Page 6 of For Wrath and Redemption
“No. No one will use it unless it’s an emergency.”
He doesn’t reference the lastemergency. He doesn’t have to. I see the flash of concern in his eyes, and guilt lashes in my gut. The guilt is why I concede.
“Fine.”
“If you need anything, at any point, you come to one of us.”
Hammond’s tone is one of sincerity, and the switch from all-business manager to caring father figure renders me speechless for a moment. I’m almost thirty, and Hammond is only ten years older than me, but once in a while, he’ll say or do something that reminds me of what it might have felt like to have parents who gave a shit.
I clear my throat, shove back my mommy and daddy issues, then jerk out another nod.
“I won’t do anything to jeopardize the tour, Wade.”
“Fuck the tour, Jonah. We’ve talked about this. You’re a priority. Everyone agrees.”
That statement just makes the guilt churn more violently until it’s creeping into my rib cage and making my heart race. I resist the urge to rub at my chest. Finishing this tour is crucial. It’s our last obstacle to terminating our contract with our label. Knowing that everyone is willing to postpone that if I fuck up just increases my feelings of failure.
I breathe through my nose, inhaling deeply and exhaling slowly before laying myself bare for Hammond’s scrutiny.
“We need to get through this tour.Ineed to get through this tour. The only time I really feel in control is when I’m on that stage. I just...”
I close my eyes and shake my head, chasing away the images creeping into my mind. The thoughts that plague me when I’m not playing music. The memories that always return, no matter how many toxins I pump into my bloodstream.
“Having my own room will help, and I will not do anything that will jeopardize this tour.”
I can see the conflict in Ham’s eyes. I know what he wants to say. I’ve heard it before.My life is more important. The tour can be rescheduled. Everyone agrees.
What they don’t seem to get is how desperately my life might depend on this tour. I’m not exaggerating. Without it, I worry I’ll spiral. I’ll circle the drain without a call time or an adoring crowd to fish me out.
It’s not healthy. I know that. I’m so aware of it that I haven’t even mentioned it in my Thursday therapy sessions. But, for better or worse, it’s what I’ve fucking got right now.
I don’t break eye contact with my manager, and when he finally relents with a single nod, I feel like a brick has been removed from the pile of debris that’s been holding space on my chest.
“Thank you.”
“You’ll have your own room by tonight.”
With that, Hammond turns away while raising his phone to his ear, no doubt calling the hotel. Just as he disappears around a corner, I hear the door to the dressing room swing open and Callie’s soft laughter filters into the hallway. My lips curl in disgust, and I point my feet in the direction of the exit doors. I can bum a smoke from a roadie. I don’t feel like going back into the dressing room to retrieve mine. Not when I know it probably smells like sex.
Tonight, though, in my own room, I’ll be able to sleep without her presence emanating through the walls and her scent permeating every surface in the suite.
My therapist says this road is best walked one step at a time. She says eventually, my steps won’t feel like I’m on a fucking tightrope hovering above a cavern of jagged rocks.
I can do that. One step at a time, one foot in front of the other. I just hope to fucking God nothing new comes out and throws me off-balance.
Again.
I’m picking my way through my room service lunch when my phone rings.
I do the quick math. It’s morning in New York, and while I’d much rather ignore the call, my curiosity overrides my better judgment. My father never calls. I don’t think twice before I hit accept and put the phone to my ear.
“Yeah.”
“Is that how celebrities are answering phones now?”
I roll my eyes. I didn’t go through my rebellious phase until college. Despite the years and distance, it seems I’m not quite out of it. How cliché of me.
“Good morning, Father. How have you been?”
