Page 138 of Forbidden Lyrics

She releases a staggered breath through the tiny ‘O’ of her lips and nods. “Deal. And Dove?”

“Yeah?”

“Are we okay?”

The hope mingling with regret in her eyes almost breaks me before I give her a watery smile.

“We will be.”

Chapter Thirty-Four

Gibson

Knock. Knock.

My head snaps up.

In the doorway of Fender’s hospital room stands a man I don’t want to see. A man I refused to see until Dove’s unique insight into my shitty upbringing. A man who was supposed to be someone I looked up to as a kid yet hated more than anything else in the world.

And now, he’s here. In the mother-fucking-flesh.

“Can I come in?” Donny asks, his fingers toying with the Rolex on his wrist.

If I didn’t know any better, I’d say he was nervous.

Good. He should be.

This is all his fault. He’s been enabling Marty for years with his money, and it hurt someone I care about.

Fender’s asleep. His steady breathing, combined with the rhythmic heart monitor, have been my own personal lullaby since the moment the doctors announced he was stable. Exhausted. But stable.

Still, Fen wouldn’t want me to fight with Donny no matter how much I’m chomping at the bit to take my anger out on someone.

Letting my sperm donor stew in my silence, I take a few seconds to try to calm the hell down, but my heart doesn’t stop racing.

Scratching my jaw, I ask, “Why are you here?”

“My son’s in the hospital.”

“That’s funny. When I broke my arm in sixth grade, you were in Toronto.”

He stays quiet but nods carefully, holding my stare.

“Which arm?” he finally asks.

“My left one.”

“Is that when you learned to play the guitar with your right?”

My eyes widen in surprise before I cover it with indifference. “I learned to play with my right when my mom couldn’t find a leftie at the pawnshop long before that.”

“I gave your mom money––”

“She ripped up the checks. Didn’t want anything to do with you after she found out you were cheating on her with at least half a dozen other women across the country. And to find out while watching MTV with your kid in her belly? Classy, Donald. Real classy.”

He nods but doesn’t bother to argue with me. “I was a shitty father––”

“You weren’t a father at all. You were a sperm donor. And even then, the only things you passed down to your sons were your drug addiction and an unhealthy obsession with music. So, ya know, thanks for that.”

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