Page 109 of Of Heartbreak and Harmony
“Whythe fuckare we just now hearing about this?”
Hammond looks at Sav, face still placid. His tone never rises. He never sounds anything more than matter-of-fact. Not apologetic. Not defensive. Not even angry. A consummate, unshakable businessman. I both hate and respect him for it.
“Because you only had a couple of years left on your contract. We’dgotten the terms we’d wanted, and at the end of the contract, we’d walk. There was nothing I could do about the past. I ensured the foreseeable future would be ethical. I didn’t want to add anything else to the band’s already overflowing plate.”
“Bullshit,” Sav says. “This is something we should have known.”
Hammond’s eyebrow lifts just slightly. “We were dealing with Jonah’s rehab visit. With the fallout from the engagement. From the mental and emotional impact of the fire. Of your mother’s hospitalization. Of Levi’s and your relationship going public. Savannah, I will not apologize for keeping this from you. I would do it again. I’d fixed the problem. It was no longer an issue. Everything else took precedence.”
Sav stares him down, obviously warring with her feelings. Hell, even I understand where he’s coming from, but I can tell she’s not ready to forgive it.
“How many bands?” Her voice is still shaking with anger when she asks, and Hammond sighs.
“I don’t know the exact number, but I’d wager it was close to twenty.”
“Jesus Christ,” Mabel mumbles, dropping her head to the back of the couch. “This is so fucked up.”
“We’re out, Ham,” Sav says, and I see Torren nod in my peripheral. “I don’t care what you have to do. I want us out of the contract.”
“Done.”
“And I want the names of every band our label fucked over.”
“That will be harder.”
“I don’t fucking care.”
“I know you don’t.”
“So you’ll get them, then?”
“Yes.”
In the silence that follows, I start to feel lightheaded. The tidal wave of information hits me hard, and I feel the color drain from my face. My extremities feel cold. My stomach roils. Slowly, I walk backward until my legs hit a couch, and then I sit.
As soon as I hit the cushion, familiar tattooed hands cup my face.
“Are you okay? Do you need anything?”
“No.”
“No, you’re not okay, or no, you don’t need anything?”
I want to roll my eyes at Torren’s question, but I don’t want to risk overexerting myself.
“I’m fine.”
His lips press to my forehead and his fingers slide to the back of my neck.
“I’m going to fix this,” he whispers. “You’ll see.”
29
TORREN
“You’re backstage tonight.”
“What?”
