Broken Instrument, page 6
I know I have Milo and Jake, though. Even River, Gibson, Stoker, and Phoenix would be here in a second if I ever needed them. But right now, when I’m trying to figure out the new me, reaching out to them feels forced. Like they’re waiting for the other shoe to drop. For me to fail again. For me to screw up. And I don’t blame them. I have failed. Spectacularly. Over and over again. Not to mention they have their own lives now. They don’t need my shit. Not right now. Not until I prove I can do this without them.
But Hadley? She doesn’t know about the baggage I carry. The baggage I was forcing my friends to carry with me. And for some reason, it’s refreshing. The knowledge that the new me is the only me she’s met. Maybe she can bring a fresh perspective. One I can’t see because of my tainted past.
Licking my bottom lip, I tap my hand against my jeans. Remembering the M&M’s are missing, I settle back into the cushioned seat. “It’s complicated.”
“We’ve got time. And honestly? With everything going on, I could most definitely use the distraction.”
I chuckle dryly, deciding to let out a bit of the pressure which has managed to build in my chest over the past few weeks. “I’m scared to play again.”
“Why?”
Another dry chuckle vibrates up my throat. “Let’s just say I didn’t make the best decisions when I started playing music professionally. The pressure. The desire to please everyone. The drive to push forward. To be perfect. To live up to my dad’s name. It was a lot.”
“Your dad’s name?” she asks.
“Donny Hayes.”
“The rockstar?” Her eyes widen with disbelief behind her black-rimmed glasses.
I laugh a little harder this time. “The one and only.”
“Your dad is Donny Hayes?”
“I believe we already covered that part.”
“I know, it’s… Wow. I had no idea.”
“Yeah.”
“I can’t even imagine that type of pressure.”
She has no clue.
“It’s a lot,” I admit.
“But you love it? Playing?”
“I used to.”
She tilts her head to one side. “Used to?”
“Now, I’m starting to wonder if I loved the music or the high from the audience. I haven’t played since…” I scratch the scruff of my jaw. “I haven’t played in a while. Not since my band fell apart.”
“What happened?” she prods.
I shake my head, my lips pressing into a thin line. Such a simple question. Two words. If only I knew the answer. One that wasn’t a convoluted mess of regret and mistakes, all of them made by me.
She frowns. “You don’t have to tell me––”
“I screwed up,” I mutter.
The compassion in her gaze is too much. I feel like I might suffocate from it.
“I think you should try playing again.”
“You do?”
She nods. “Even if it’s only for closure. You not playing––not knowing what the trigger is for your why behind your love of music––it has to be killing you. Isn’t it?”
“Maybe,” I reply, my hands itching at my sides. I wipe them on my jeans.
“Then, you should play. Even if it’s your final show, and you never pick up an instrument again. I think you should still do it.”
Curious, I glance up at her, tearing my gaze from the linoleum floor to the crystal blue irises staring back at me. “Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
“Would you want to come?” I ask.
Her eyes widen. “Me?”
“Yeah. You.” My mouth tilts up as I take in her surprise at my offer. “I thought you said you could use the distraction.”
She smiles, her cheeks stretching and turning pink all at once. “I’d love to, Fen.”
The back door opens, and Dr. Grover steps into the white and gray exam room, interrupting us.
“Pixie’s going to be okay,” he starts. “We got all the chocolate out of her system, and she should be good as new by tomorrow. We’d like to keep her overnight as a precaution, but you should be able to pick her up in the morning.”
“Thank you,” I reply, relief flooding my system.
“Don’t mention it. And, uh, we want you to know we’ve been thinking a lot about Bud. If you guys need anything, let us know.”
Hadley nods, her expression tightening. She turns on her heel without another word.
I thank Dr. Grover for his help, pay the bill at the front desk, and rush out of the exam room to catch up to Hadley. She slows at the door, feeling my presence behind her but doesn’t say a word as I push it open for her. The warm breeze causes her hair to tangle around her face almost instantly, and she dips her chin to her chest, shielding herself from it.
Or maybe she’s shielding herself from me.
We make our way to the cars in silence. When we’re standing by the vehicles, I ask, “You okay?”
She shakes her head and brushes beneath her nose with the back of her hand, avoiding my gaze.
My hands itch to grab her face and force her to look at me, but I restrain myself. Shoving them into my pockets, I lean against her driver’s side door. Patient. Weary. And with the knowledge that if there were ever a time to walk on eggshells, it would be now.
“How did he know about Bud’s disappearance?” I ask quietly.
Her straight, white teeth dig into her lower lip as she peeks up at me. Then she drops her gaze to the ground.
“Is everything all right?” I prod, hating how I already know the answer. Of course, it's not. Her brother’s missing, and the police found new evidence or some shit. But I don’t know what else to say or how I can make her feel better.
