Page 4 of Broken Instrument
“Fender, they miss you––”
“Stop,” I snap. “Just stop. I’m not going to call Sonny and beg to meet up with Broken Vows and finish the tour.”
“Who said you’d have to beg? From what I’ve gathered, the plan all along was for you to rejoin the tour as soon as you were released from…” Again, his voice trails off as his gaze darts from one end of the bar to the other. And while I know I should be grateful for his secrecy, it only pisses me off more.
God forbid anyone finds out I’m a fuck-up.
I scrape my hand over my face and sit back down, resting my elbows against the countertop, mirroring Hawthorne’s stance as I steeple my fingers against my chin. “Yeah, well. There was a change of plans.”
“Does Gibson know?”
“It doesn’t matter what Sonny does or doesn’t know. He should finish the tour without me. He and Dove have great chemistry. The fans are loving them. The music is dope. Let’s leave it at that.”
“And you?” Hawthorne asks.
“What about me?”
“Now that you’re out, what are your plans?”
Tongue in cheek, I don’t say a word. Honestly, I don’t know what to say or what he expects to hear.
“You still playing?” he prods.
“Why do you care?”
“Because you have talent––”
I scoff and lift my hand to silence him. “If I had so much talent, I wouldn’t have needed to call in a favor and have my dad convince you to give Broken Vows a shot––”
“It wasn’t a lack of talent that made me hesitant, Fender, and you know it.” His gaze narrows, daring me to argue with him.
But he’s right.
I hang my head as the reminder washes over me. I do know. The reason he was going to pass on Broken Vows was because of me. Because I was a loose cannon. Because I couldn’t be trusted. Because I wasn’t reliable. Because he knew my addiction would inevitably get in the way of my music. And he was right. It did. But the worst part is where it left me.
Fucking broken.
And alone.
So damn alone.
“I understand why you haven’t reached out to Gibson,” he adds carefully. “But I want you to understand something. Your future as a musician isn’t over.”
Another scoff slips out of me. He reaches over and grabs the shot glass in front of me. “As long as you stay clean,” he finishes, his gaze pointed. “Think you can do that for me?”
No.
I hold his stare and watch him bring the hard liquor to his lips, swallowing my temptation before setting the empty glass back down on the bartop. He digs into his suit pocket, pulls out a shiny black business card, and places it beside the empty shot glass. “Call me.”
“I’m retired,” I hedge.
“From Broken Vows? Maybe. But from the music industry in general?” He tsks. “It’s in your blood, Fen. People don’t retire from what’s in their DNA. Bury it? Sure. Run from it? More often than you’d think. But they don’t retire from who they are. Call me. Give yourself something to live for again. Because this?” His astute gaze slides over me. “Is hardly what I’d call living.”
He gets to his feet and leaves me alone while making me second guess my reason for living all over again.
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FENDER