Page 139 of Forbidden Lyrics

Again, he nods, holding my stare, and takes my verbal punches without retaliating. Just like how Fender described their first interactions over the phone. I shouldn’t be surprised, but I am.

It’s eerie how familiar it feels to see him face to face. Like I’m looking in a mirror. It makes me hate him more.

Tearing my gaze away from his, I look at Fender lying on the bed. His lips are slightly parted as he lets out a slow breath. We have the same Hayes nose. The same strong jaw. The same cleft chin. But if we didn’t own up to being related, I’m not sure anyone would ever know. He’s luckier, though. He got more of his mom’s traits than our dad’s. I, on the other hand, didn’t. And it’s never been clearer.

“I’m sorry,” Donny murmurs from the doorway.

I look back up at him but stay quiet.

“I was a selfish asshole who didn’t think about anyone but himself,” he continues. “That’s on me. And even though I’ve done a lot of shit in my life, my biggest regret has been and will always be missing your childhood. I should’ve been better. I should’ve been present. I should’ve been someone to look up to. But I wasn’t. You have every right to hate me. But right now, I’m here. Because my son is in the hospital. And I might not be able to fix my past mistakes, but I can change my future. I want to make sure he’s okay, but only if I have your permission.”

“Why?” I croak.

“Because Fender cares about you more than he’ll ever care about me.” His attention flicks from one son to the other, his eyes pleading for approval. “So, I’m asking you, Gibson. Hell, I’m begging. Can I please come in?”

Fen groans and rolls his head to one side before his eyelids flutter slightly.

I look down at his barely conscious body lying in the hospital bed and back at the infamous Donny Hayes who’s asking for something instead of demanding it. And it’s his humility that makes me give in. I lift my chin, giving him my silent permission.

His expensive sneakers scuff against the linoleum floor as he steps over the threshold and joins me in Fender’s room. The guy wears his punk rock persona like a second skin. But I can see how much he’s aged. The white streaks in his dark hair. The weathered skin beneath his well-kept tattoos. He isn’t the twenty-two-year-old touring the country that he once was. He’s different.

The realization is sobering, and the air is thick. Heavy. I feel like I can’t breathe. Like we’re too close. Like I’m seconds from being ripped apart by the monster underneath my childhood bed. Even though I know he’d never physically hurt me. Even though I know my own childhood imagination is partly to blame for my perception of him. But it doesn’t stop the pain or the fear of getting hurt.

With every step he takes, my fight or flight instinct threatens to kick in, but I shove it away. Fen needs me right now, and he’s starting to wake up.

“Sonny?” Fender croaks. His eyes are glassy as he pries his lids open.

I squeeze his limp hand lying haphazardly on the mattress while ignoring the chair on the opposite side of the bed that creaks as Donny collapses into it.

My throat is tight as I force out, “Hey, Fen.”

“W-what happened?”

“You, uh,” I grit my teeth. “You OD’d.”

His brows pinch. Whether from disappointment or pain, I’m not sure, but it still feels like a knife to the chest.

“It’s okay, man,” I tell him. “You’re gonna be okay.”

“I messed up,” he concludes, the fuzzy memories slowly rising to the surface.

“We all mess up sometimes.”

He stays quiet, his forehead wrinkled for a few more seconds before a low, raspy groan escapes him. “The tour…”

“I don’t give a shit about the tour.”

I don’t give a shit about anything but Fender and Dove.

“Where’s my phone?” He tries to push himself up but is too weak to make any progress. “I’ll call––”

“I’ve already spoken with Hawthorne,” Dad interjects.

Confused, Fender rolls his head to the other side and finds his second guest. “Dad?”

“Hey, Fender.”

“W-what are you doing here?”

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