“Yeah,” she lies. “It’s just…a couple of weeks before you showed up, Isabella, Bud’s ex, went to the police and filed a report. His disappearance was all over the news for a few days, which is probably why Dr. Grover knew about it. I don’t think Bella wanted to admit Bud might’ve fallen off the wagon again, ya know? The investigation is still ongoing, but you know Bud, right? And even though the police found some other evidence like I mentioned earlier, it’s not exactly comforting either way. There is no bright side. No silver lining right now. And I guess when Dr. Grover mentioned Bud, it was one more reminder of how my private life isn’t so private. Not right now. And the lack of answers in the whole thing is…” She sucks her lips between her teeth, forming a white slash across her face as she shakes her head. “It’s exhausting.”
The tightness in her smile is pathetic at best as she peeks up at me, but the fear in her shiny eyes kills me. The fear for her brother. She’s been so adamant he’s on a bender and will show up any day now, but her gaze? The way her lower lip trembles slightly as she forces the oxygen from her lungs? They tell a different story. She’s scared. And I hate that she’s scared.
“Dammit, Hads.” I pull her into a hug without giving a shit whether or not it’s appropriate. She needs it. “I’m sorry.”
“It’s fine.” Her arms wrap around my waist and squeeze. Letting me go, she backs up, wiping beneath her nose with the back of her hand again as she forces another smile. “I just wish I knew whether or not my frustration is merited. I keep telling myself he’s being a selfish prick, but a small voice wonders if it’s really the case. And that’s…” She shakes her head and rubs her hands up and down her crossed arms. “That’s where it gets a little scary. My mind starts going haywire because I write thrillers for a living, and either A, I can’t tone it back, and my imagination gets the best of me. Or B, I overcompensate by cursing out my brother for disappearing when I have absolutely no idea whether or not it’s his fault. But no matter the circumstances, I can’t write. I can’t focus. I simply keep waiting. And the waiting is slowly killing me inside. So…yeah.” An awkward laugh escapes her as she digs into her purse for her keys, avoiding my gaze like it’s the plague. “I guess you could say I really do need the distraction.”
“I’m happy I can help,” I offer. “Look. I gotta make a call, but if you need anything, I’m…”
She peeks up at me again, pushing the car fob to unlock her door, prodding, “You’re…?”
A fucking disaster who has no right to the woman in front of him.
I clear my throat and open her car door. “I’ll see you around.”
“At the show, right?”
I nod. “See you then.”
My hands shake as I stare at Marty’s contact information from behind the wheel, my blood practically vibrating in my veins as my heart rate skyrockets. Mouth dry, I lick my lips and take a deep, barely-controlled breath and press the call button.
Hadley left almost thirty minutes ago, but I couldn’t start my car. I couldn’t shove away my guilt for being related to the one guy who might know where Bud is. But I also couldn’t push aside the craving flooding my system as soon as his name filtered across my mind.
Martin Hayes.
Fifty percent brother.
One hundred percent asshole.
Shit.
It rings four times––I counted––and a familiar voice crackles through the speakers.
“Hello, Brother.”
9
FENDER
“Daddy Dearest says I’m not allowed to talk to you anymore,” Marty tells me through the phone. I squeeze it a little tighter, threatening to crack the damn thing, but force myself to ease up on it.
“And I’d like to keep it that way,” I grit out. “But I have a question to ask you before we go back to cutting ties.”
“Cutting ties? Why would we want to cut ties? We’re family, remember?”
“Cut the shit, Marty––”
“Lots of cutting talk, don’t you think? Maybe I should tell Dad––”
“I just want to ask you a question,” I bark. “And after everything you put me through, I think I deserve an answer.”
“Everything I put you through?” He laughs. “That’s rich––”
“Have you seen Bud?”
“Bud?” He laughs again. “You mean your drug buddy?”
“Says the guy who introduced us,” I remind him. “When was the last time you saw him?”
He hesitates. Probably to piss me off, and I hate how it’s working.
“Can’t recall,” he answers a few seconds later, his tone dismissive.
A headache threatens to crack my skull in two as I pinch the bridge of my nose and rest my head against the steering wheel. “Can you give me a ballpark estimate?”
“No can do, baby brother.”
“He said he was quitting––”
“They all say they’re quitting.” I can hear the amusement in his voice. “Speaking of which, you sound stressed. I can give you some molly if you’re––”
I end the call and chuck my phone onto the passenger seat, my chest heaving. I drive home like a bat out of hell, desperate for a fix while knowing the only one I’ll be able to hit is currently swimming inside my brain.
I need my guitar.
And the pack of M&M’s I have stashed in the kitchen.
It’s been hours. Hours since Pixie got into the chocolate. Hours since I agreed to play in front of people again, even though I’ve refused to touch any piece of musical equipment since I woke up in a hospital from overdosing. Hours since I hung up the phone with my dealer. Hours since I’ve been sitting with my ass on the ground, my back pressed into the side of the bed, and my eyes glued to the black guitar case taunting me from the open closet door.
It feels like it’s been a fucking lifetime.
I rub my hands against my jeans, puffing out my cheeks while trying not to lose my shit. Things had been getting better with Pix around. I guess I’d been so distracted by taking care of something else, I forgot I still didn’t know how to take care of myself. Or maybe I’m giving myself too much credit. Maybe Pixie was taking care of me all along.
Or maybe it’s the idea of Hadley getting even closer to me and everything I have to hide making me feel like I have bugs crawling beneath my skin.
