Page 30 of Strung Along
Caleb shoots me a look. “That means keeping Rita out of Alberta.” Turning to the doctor, he adds, “She’s the reason the pain came back. Some bullshit about wanting to see where he was at by making him attempt to sing.”
Dr. T’s eyes bulge with alarm. “You sang? When was this? You absolutely cannot be doing that if you want to heal. Singing at any level right now, before you’ve fully healed, could ruin all the progress you’ve made, Brody.”
“There are some things I can’t say no to,” I rasp, pushing past the returning ache in my throat. Like the wedding I promised an old friend that I’d sing at in a little over two weeks from now.
Both men shake their heads at me, disappointment radiating off of them. I should be ashamed, but I’m more pissed than anything. Rita knows I shouldn’t have been pushing myself like that. She works forme, not Swift Edge Records. The order to test me came from Garrison Beckett, head of the record label that owns my soul, but Rita was the one who forced it on me when she knew she had no place to do so. I shouldn’t have entertained the idea, but fuck if guilt didn’t play a huge part in my decision.
I screwed over a lot of deals and lost a lot of people money when I left Killian’s tour early. Giving Rita and Garrison what they wanted was my way of paying them back, I guess. It was stupid and reckless, but what’s done is done.
Garrison will never admit that he’s responsible for the unrelenting pressure he put on me before the tour and the after-effects of that pressure. The damage caused to my voice that we’re all lucky is reversible.
“Well, if you ever want to perform again, you’ll figure out a way to say no.”
I stiffen at the doctor’s tone but nod and say, “Alright.”
Caleb pats me on the back. “I’ll keep him on the straight and narrow, Doc. Our boy here will be healed up and ready to go again in no time.”
“Good. I’ll have the front desk schedule you a follow-up in two weeks. If things are looking good then, we’ll talk about next steps,” Dr. T says before standing and opening his office door.
Dismissed, I thank him before leaving. The receptionist avoids eye contact with me the entire time it takes her to book me a follow-up, and I somehow manage to hide my discomfort until we get outside.
Tapping my fingers on my thigh, I climb into Caleb’s truck and ignore the incessant urge to check my phone for any new messages. I’ve become glued to the damn thing this past week, every buzz making my stomach jolt.
Continuing to refer to my newest friend as Banana is a bit annoying now, but I haven’t gotten the nerve to ask for a real name. It seems too forward, too personal. But she has become my friend, and I guess that makes the personal thing a little more acceptable.
She’s become someone who listens to me complain about what went wrong during my day and tells me something ridiculous to make me forget about it. I do the same for her, although I’m not nearly as good at coming up with replies as she is. We haven’t asked each other many questions about our real lives, nothing specific that would give me any hint as to who she is outside of our conversations, but that hasn’t seemed to matter to either of us.
I’ve kept my conversations with her hidden from everyone so far, and I want to keep it like that for as long as I can. I’m not ashamed of speaking to her—that couldn’t be further from the truth. I just feel almost protective of her and our friendship.That’s acceptable . . . right?
I take the time alone in the truck to give in to my urge and check my phone. The awaiting texts settle something restless inside of me.
Banana: Do you have a hairy chest?
Banana: You know what, it doesn’t matter. I vote no.
Me: I wouldn’t consider it hairy. Why, are you into hairy chests?
Banana: No. I’m just watching TV and the medical examiner is about to perform an autopsy on a man who has a chest as hairy as a dog. It made me shudder. I like a bit of hair, but not this much.
The truck door opens, and Caleb slides in, so I stifle my laugh. I shoot off a quick reply before tucking my phone under my thigh.
Me: What show? I need to see this for myself.
I never watch TV. Never have time to. But for some reason, I’m suddenly very interested in whatever she’s talking about.
“You happy about the news?” Caleb asks.
I swallow before asking, “What?”
“Are you happy that you’re healing?”
“Yeah . . . why wouldn’t I be?”
He turns over the engine, and cold air starts to blow from the vents as it warms up. “You’re smiling. I assumed it was because you’re happy to know you’ll most likely sing again soon. Am I wrong?”
“Nope. You’re dead right,” I answer, my smile slowly fading as the real world starts to set back in. “I can’t wait to get back to work.”
13