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CHAPTER 1

Today

"Johnny!" Amanda stood next to her beach chair, shouting to her five-year-old son who was too close to the water's edge. He had never learned to swim, but raising a child on her own, on Long Island, was too expensive for the luxuries she would have loved to offer Johnny, like Mommy and Me classes or swim lessons. She clamped her hands on her hips, watching him closely. Her thin, white, gauzy swim cover clung to the perspiration on her back and hips. She hated the water, and as long as Johnny was a safe distance away, she didn't venture any closer.

So why were they on vacation at the beach? She shook her head. Because her best friend, Jessica VanDyke, had offered her the tiny vacation home on Fire Island for the week. Seeing as Johnny had never before been on a vacation, and all she had to pay for was the ferry ride from Bay Shore over, well, she'd jumped at the chance.

But why wasn't he listening to her? "Johnny." She repeated his name in her stern voice, the one that normally made him take action.

Still nothing. Damn. The roar of the ocean was too loud, and he couldn't hear her.

She began her trudge closer to her son, walking over the hot sand, doing her best to dodge sharp seashells. He wasn't far away; she would never allow that. Just a few long yards, but the ocean noise made it feel as if he were all the way in a different state. Despite the warm sun, she shuddered. She could never imagine being away from Johnny. Not for a minute. Even the thought of all- day kindergarten terrified her. And the school they were zoned for ... Oh. She strongly disliked that school. Every time she thought of that place an excruciating ache formed deep in her belly. The reason he was going to that school was her. He didn't necessarily have to.

Tossing her head, she unstuck her hair from her greasy, sunblocked face as the wind whipped sand into her eyes. Why was it people loved to go to the beach, exactly? "Johnny?"

Nothing. He was too engrossed in the waves breaking around his ankles. He was farther in than they'd agreed. He wasn't supposed to touch the water, that was their agreement and —

She stopped and smiled as she gazed at her son splashing in the mere inches of ocean water by his feet. He ran in and out of the wash of the surf. He was fine. She should let him be. He was a boy, and boys needed to run and push boundaries. All kids did. Lord knew she had been no different — right through her college years she pushed every boundary she came up against.

The sun reflected off his blond, wavy hair, and his full lips were parted into a full-blown grin. He looked like an angel. He was having the time of his life, on the first vacation of his life, and she should back off. Jess told her time and again she was a helicopter mom, and she needed to let Johnny grow up. And she would, as soon as she knew he was ready and okay. In the meantime, she hovered over every playdate, every nitrate-free hotdog that needed cutting, every pile of laundry and sheets, making sure she used the gentle, fragrance-free detergent that didn't bother his skin, and every show he watched to make sure it was educational. Of course she was overcompensating for him not having a father and no extended family, but it was more than that. She loved him, and she would do anything and everything for him.

She sighed as Johnny ran in a circle up onto shore and back into the water's edge. He was fine, within grabbing distance if she needed to, and she had warned him never to turn his back to the ocean. She had read The World According to Garp. She knew they had to be wary of the undertow; they were at an ocean after all. The ocean. She shook her head. Why the heck had she chosen the ocean side of Fire Island for Johnny's first experience with water? Why not ease them both in with the Great South Bay? And this was their first day of vacation, which meant he would want to dare the ocean every day for the next six days. Was she insane? What was she thinking?

She stepped closer again, tensing. His circles were growing larger. Was he going too far in? Coming out of the water meant turning his back to the surf. She exhaled as he rushed back onto the beach, his skin tanning with every second he stayed out in the direct sun. She pushed her sunglasses up higher on her nose, furrowing her brow. Was it too hot? Was he sunblocked enough? She glanced at her watch. The last application of his organic sunblock was forty- five minutes ago. It would be time to reapply in —

"Johnny!" He was gone.

No, no, no. She sprinted full speed into the water, waist deep. It didn't matter that she hated the water. It didn't matter that she didn't swim. "Help!" she screamed as loud as she could, hoping and praying the lifeguard would hear her. "Johnny!" She screamed his name over and over as the waves crashed mercilessly around her, and she steadied herself against the punishing surf. She peered into the dark water, begging and pleading with God to help her find her son. "No!" She screamed louder. "Johnny! Oh, God, please." She couldn't cry — only act.

Without thinking, she plunged in head first, forcing her eyes open underwater to find her son. The salt burned her eyes, but she held them open. "Johnny!" She wailed his name as she thrashed about, swallowing a gulp of sea water. She forced herself to her feet, grabbing a breath of air, and dove in again — desperate to find him. She wouldn't come up without him. He was here, she could feel it.

