Page 67 of Broken Instrument

“You sure you want to hear what I think?” I ask.

He nods, albeit subtly, as if he can’t decide whether or not he’s ready to hear the truth. As if maybe he already knows what I’m going to say, and he isn’t sure he’s going to appreciate hearing it out loud.

I lick my lips and murmur, “Maybe you aren’t mad at them. Maybe you’re mad at yourself, and you’re taking the anger out on them. I think we both know we’re responsible for our own actions, and while they probably could’ve handled a few things differently, shutting them out isn’t fair. They want to be here for you. They want to show their support. You should try letting them.”

He hangs his head and grabs my waist, nuzzling into my neck and seeking solace in my body in a way that makes me feel powerful. Strong. And I will be strong for the man in front of me. Hell, I’d go to war for him. I can feel it in my bones. And while the realization should be terrifying, it isn’t. Because he deserves to feel that kind of protection. He’s earned it.

“You’re right, Hadley,” he whispers against my heated flesh. “You’re right. I’m going to fix things.”

“Don’t do it for me––”

“I’m not. I’m going to do it for myself. It’s time I fight for what I want instead of letting the world around me decide what I deserve.”

I smile and squeeze him a little tighter, raking my fingers through the back of his head and down his neck, tickling his sensitive skin as the tight muscles slowly melt beneath my touch.

After a few minutes of comfortable silence, he lifts his head. “Speaking of fighting for what I want. Would you like to accompany me? To the concert?”

“You want me to come?”

He nods.

“Then, yes, of course. I’d love to.”

“Yeah?”

I nod. “Just tell me when, and I’ll be there.”

“Perfect.”

23

FENDER

The last notes echo through the studio. I let them ring out and grin at the new bassist and drummer Hawthorne set me up with.

It’s weird. Kind of feels like a first date or some shit, but they’re talented musicians looking for a lead singer and guitarist, and I’m an okay lead singer and guitarist looking for a drummer and bassist.

Apparently, Hawthorne thinks it’s a match made in heaven.

“That was great, man,” Gunner tells me, spinning his drumstick between his tattooed fingers as his nose ring glints in the studio light. “I think we’ve got something.”

“Me too,” I answer.

“It was a little rough around the edges but not bad at all,” Jess pipes up. He runs his hand over his shaved head and cracks his neck from side to side. “But I’m beat.”

“Me too,” I repeat, the exhaustion settling into my bones.

“Gunner and I were gonna hit up a party tonight since Hawthorne flew us in for this meeting. Do you know of any?”

My throat swells, and my palms grow sweaty as I register his words. “Any parties?”

“Yeah. You partied with one of my buddies while on tour with Broken Vows before…” Jess clears his throat, and Gunner’s mouth snaps closed, realizing he’s opened a massive can of worms.

“Before what?” I prod, unamused as I set my guitar into its case and fold my arms.

Jess lifts his hands, showing me his palms as if to prove he isn’t a threat or some shit. “He didn’t mean anything by it. He just meant…you know…since you used to like to party, we were wondering if you’d like to party tonight or something. You know, bonding time.”

“I don’t do that anymore.”

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