17. Chapter Seventeen #2
I walk over to the coffee vending machine to get Elise a coffee, even though we both know she doesn’t really want one. But it’s an excuse for me to walk back into Willow’s room and sit beside her again before anyone decides I’ve already had more time than I deserve.
I press the button and wait as the machine does its thing—grinding, hissing, and taking its sweet fucking time.
The elevator doors open behind me.
I turn and instantly regret it.
Damon steps out in a dark suit, sunglasses tucked in his top pocket. His lip is split and bruising shows around his jaw. He has changed clothes, which means he went home. Slept. Showered. Put on a fresh suit so he could come to a hospital and talk about money while Willow hasn’t opened her eyes.
Jax stops pacing.
Cruz pushes off the wall.
Jett lifts his head.
Even Graham turns from the window and the expression on his face suggests Damon might have picked the wrong fucking waiting room.
Damon takes in the room. The guys. Graham. Me. Then he walks straight toward us.
“Phoenix, we need to talk.”
“No.”
“You don’t even know what I’m going to say.”
“I know it’ll piss me off.”
His jaw clenches. “The local launch cancellation is everywhere. Fans waited for hours. The press is calling it a meltdown. The label wants a statement within the hour and they want confirmation that the world tour is still moving forward.”
I just stare at him. He takes that as permission to keep going.
“Statements have been drafted. You need to be seen leaving the hospital composed. No more punches. No more disappearing. We get you cleaned up, issue a message requesting privacy for Willow, reassure everyone that the tour is still moving forward, and salvage this before it buries the entire album cycle.”
I don’t say a word. The fucking audacity of this asshole. Willow lies unconscious fifty feet away and this prick is worried about an album cycle.
Damon meets my gaze. “You’re the frontman of one of the biggest bands in the world. You don’t get to vanish just because you’re upset.”
Upset. As if that is what this fucking is.
I take one step toward him.
Jax straightens.
Jett gets up from his seat, wondering if I need to be hauled off this asshole the moment I let my anger out on him.
Cruz moves without thinking.
Even Graham’s attention is honed in on me, watching what I do and say.
Every muscle in my body wants to put Damon on his ass again. I can already imagine my fist connecting with that smug mouth of his. But I don’t. Not because he doesn’t deserve it, but because the second I do, security will drag me out of this hospital before I ever get back to Willow.
“Fucking cancel it.”
Damon frowns. “What?”
“Whatever needs cancelling, cancel it.”
“Phoenix—”
“I said cancel it.”
His expression hardens. “You’re not thinking clearly.”
“For the first time in years, I’m thinking perfectly fucking clear.”
“The tour cannot just be cancelled.”
“Then postpone it.”
“Do you have any idea what that costs?”
“No.” I take another step. “And I don’t give a fuck.”
His face drains of the little color it had. “Do you have any idea what you’re saying?”
“Yes.”
He draws a slow breath. “There are contracts. International venues. Insurance clauses. Crew. Sponsors. Promoters. A label that has invested millions. Fans who have paid money and booked flights, hotels, and time off work.”
He gestures toward Willow’s room. “You want me to tell all of them the whole machine stops all because Willow Hart made a bad choice?”
Silence rushes into the waiting room.
Jax and Jett come over, as if they, too, want to take a swing. Cruz’s jaw goes as hard as stone.
Damon looks from one of us to the next, frustration flashing across his face.
“Well?” he snaps at Jett and Jax. “Is one of you going to talk some fucking sense into him or are you really going to let him throw away everything you’ve built? What do the rest of you want?”
Jax answers first. “Postpone it.”
Cruz doesn’t even hesitate. “Cancel every fucking thing that can wait.”
Jett finally speaks, his voice quiet enough that everyone has to listen. “Unlike you, we put Willow first.”
For the first time since Damon stepped out of that elevator, he realizes he is standing alone.
“We have a stadium show in three days,” he says.
“I’m not fucking leaving,” I tell him.
“The label will come after you.”
“Let them.”
“Fans will turn.”
“Let them.”
“The press will eat you alive.”
“They already fucking do.”
“This is millions of dollars.”
I step closer. “My answer is no.”
His eyes burn into mine. “Over Willow.”
The way he says her name nearly gets his teeth knocked down his throat.
Jett goes still in that quiet, dangerous way that makes smart men shut the fuck up. But Damon is not a smart man.
“She is the reason there’s an album,” I say, leaning in. “She is the reason there’s a tour in the first place. So you can call the label, the lawyers, and every fucking reporter with a camera and tell them I’ve lost my fucking mind. I don’t care. I am not leaving her.”
I step close enough that Damon has to lift his chin to keep looking me in the eye. “And say her name again that fucking way and we will have a problem.”
“You are nothing but a selfish bastard,” Damon says.
My hands curl into fists at my side, itching to take a swing.
“Careful, Damon.” Cruz pushes off the wall.
“Today is not the fucking day,” Jax says.
“You should leave.” Jett’s voice cuts in.
Damon ignores them and keeps his eyes on me because the arrogant prick still thinks I'm the only one he has to beat. He has never understood this band or what Willow means to all of us.
“You’re right,” I say. “I am a selfish, arrogant bastard with a bad temper, a worse mouth, and enough bad press to wallpaper your sad little office. But listen carefully, Damon. I am not fucking leaving.”
He stares at me.
“If Willow wakes up and wants me gone, I’ll go.
If her parents tell me to leave, I’ll fucking leave.
If a doctor says I’m in the way, I’ll move.
” My voice drops. “But you do not get to drag your ass in here and expect me to leave the only person in my whole life I give a fucking shit about because your money is making you nervous.”
For a second, no one speaks.
Then Graham shifts.
I sense his attention before I glance up. He is watching me with the same protective hate, but there is something else beneath it now. A flicker. Maybe he sees a piece of the boy he used to let sit at his kitchen table, clawing his way up through the wreckage of the man I became.
He gives me a nod.
Damon exhales sharply. “This is a mistake.”
“No,” I say. “The mistake was letting you believe any of this mattered more than her.”
His eyes turn mean. “You’ll be hearing from the lawyers.”
“Well, tell them they'll be waiting a while because I don’t give a fucking shit.”
Damon’s mouth flattens, but he must finally remember he likes his teeth where they are, so he turns and walks back toward the elevator, his phone already in his hand.
Jax drops into a chair and scrubs his face with both hands.
“Fuck him,” he mutters.
I turn back to the machine and grab the coffees, desperate to get back into Willow’s room.