I spoke with Marty for the first time in months. Maybe he’s the one I can blame for the messed-up imagery and cravings thrumming through my veins.
With another deep breath, I hang my head in my hands when my phone rings from my nightstand. Blindly, I reach for it and slide my thumb across the screen, answering the call without bothering to see who’s calling.
“Hello?” I grunt.
“Hey, Fen.” Sonny’s voice is familiar but weirdly foreign too. We haven’t spoken since the hospital. Since I told him to take my place as the face of Broken Vows. Since I almost wrecked his relationship with Dove.
Feels like forever.
“Uh, hey,” I reply. My voice sounds like I’ve swallowed razor blades. I clear it and lean my head against the edge of the bed.
I shouldn’t have answered the phone.
“I heard you’re home. How are you, man?”
My calloused palm scrubs against my face as I squeeze my eyes shut. “Fine. You?”
“We’ve been good. Things are…good. Miss you, though.”
“Yeah.” I sigh and lift my chin toward the ceiling, ignoring the ache in my chest. “Miss you too.”
“Saw you got a dog.”
Confused, I cock my head and ask, “How? When?”
“Some paparazzi snapped a picture of you outside the house with one a few weeks ago.”
I search my memories and realize it must’ve been taken the first night I brought Pix home. I knew someone was following me.
At least I’m not going crazy.
“Didn’t know I was still on their radar,” I note dryly.
“Don’t sound so surprised. People are anxious to hear you play again.”
I scoff but stay quiet.
“You gonna meet up with us?” he asks. “We only have a couple more shows, but you should join. I’ll get you a plane ticket-–”
“I think I’m gonna pass.”
He hesitates. And even from across the world, I’m pretty sure I can hear the wheels churning in his head as he processes my comment. Too bad I don’t give a shit. Not right now. Not when I feel like my world is spinning out of control. I shouldn’t have called Marty. I knew he wouldn’t answer my questions about Bud. It was stupid. I was stupid.
“Fen––”
“Seriously. I’m fine. But I gotta go. I’ll talk to you later––”
“You haven’t been answering my calls,” Sonny interrupts.
“I’ve been busy.”
“Too busy to talk to your older brother?”
I shake my head even though he can’t see me. I hate this guilty feeling and how it’s all I feel anytime I talk to Sonny. He was my confidante. My sage big brother. My fucking hero. And now I’m pissed at him, even though I know he doesn’t deserve my fury. I’m angry. And I’m hurt. I feel like I’ve been forgotten, despite knowing it isn’t fair. I’m not being pushed away. I’m pulling away. It’s on me. Not him. But it’s like I’m watching the entire situation––my entire life––through a looking glass, unable to control the outcome or the resentment or any other single action which could change the fact that I’m frustrated. Not with Gibson, but with myself.
I need more time. And while I take the time for myself, it only fans Sonny’s concern. So, where does it leave me?
Fucked.
“Listen,” he continues, “I’m not trying to make you feel guilty or anything. I know you’re working through shit, but we miss you. You should come out––”
“I gotta go.” I click the end button before I can stop myself and lean my head against the side of the bed. The seconds tick by slowly, picking up their pace like droplets of water during a storm when I find myself on my feet with my hand wrapped around the neck of the guitar and my skin slick with sweat. Pacing the bedroom, my grip tightening, I let the lyrics wash over me. Ones I’ve never dared to say out loud or even put on paper until they’re pounding inside my skull with a palpable urgency.
Collapsing onto my bed, I cradle the guitar in my lap and play.
10
HADLEY
I haven’t been out in forever. Which I guess makes sense since I’m an introverted author who lives in pajamas, but still. There’s a buzzing beneath my skin as I pull SeaBird’s door open. The place has good reviews, most mentioning the vibrant atmosphere and claiming fame through being the home of the up-and-coming band, Broken Vows. I couldn’t help myself. I looked them up. And there’s a reason SeaBird claims them. They’re good. Like, really good.
And not only their new stuff but their old stuff too. The stuff Fender sang.
His voice? Damn, it’s like honey. Sweet, earthy, unique. But it sticks with you long after the music ends, and I can’t help humming along to it, even though it’s only playing in my head as I find a seat at the back of the bar.
The place is crowded, lined with tables and booths along with a long bar at the back and a stage tucked to the left where a single barstool and microphone stand are set up. A song plays in the background, barely making a dent in the noise from the excited customers crowding the stage. Something in my gut tells me it isn’t usually this busy, but what do I know? Maybe I’m the only one fascinated by the singer who disappeared from Broken Vows right after they caught their big break.
Part of me wants to ask why he left the band or if he has any intention of returning, but the other part of me doesn’t want to broach the subject. We’re just… Hell, I don’t even know what we are. Friends? Acquaintances? Honestly, I have no idea. But one thing’s for sure. I have been distracted. And my fascination with the elusive Fender Hayes is the only thing getting me through the day lately. Not that I’d ever admit it out loud.
I shake off the thought and take a seat at the clean bartop.
A gorgeous bartender with her hair in a high slicked-back ponytail approaches. “Hey. What can I get ya?”