She turned as the ocean broke over her back, and she saw a flash of blond hair. She trudged to him with all her might and then grabbed the limp body of her son. She forced herself upright against the ocean, her strength coming from adrenaline and sheer will. She had heard stories of women who had moved cars off their crushed children — yes, she understood, completely. Right now, she could fight back the ocean if she had to.

"Huh!" Gasping for air, she stood as best she could as a man came at her, plowing through the water. "Take him!" she screamed, handing Johnny's body to the man. He scooped Johnny in his arms and ran to the shore. Oh, thank God. Thank God. Thank —

Smack! With a gaze at the beach and the people huddled around Johnny, she was once again forced underwater. A wave crashed hard against her legs, pulling her under. She bounced off the ocean floor; it was hard and something scratched her arm. She fought to right herself, but the punishing water clapped above her and dragged her back. The undertow. She flailed her arms, desperate to surface, not because of her will to live, but because of Johnny. Without her he had no one. She couldn't let that happen.

Smack! The ocean broke above her as she struggled for air. Suddenly something pulled at her arms. Something was wedged in her armpits, dragging her. She could only pray it was dragging her toward the shore and not farther out to sea. Johnny could not wake up alone.

"Got her!" a man's voice yelled as the scrape of the hot sand abused her battered and bruised body.

Forced to her side, she coughed up seawater and vomited on the beach. She gasped her next breath, her throat and lungs burning. She wedged her heavy arms beneath her as she tried to push herself up.

"Stay down." A man's voice spoke to her as she fought to make sense of it all. She must be close to dead because the voice was deep and melodic. It sounded like Reale's voice. If she was supposed to relive her life before she died, it would make sense she would relive her happiest times.

"Johnny?" Her voice was raspy, and it ached to speak. Her wet hair was heavy on her face, and she wanted to push it away, but her arms wouldn't obey.

"Your boy?" He didn't wait for a response. "He's okay. He coughed up ocean water, like you, but he's fine. He's sitting over there." The man pointed in the direction higher up the beach.

"Can I ...?" She motioned to sit up.

"Your head needs to be checked. The medics are with your son now. Stay down until they can —"

"Please?" She stayed on her side, her word weak.

The man's hands slid under her shoulders, and he eased her up to a seated position.

It ached to move, but she craned her neck toward Johnny. "They're working on him. Is he okay?"

"A few cuts and bruises. He's fine."

"Thank you." She pulled her gaze away from her son and toward the man who had saved her life. "Thank you so much for saving him and for —" Although her eyes burned, she forced them upward.

All her pain fell away as she sat up fast, placing her hands behind her, bracing herself. Her breath rushed in and out of her aching lungs. "Reale?"

He didn't make eye contact. "I'm, uh, on vacation. I didn't think anyone would recognize me without my band."

For the second time that day, her heart nearly stopped. "I'm not anyone," she whispered, pushing the hair from her face, settling her eyes on his.

Recognition flashed through his gorgeous blue eyes. "Mandy?"

She nodded, tears bursting from her eyes as he leaned forward and held her in his embrace. She let herself be moved as he pushed back, holding her at arm's length. He stared as if she were an apparition who would suddenly disappear.

Reale Lynxx. Here. With her. After all this time. How and why she couldn't discern. All she knew for a fact was that Reale Lynxx had just risked everything to save the life of her child, and in doing so, had unknowingly saved the life of his own son.

This wasn't possible. Reale let go of Mandy and stood, backing away. Here she was before him: Amanda Simmons, the woman who'd ripped his heart from his chest and drove a Mack truck over it. Damn. He ran a hand through his cropped hair, pacing back and forth before her. The sand burned his feet, but he didn't give a damn. How was this possible? He had chosen this beach because he had to get away, and it was the one place he could go that would give him a reprieve from thinking of her. The one place. She hated the water, and obviously, she still couldn't swim, so what? He tensed as he straightened to his full six-foot height. She must be with her husband — the man who made them vacation at the beach. But where was the jerk now that she needed him most?

"Where's your husband?" His words were gruffer than he expected, and she recoiled from his question, like he had slapped her across the face.

"I don't ..." She shook her head, looking small and defeated.

His shoulders relaxed, and they shouldn't have. He shouldn't give a damn about whether or not her husband was with her. Or whether or not she was married. Or whether or not she thought of him every single day ... like he thought of her. His demeanor softened, and he lifted the corner of his drenched T-shirt, wiping his brow. The salt burned his skin, but he didn't care. He'd been burned before.

As he wiped his cheeks and clean-shaven chin, he caught her staring at his waistband. He glanced down to see the corner of his most recent tattoo peeking out of his swim trunks. Unless she could read Kanji lettering, she wouldn't be able to make out what it said, but she could see something there — something he'd decided to have burned into his flesh four years ago when Lynxx went on tour to Japan. How the hell was he going to explain this tattoo to the woman who had annihilated his heart and obliterated his soul? He yanked the shirt down forcefully, and she turned away.

