Page 45 of Forbidden Lyrics

A loud thunk against the wall makes me jump as the back door of SeaBird slams open. A man around forty, with short salt and pepper flecked hair and a charcoal tailored suit appears, lifting his chin when he spots us. “You Gibbs?”

“Yeah. Nice to meet you.” Gibbs offers his hand, and the guy shakes it.

“Hawthorne. You guys put on quite the show in there.”

“Thanks,” Gibson returns. “Glad you could make it.”

“Me too. You gonna introduce me to your girlfriend?” Hawthorne asks.

Gibson glances over at me and clears his throat. “She’s not…,” he starts to correct Hawthorne’s assumption. His words hang in the air for an awkward moment before he continues. “Uh, Dove, this is Hawthorne. Hawthorne, Dove Walker.”

“Nice to meet you.” His hand is warm and soft as he shakes mine. “You with the band, sweetheart?”

I shake my head. “No. Just stepping in.”

He frowns, then tsks, “That’s what I was afraid of.”

My brows wrinkle as I look over at Gibson, who appears to be as confused as I am.

What the heck is that supposed to mean?

“We need a band who takes touring seriously,” Hawthorne explains. “If your singer is late to shows like this, how can you guarantee he won’t be late on tour?”

Panicked, Gibson replies, “He won’t. I promise. He didn’t know you were coming tonight––”

“That shouldn’t matter. I only deal with musicians who put their music first. Obviously, your main man doesn’t––”

“That’s not true,” I argue. “I begged for a chance to sing. He was being generous––”

Hawthorne smiles patiently, though it shakes my confidence more. “You’re a terrible liar, Dove Walker. But I appreciate your willingness to help out a friend. If you ever decide to pursue a career in music, let me know.” He fishes a card from his suit pocket, handing it to me.

“I’m really sorry we couldn’t work something out,” he adds, turning to Gibson. “Broken Vows is really talented, and your singer has a way with the crowd, but until he takes the biz seriously, you guys are gonna be stuck playing shows like the one tonight. Good luck.”

Chapter Thirteen

Dove

The place closed a while ago, but I stayed to help clean up. Or at least that’s what I tell myself. Facing the truth is a little too pathetic, even for me. I stayed for Gibson. I stayed in case he needs comfort after a night like tonight. In case he needs someone to talk to. In case he needs me.

A light scoff escapes me as I dry my hands on a paper towel, not even bothering to admire the tall tower of clean dishes I helped take care of while waiting for Gibson to reappear.

He disappeared into the storage room thirty minutes ago with Fender in search of privacy. They’ve been arguing ever since. My stomach fills with dread as I inch closer to the cracked door.

This has to stop.

I don’t do confrontation. I don’t do arguing or finger-pointing. I don’t do fights. And it kills me to have to witness it firsthand. But the idea of Gibson rehashing the same crappy night over and over again is too much to bear.

Chewing on my lower lip, I raise my hand to knock, but the door is already open a few inches. Both Fender and Gibson are on their feet, their hair sticking out in multiple directions as if they’ve been tugging on the roots with frustration at least a few times during their heated conversation. It looks like they might be worn out. Defeated. But they aren’t even close to throwing in the towel yet. Nope. They’re both too stubborn for that.

With his head held high, Fender spits, “We need him, Sonny––”

“That’s bullshit, Fen, and you know it,” Gibson growls, pacing the small closet. “We do not need his sorry ass or his handouts.”

“After the shitshow today, I beg to differ. We need a manager who doesn’t mess up nights like tonight.”

“You’re joking, right?” Gibson sneers before turning on his heel to face his brother fully. “This isn’t on me. You screwed up, Fen. Regardless of whether or not Hawthorne showed, you should’ve been on time to play the gig. That’s on you. Not me.”

“Bull––”

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