"Erm, last I knew, you and Annie lived at the Chateau Marmont," I ventured.

"Oh yeah, forgot to tell you, Lil…" He'd been forgetting to tell me a lot of things, it seemed. "Annie and me, we're starting a studio. She wanted it in her own space, so we got our own place."

For a moment, the only noise in the van was the staticky radio changing stations and my own shocked exhalation.

"You bought a house?" I gasped. I couldn't keep the shock out of my voice. "First you tell me you're getting married, now you tell me you’ve bought honest-to-God real estate?"

My dad shot me a shy look as the radio switched stations again. I swear we had already run through the dial ten times. "Guess I'm growin' up, Lil Bit. Took a while, huh?"

I felt a rush of affection for my big, bearded dad and reached out my hand. His huge ham hocks swallowed mine entirely, the way they always had. "My father, the family man," I teased. "Do you 'putter around' in the garage? Wait… have you joined a golf club too?"

"Smartass," my dad growled, letting go of my hand. "You sound like Jax."

The station switched again. As if summoned like a genie from a bottle, the thumping bass of "Cocky" blared out of the speakers.

I froze in my seat, my body flashing between ice-cold water flowing in my veins and hot nausea swimming in my stomach. This song was following me, I swear it was.

"Heard that enough for one lifetime," my father snapped, punching the on/off switch. Uncharacteristic silence flooded the van, the better for me to hear the wild beating of my own heart.

Oblivious to my torture, my dad kept talking. "I don't think Jaxson was ready for that song to blow up like it did. His mother's tryin' to help him, but he's such an arrogant ass-face sometimes you just want to shake the little shit…"

"Truer words were never spoken," I muttered. I'd have liked to shake him myself, but I was afraid my fingers would close around his throat and I wouldn't be able to stop myself from killing him.

My dad turned off the main highway and we began to wind up the hilly roads, gaining elevation. I drummed my fingers on my thighs, alternating between excitement and dread, when he finally turned off the road and onto a long, winding drive.

"This is your place?" I couldn't keep the shock out of my voice.

My dad threw the van in park and leaned back. "Yup," he drawled, looking at the massive, ornate mansion like it surprised him. "Like I said, Annie wanted studio space of her own and all that."

"You could fit about seventeen studios in there," I said dryly. The white mansion gleamed in the harsh California sun and the vast, green lawn rolled out like a carpet, the kind I'd describe as "verdant and lush" in one of my books. It smelled crisp and freshly mowed, which surprised me. Annie and Nails were not known for their fastidiousness, either in parenting or in life.

A lot changed in the year since I left, I thought as my dad grabbed my bags and we started up the curved, manicured walkway.

That's when I smelled the distinct, wafting scent of pot smoke. I could see cigarette butts dotting the sides of the walk.

When my dad pushed the front door open, I realized not much had changed at all.

The usual suspects slumped in beaten up couches completely at odds with the ornate surroundings. A smile tugged at the corner of my mouth. The house was new and unfamiliar, but the people? The people felt like home. Lying around, shouting, laughing, the gentle strum of an acoustic guitar as someone somewhere made music, these were the sounds I had cherished once.

Everyone was here for my arrival. Bash was in the corner, his hands drumming relentlessly on his thighs, even as the rest of him was silent. He spied us first, which was no surprise. "Holy shit, it's Bit!" he crowed. "What the hell took you so long, Nails? We've been waiting!"

"Nothing took long," my dad growled. "You need to relax."

I laughed at the familiar refrain. Bash wouldn't know relaxation if it cracked him over the head. The lead drum tech bounded over and slammed his body into mine—his approximation of a hug. I coughed behind my hand and inhaled sharply to get my breath back. "How are you, Bash?" I asked.

"Good, good, good." He nodded his head, swaying his body to the music only he could hear. "Gotta show you the studio space, Bit. It's great. We're totally working night and day."

"Well, you are." Diggs came up for his hug, the twisted ruin of his face scrunched up into his broken smile. "Hey Lily," he said softly.

I sighed in contentment at the familiar feel of his hugs. I'll never forget the first time I met Diggs, how I'd shrunk away from the terrible scarring that marred his face. A fall off the rigging hadn't been enough to scare him away from working for Annie, and though he didn't climb much these days, he was still loyal to her. He was, without a doubt, the nicest person I had ever met. Always ready for a handshake or a hug, Diggs would have made an incredible father if only the right woman was able to look past his scars. He seemed to have a surplus of love, and right now, he was pouring it out on me.

"Your dad tells me you're writing books now!" he said. "I went online and found the one he knew about. You have such a talent, Bit."

The idea of Diggs—who I regarded as a second Dad—reading my steamy stories made me blush. "You read my book?" I squeaked.

"We all did," Greg Fingers chuckled, coming in for a brief hug.

"I didn't," my dad growled. "Not all the way. Sorry, Liliana. I bailed at the first sex scene."

"I'm really glad you did." I blushed. I was torn between delight and utter horror.

"Guys don't really talk like that, you know," Greg pointed out lazily. I wondered how stoned he was already.

"It's fantasy," I corrected him.

"You want guys to talk like that?" Crusty Pete was hanging in the background and I was grateful. His odor was nearly overpowering the smell of the pot.

"It'd be nice," I shot back, which earned me an appreciative laugh. I beamed, feeling incredible to be back here with them, my wayward band of rogue uncles, the guys who were never sure if they should be my friends or my role models. For a moment, I forgot why I ever left.

"Liliana's here? Why didn't you come get me?"

When I turned and saw Annie Blue's electric eyes, I suddenly remembered exactly why I had left. Her eyes were so much like Jaxson's that I felt a pit open up in my stomach.

"There's my new daughter," she cooed, hugging me close. Out of the corner of my eye, I could see my dad beaming with pride.

"Hey, Annie," I swallowed. Hugs were not Annie's typical plan of action with me. But when I stepped back and took in her swishing skirts and earth-toned shawl, I realized what was going on.

This was another reinvention.

Annie Blue, rock star, goddess, and soon to be my stepmother. She'd reinvented herself a million times in her thirty-plus years in the industry. The wayward daughter of folk singer Randall Blue, she shocked the world by showing up as the lead in the punk girl-band UltraViolet. Her father publicly disowned her after she pulled one too many onstage stunts for his liking. I guess he figured the Blue name was sullied by her going topless onstage and crowd surfing in a schoolgirl's skirt with nothing underneath.

One brief stint in rehab later, she broke up UltraViolet and started a solo career, packing stadiums full of screaming fans desperate for a glimpse. She could sing like no one else, a honeyed scream with a three-octave range, and she toured relentlessly for almost a decade, taking her band of roadies around the world five different times.