Putting a fist to his mouth, he cleared his throat. "Well, I should ..."

"Reale."

She turned to him again, and in her voice he heard all the pain and anguish he had felt for all these years. Damn it. He wanted to be mad. He really wanted to be.

She struggled to her feet, and he fought the instinct to help her. She dropped to her knees, swaying.

"Oh, damn it." He rushed to her side and wrapped his arm around her waist, and her body relaxed with his touch. He stood several inches over her, and without thinking about it, he turned his head toward her, burying his nose in her hair as he had done so many times before. He inhaled deeply. She smelled like salt water and beach, but underneath it all was the same clean, pure scent of Mandy. His nervous stomach relaxed.

She fought to turn her head toward him, a move she had made so many times when they were walking down any village street, when she would crane her neck, waiting for his kiss. He leaned down as she turned, looking up.

"Mandy ..."

"Can you help me walk? I have to get to Johnny."

To Johnny. Of course. Here he was thinking she was feeling what he was feeling, but all she needed was for him to help her. Once again he wasn't good enough. Once again he was going to be tossed aside for something she felt was more important —

"Mommy?"

"Johnny!" She broke free of Reale's grasp and rushed to her son. She threw her arms around the boy, and together they crumpled to the burning sand.

The image of them together, crying, was so powerful a lump formed in Reale's throat. What a jerk he was. He was feeling rejected again, but something so much bigger was happening. This had nothing to do with him. This was about a child who needed his mother, and a mother who forced herself to survive to be there for him. And he was witnessing it all. He was seeing, firsthand, the power of love, and it was freaking incredible. He fought back the tear forming in the corner of his eye.

Mandy stood on shaky legs, wrapping her arm around Johnny. Slowly they walked toward Reale. Off to the side, Reale's manager, Daniel, and his security detail, held back a forming crowd. Thankfully this was a private beach, and Daniel was doing a good job forcing the few beachcombers to put away their cell phones. Reale took a deep breath as Mandy and Johnny came closer, his feet unable to move.

"Reale." She nodded to him. "I want you to meet someone. This is Johnny. My son, Johnny Simmons."

Johnny Simmons. Reale took in the boy — longish, blond, wavy hair beginning to dry and curl up in the sun, bright blue eyes, lean and scrappy. Well, one thing was for sure, Mandy had a definite type. Johnny could have been his. He pushed away the ridiculous thought. Yes, she had betrayed him once, but no one, especially not the woman he had once known and loved, could ever do something as heartless as to knowingly keep a father from his son. He extended his hand. "Hi, Johnny."

"Hi." Johnny shook his hand, making eye contact. "Hey. Aren't you that singer?"

Reale nodded. "I am."

"Cool. You know, Mommy has —"

"Johnny, that's okay," Mandy cut him off. She leaned down toward her son. "Let's let Reale —"

"Mommy has every CD you've ever made," he finished his sentence, undaunted.

Reale chuckled, glancing at Mandy whose cheeks were reddening. He smirked, feeling happier than he had in a long time.

"And I've got your poster on my wall."

"Really?" Reale raised his eyebrows and then turned to her.

She bit her lip and looked away, as the boy nodded enthusiastically.

Reale smiled, feeling in control for the first time in years. "Tell you what, little man, how about I come by one day and sign that poster for you?"

"Reale." She snapped her head around, shaking it.

"What?" His stomach clenched. He was more than a little annoyed she was shutting this down.

"You can't promise a child something and not see it through."

Not see it through. Reale saw red. His heart pounded so loudly it echoed through his head as the roar of the ocean dulled behind him. The people on the beach grew blurry, and his palms became sweaty. He balled his hands into fists, releasing them immediately. "I don't think, Mandy, you're in any position to lecture me about not seeing things through."

Her eyes glazed over, and she nodded. Her gaze was locked on his. "You're right. I'm sorry."

Damn. He had fantasized about hearing those two little words over and over again for the past six years. Mandy was sorry. Sorry she didn't believe in him. Sorry she'd listened to her meddling mother. Sorry she had walked out on him. On them. Yet he didn't feel any better. Watching her fight back her tears, he felt even worse.

Johnny looked up to his mother and then to Reale, and suddenly Reale felt compelled to say the one thing he thought he never would. "I'm sorry too."

Her big, beautiful green eyes widened and turned upward toward him. "You have nothing to apologize for, Reale." She stepped forward and placed her warm hand on his arm. "Nothing."

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Excerpted from "The Risk of Happiness: The Punk Rocker"
by .
Copyright © 2019 Cathrine Goldstein.
Excerpted by permission of The Wild Rose Press, Inc..
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.

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