Marginal Love (Book 4 LS Series)

Chapter 1

Kate's gaze averts to my excited one.

"It's already said to have surpassed John Lennon as the death of the century. Fans gathered last night outside Rose's home in California for a candle-light vigil, where he and his wife Princess "Skipper" Nelson resided for the past two or three years. While this seemed to be a peaceful gesture, fans are also demanding information. What is does the future hold for the remaining members of the band?"

I scoff. Who fucking cares about those heroin-addicted asshats when Skipper is somewhere hurting? And vulnerable? And... alone?

"The utmost sympathy goes out to Mrs. Nelson-Rose, who has yet to comment publicly about the death of her husband. Sources say she's relocated to New York, but not much else is known."

I shut off the TV and don't bother attempting to hide my grin.

"You know that reminds me," I sigh, draining the dregs in the bottom of my brandy glass. "I've gotta catch the Red Eye tonight. There's somewhere I've gotta be in the morning."

Kate's eyes hold all the world's dissaproval. "Oh come on, Michael," she says almost darkly, standing and shoving her cocktail into Jermaine's clumsy hands. "That girl is living in a world of hurt right now. Do you really think it's smart to open up old scars on top of that?"

I don't respond, I'm already halfway up the staircase.

"Yeah," Jermaine pipes up. "And what about the divorce papers?"

Done and done. "What about them?"

I slam my bedroom door shut and look at the bed. For a moment she's there again, wrapped in nothing but the sheets. Her skin is golden, bathed in early morning light. She's smiling at me, that beautiful curly hair spreading across the pillowcase.

I've gotta have that again.

I yank my suitcase from underneath the bed and carelessly begin to pack it.

I won't fuck it up this time. I know that much.

Skipper's POV

There's a cumpled up old ball of his black scrubs lying in the corner. But that's not why I'm crying.

His razors are in the cabinet behind the mirror in the bathroom. The scuffed Doc Martens at the foot of the bed belong to him. The empty whispers floating around in the shadowy corners of this penthouse apartment are his, as are all the memories.

But I'm not upset because of that.

My cheeks are sticky with tearstains as Daddy slowly enters the room. I wonder when those soft brown eyes of his will run out of sympathy for me, but I guess now isn't the time.

"You can come back to stay at my place if this is too much for you," he begins urgently. "I just think it's far too morbid to-"

I hold up a hand to silence him. He sighs quietly.

No way I'd go back to Daddy's house. In Michael's neighborhood. To my bedroom that Michael and I once shared. And where the now full-grown horse called Rosie roams everyday.

I want to tell him that he doesn't need to hover over me today, but I can't. When I open my mouth all that comes out are choked sobs, and nothing I can say would turn off that paternal need to be there in my "time of need," so I might as well save my breath.

I go to the bathroom and shut the door behind me quietly. I turn on the shower. I sit in the bottom of it, letting the hot stream of water beat down on me.

I think maybe this will help me feel, but it does not.

I dress in the fine things that he bought me over the years, a long black dress, gold jewelry. I hide the tearstains and the fatigue with concealer, I paint on happiness with eyeshadow and blush.