Rush Too Far - Rosemary Beach #1.1 - Abbi Glines
Abbi Glines - Rosemary Beach #1.1 - Rush Too Far
They say that children have the purest hearts. That children don’t truly hate, because they don’t fully understand the emotion. They forgive and forget easily.
They say a lot of bullshit like that, because it helps them sleep at night. It makes for good, heartwarming sayings to hang on their walls and smile at as they pass by.
I know differently. Children love like no one else. They have the capacity to love more fiercely than anyone. That much is true. That much I know. Because I lived it. By the age of ten, I knew hate, and I knew love. Both all-consuming. Both life-altering. And both completely blinding.
Looking back now, I wish someone had been there to see how my mother had sown the seed of hate inside me. Inside my sister. If someone had been there to save us from the lies and bitterness she allowed to fester within us, then maybe things would have been different. For everyone involved.
I never would have acted so foolishly. It wouldn’t have been my fault that a girl was left alone to take care of her ailing mother. It wouldn’t have been my fault that the same girl stood at her mother’s graveside, believing that the last person on earth who loved her was dead. It wouldn’t have been my fault that a man had destroyed himself, his life becoming a broken, hollow shell.
But no one saved me.
No one saved us.
We believed the lies. We held on to our hate. Yet I alone destroyed an innocent girl’s life.
They say you reap what you sew. That’s bullshit, too. Because I should be burning in hell for my sins. I shouldn’t be allowed to wake up every morning with this beautiful woman in my arms, who loves me unconditionally. I shouldn’t get to hold my son and know such a pure joy.
But I do.
Because eventually, someone did save me. I didn’t deserve it. Hell, more than anyone, it was my sister who needed saving. She hadn’t acted on her hate. She hadn’t manipulated the fate of another family, not caring about the outcome. But her bitterness still controls her, while I’ve been delivered. By a girl . . .
But she isn’t just a girl. She is an angel. My angel. A beautiful, strong, fierce, loyal angel who entered my life in a pickup truck, carrying a gun.
This isn’t your typical love story. It’s really too completely fucked up to be charming. But when you’re the bastard son of the legendary drummer from one of the most beloved rock bands in the world, you expect serious fuck-ups. It’s what we’re known for. Add the selfish, spoiled, self-centered mother who raised me into the mix, and the outcome isn’t pretty.
There are so many places where I could start this story. In my bedroom, as I held my sister while she cried from the pain of our mother’s cruel words. At the front door, as she watched, with tears streaming down her face, while my father came to take me away for the weekend, leaving her alone. Both of those things happened often, marking me forever. I hated to see her cry. Yet it was a part of my life.
We shared the same mother, but our fathers were different. Mine was a famous rocker, who brought me into his world of sex, drugs, and rock and roll every other weekend and for a month during the summers. He never forgot me. He never made excuses. He was always there. As imperfect as he was, Dean Finlay always showed up to get me. Even if he wasn’t sober, he came.
Nan’s father never came. She was alone when I was gone, and even though I loved being with my dad, I hated knowing she needed me. I was her parent. I was the one person she could trust to take care of her. It made me grow up quickly.
When I asked my dad to bring her along, too, he would get this sad look on his face and shake his head. “Can’t, son. Wish I could, but your momma won’t allow that.”
He never said anything more. I just knew that if my mother wouldn’t allow it, then there was no hope. So Nan was left alone. I wanted to hate someone for that, but hating my mother was hard. She was my mom. I was a kid.
So I found a place to focus my hate and resentment at the injustice of