Page 46 of Forbidden Lyrics

“Don’t argue with me, Fen. Not on this,” Gibson seethes, his voice low and throaty. “Not on this.”

Fender’s face is red with rage, his fists tight at his sides, clearly ready for a knock-down, drag-out fight with his own flesh and blood before he stops. And every fiber of anger and frustration that’s directed at Gibson flips into a self-loathing so potent, I want to cry.

His chin drops to his chest, and he collapses onto the closest crate resting on the floor.

“You’re right.” He sighs, scrubbing his hand over his face. “I know you’re right. But the pressure… It’s too much sometimes––”

“Then you aren’t made for this,” Gibson tells him. His tone is more gentle than before, but it still stings. “And do you honestly think our dad is a good fit for that job? Manager? That’s bullshit.”

“Maybe not the manager, but something. He wants to help––”

“You’ve hit your head one too many times if you really believe that. He already let us down enough as kids. Why do you think the music business would be any different?”

Gibson paces in front of a tidy array of beer bottles while Fender rests his head in his hands.

“He’s changed––”

“Don’t give me that shit.”

“He has––”

“He’s fooling you,” Gibbs spits, his fury radiating off him in waves. I’ve always known his father was a touchy subject, but witnessing it firsthand is harder than I imagined. He’s lashing out because he’s hurting, and it’s killing me.

“What can he do, Sonny? Huh?” Fen pushes. “What can he do to make it up to you?”

“He can leave us the hell alone.”

Fender shakes his head. “You mean he should leave you the hell alone. You don’t control me, man. I’m allowed to meet our dad for lunch.”

“Don’t act all high and mighty because you’re trying to cultivate a fake-assed relationship with our sperm donor. Especially when you’re only kissing his ass so that he can take us to the next level. We don’t need him.”

“You’re wrong,” Fender argues, his face tinged with red all over again, though I can’t decide if it’s from the alcohol he’s been nursing all night or the fresh dose of frustration thrumming through his veins. He pushes himself back to his feet and strides closer to Gibbs. “If you want this band to survive, we need a manager. And we need his connections. Especially after tonight. Come on, man. You know what a big deal this is. Three Fingers dropping out of the tour at the last minute is huge. We could tour––”

“I’m not interested in touring the country,” Gibbs interrupts.

Slamming his fist against his chest, Fender spits, “Well, I am.”

“Why? So you can snort some more coke and get lost in all the pussy you can dream of?”

“Sounds like a solid summer to me.”

Gibbs scoffs, running his hand over his face roughly. “It doesn’t even matter anymore. We screwed up tonight. We pissed off Hawthorne. We didn’t get the invite. Get that through your thick skull.”

“Dad can fix it. I know he can. If you’d––”

“I’m not letting him help us,” Gibbs seethes.

“Then you’re screwing the band over!”

“You screwed the band over, Fen. Not me.”

“So let me make it right,” Fender begs. “He can call Hawthorne. He can explain the circumstances with Riv and why we forgot about the show. He can convince Hawthorne to give Broken Vows another chance. Come on, Sonny. I’ll make the call. You won’t even have to talk to him. Let me do this.”

The glare on Gibbs’ face chills me to the bone as his silence is charged with fury. I’ve never seen so much rage in a human being before. So much hurt and frustration directed at a single person. His father. The one person who’s supposed to make you feel safe and protected, and he’s provided nothing but the opposite for a little boy who grew into the man in front of me.

Maddie’s warning flitters through my mind, begging me to stay away from him. But my feet remain planted. I can’t leave. Not yet. Not when he needs me.

“Please,” Fender pushes, his voice nothing but a whisper.

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