20. Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty
Phoenix
Yesterday, leaving Willow at rehab felt like having my chest cracked open with a tire iron.
Dramatic as hell, sure, but I have built a career on making pain sound better than it feels, and that one still comes up ugly no matter how I dress it. I got home and stood in the middle of my apartment, my hands still recalling the sensation of Willow when I finally got to hug her.
I didn’t sleep. I didn’t drink either. I just sat there, trying not to think about her walking through those glass doors, while every selfish part of me wanted to drag her back to the car and keep her where I could see her breathing.
Then, on the drive home yesterday, Damon texted.
Damon: Mandatory meeting. Label office. Nine a.m. Failure to attend will result in consequences. Contracts. Legal. Tour obligations.
By the time I walk into the boardroom, I am running on no sleep and in a mood that would get me arrested if anyone tested it properly.
The room is all glass. A long table sits in the middle, with bottled water lined up. The rest of the band is already seated around it. Damon stands near the head of the table, bruise still dark on his jaw from my fist, which improves my mood dramatically.
Jax is slouched in a chair, one boot hooked on the end of the table, clearly unimpressed to be here. His twin, Jett, sits beside him, eyes sharp, taking everything in. Cruz leans back with his arms folded, looking bored already, and not a single word has come out of anyone’s mouth.
Three label executives sit across from them. Expensive watches. Dead eyes.
Jax straightens when he sees me. “How is she?”
“I haven’t heard anything yet,” I say, sinking into the chair across from Damon.
I texted the guys after I left Willow at rehab because I knew each of them would be sitting with the same worry, gnawing at their guts.
Jax lets out a hard breath and sits back. “Fuck.”
Damon clears his throat. “Now that we have established that Willow is in care, we need to discuss the tour.”
I slowly turn my head and glare at him, already picturing a fresh set of bruises blooming over the ones beginning to fade.
His mouth hardens. “This is exactly why we are here.”
“No,” I say, leaning back in my chair like I have all the time in the world and not a loaded temper sitting behind my teeth. “We’re here because you threatened legal action like a corporate little bitch who thinks a letterhead makes him dangerous.”
One of the executives stiffens.
Good. At least someone in this glass coffin still has a pulse.
My eyes stay on Damon. “And you talk about Willow like that again,” I say, my voice low enough to make the room lean away from it, “I’ll give the other side of your face something to be jealous of.”
Damon’s eyes flick to the executives, then back to us.
“We are here because you all walked out of a press event, assaulted your manager, canceled a local launch performance without notice, sent the media into a frenzy, and put a multimillion-dollar tour at risk.”
The first executive, a woman with silver-rimmed glasses and a smile that has never known warmth, folds her hands.
“We are all concerned about Willow, but we need to be realistic. The cancellation caused major backlash. Sponsors are asking questions. Venues are demanding reassurance. The international press has picked up the story and there is speculation about substance abuse within the band.”
Jax laughs once. “Speculation? That’s cute.”
Damon gives him a glance.
The female executive continues. “We cannot afford any more uncertainty. The tour has to go ahead.”
Cruz tilts his head. “Was there a question in there or did you just bring us here to watch you polish your balls?”
The man beside her glares. “This is serious.”
“No shit,” Cruz says. “Our friend is in rehab.”
“And the best thing for everyone,” Damon cuts in, “is stability. Work. Routine. Controlled messaging. Phoenix stays visible. The band performs. We do not let the story collapse.”
Collapse.
Cute word. Clean word. The kind of word people in expensive suits use when they mean a woman nearly died and everybody is pissed that it interrupted the schedule.
“The story,” I say, my tone coming out harsh enough to polish the table. “That’s what she is to this label now?”
Damon’s jaw tightens. “That is not what I meant.”
Jax mutters, “Jesus.”
Damon leans forward, palms flat on the table.
“You think I am being cruel because I am the only person in this room willing to talk about reality. The tour is happening. The trucks are moving. The crew is scheduled. Venues are booked. Insurance and sponsors are already nervous. You do not get to disappear because of Willow Hart.”
