Page 78 of Broken Instrument

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The drive takes about fifteen minutes. The driver Hawthorne sent to pick us up at our hotel is kind and tells us horror stories about driving in the middle of LA for the rich and famous before pulling up to the back of a massive outdoor arena.

There are cars already filling the lot, even though the concert isn’t supposed to start for another few hours. My nerves shoot through the roof as I take in a few teenage girls carrying signs with Fender’s name on them.

“You didn’t tell me there were going to be this many people,” I note as I smooth out my red crop top and dark jeans.

“I didn’t know,” he admits while eyeing the entrance already lined with fans waiting to get into the show and grab their seats. Thankfully, we’re parked in front of a back entrance, but if they simply turn their heads and look our way, I’m pretty sure chaos would ensue.

I grab his hand and squeeze softly to distract him from the sea of people. “It’s going to be awesome, Fen.”

“We’ll see,” he mutters under his breath. “Let’s get going, I guess.” He climbs out of the backseat and offers his hand to help me up. Once I’m standing, he takes the guitar case from the trunk, and we walk inside, trying to be discreet so no paparazzi can catch us and start snapping pictures.

Which is weird. We’re a couple of nobodies. Scratch that. I’m a nobody. Fender is obviously a somebody, which is made even clearer when a reporter spots us and calls, “Fender! Fender Hayes! Do you mind if I ask you a few questions?”

He tilts his head down and keeps walking, but I dig in my heels, making him slow a bit as I whisper in his ear. “You sure Hawthorne wouldn’t want you to say anything?”

His nostrils flare, but he turns to the reporter and says, “Hey. What can I do for you?”

“I want to know where you’ve been and if you were planning on breaking up with Broken Vows from the beginning or if it was a recent development?”

With a death grip on my hand, Fender gives the reporter a tight smile, his gaze flicking from the crowd who, by some miracle, hasn’t seen us yet and the guy in front of us. “Broken Vows is an incredible band full of great guys and an awesome girl,” he clarifies, his smile turning genuine for a brief moment. “While we have split, I'm looking forward to continuing my relationship with them. In fact, we plan to collaborate on a few songs this upcoming year. Thanks so much––”

“Will you plan on taking your shirt off during the concert, Fender? I know it was your signature move.”

He chuckles and lifts our laced hands, placing a kiss against the back of mine. “Not sure my girlfriend would like it, but I appreciate the interest. Have a good one.”

He tugs me toward the back entrance, obviously finished with the short interview when a massive man with dark sunglasses and a permanently etched frown on his bulldog features stops us with crossed arms.

“Passes?” he barks.

Fender lifts the laminated pass hanging from a lanyard around his neck.

The security guard nods and turns to me. “Pass?”

My smile is tight as I do the same, lifting the pass for the guy to inspect.

Satisfied, he nods again and steps aside, allowing us entry while the reporter keeps peppering questions our way.

As we step inside and out of earshot, I look up at Fender with wide eyes. “Whoa.”

His palm is warm as he presses it against my back and leads me down a short hallway beneath the stage. “Yeah, I’m gonna kill Hawthorne.”

“Why? You did good!”

“He should’ve at least given me a heads-up.”

“Well, here’s your chance to tell him. He’s walking this way.” My attention shifts to the tall, handsome guy wrapped in a fitted suit with Sammie on his arm who’s talking to someone in a black T-shirt with a headset.

When he catches me looking at him, Hawthorne closes the last bit of distance between us and offers his hand for Fender to shake. “Hey, glad you guys made it here okay.”

“Thanks for sending the driver to pick us up. It was thoughtful.”

He chuckles, takes my hand, gives it a firm shake, and wraps his arm back around Sammie.

“Although you could’ve warned us about the size of this little charity event,” Fender interrupts, but Hawthorne only laughs harder.

“If I had, would you have still come?”

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