and two more dangling from her ears. She stands on tall as hell heels like she was born wearing them—and like the grass under her is magically denser just for her. Her posture screams class .

Harrison says something to both her and CJ, then leaves to go back to Tristan’s side.

My focus goes right back to the little rich boy, and it stays there until Hawk comes over and drags me to his friends.

Yay, I get a pity hang out .

“Hey, why did the little rich boy get an invite?” I ask Adam quietly after greeting everyone else.

“Fuck off,” he tells me, way less friendly than he’s ever been to anyone else as far as I know. “I’m not telling you shit.”

I wish I could be annoyed at the golden boy of football, but I actually respect that level of loyalty.

Maybe Adam is as loyal to CJ as I am to Hawk .

They have known each other for a very long time, but I do wonder what CJ has done to earn that loyalty.

I turn again to see CJ smiling at the rich lady, then she tells him something that makes him smile even wider and she walks away. CJ stares at her back for a long beat, and then he shakes his head and heads back over here.

I make myself look away—no reason to inflate the little rich boy’s ego.