The silver-glasses woman lets out a breath. “Phoenix, the public loves you because you are volatile. They will not love you if you become unreliable.”
There it is. The machine prefers its assholes to be profitable.
I lean back in my chair and glance around the room. Jax is watching me too closely. Jett is quiet in that way that says he already knows where the landmines are. Cruz’s jaw is clenched. Damon looks as if he wants to muzzle me and monetize the footage.
I want to tell the executives to shove the tour so far up their asses that the encore comes out their throats.
Instead, I picture Willow walking through those glass doors without me.
“The tour goes ahead,” I say. “On three conditions.”
Damon blinks. He knows me well enough to know I never surrender without slipping a knife into the deal. “What conditions?”
Jett’s eyes narrow. Cruz looks at me.
I point at Damon. “One. You keep Willow’s name out of your fucking mouth unless you’re asking how she is. The next time you talk about her as if she’s a headline, a liability, or a scheduling conflict, I walk.”
I let that sit.
Damon opens his mouth.
I hold up another finger. “I’m not singing those shitty, fucking songs you dragged in to replace hers.”
Damon’s mouth tightens. “They’re commercially tested.”
“They’re commercially shit.”
A smile tugs at Cruz’s lips.
I keep my eyes on Damon. “When Willow comes out of rehab, you hire her back.”
“That is not happening.”
The woman with silver glasses speaks before I can. “I think that is reasonable.”
The room stills.
Damon turns toward her. “Are you serious? You think bringing her back after she’s made headlines for an overdose is—”
“Sit down, Damon.” The female executive doesn’t raise her voice. She doesn’t need to. The room belongs to her now.
Damon hesitates. Then obeys like a good little pup.
“If we want this tour to proceed,” she says calmly, “we need the band.” Her gaze sweeps the table. “And from what I can see, the band has made its position very clear.”
Silence settles over the room.
I glance toward the guys.
Jax wears the smallest grin I have seen in days. Cruz gives me a nod that says about fucking time and Jett meets my gaze, giving me a slow nod.
They are with me. Because for once, I am not fighting for the stage, the spotlight, or my own selfish ass. I am fighting for Willow. And these bastards have loved her longer than the label has been cashing checks with her name hidden in the fine print.
One week later, a stadium packed with ninety thousand people roar and scream.
Ninety thousand throats screaming because I stepped into view. Ninety thousand bodies waiting for my voice, my hands, my mouth, and my ego. That cocky little frontman routine, wrapped in sweat, black denim, and bad intentions.
It used to make everything inside me seem pure for a time. But now it just sounds loud.
The stage lights cut out, leaving only black and the cheers that used to make me feel immortal.
Jax counts us in from behind the kit and the first drum hit cracks through the dark—hard enough to split the stadium open.
Jett’s bass rolls beneath it. Cruz’s guitar screams, sharp enough to draw blood, and the lights explode across the stage as I step up to the mic.
And the crowd loses its fucking mind.
I grin because that is what I do. I give them teeth.
Swagger. The cocky fucker they paid to see.
The lead singer, his black shirt half open, and his tattoos out.
I stalk the edge of the stage and let the front row claw at the air for me because I still know how to make ninety thousand people beg without saying the word.
A hot chick near the barricade lifts her shirt and I smirk down at her because I am still me. Fucked up. Famous. And not suddenly a saint.
“Careful, sweetheart,” I say into the mic between lines, my voice rough enough to make the whole front section scream. “If you start flashing me this early, I’m going to have to take you out back before the next song.”
A few more tits are shown. I laugh like the arrogant asshole I am and launch into the chorus.
Willow’s chorus.
Her words come out of my mouth and slam into ninety thousand people. They throw them right back at me, loud enough to shake the whole fucking stadium, and something under my ribs twists so hard I nearly miss the next line.
I look left. I already know she isn’t there, but I look anyway. It’s what I have always done. I look for honey-brown hair. For that unimpressed little line her mouth made whenever I changed a lyric just to piss her off. For that eye roll that always came before she told me I was a dramatic asshole.
For half a second, the stage seems too fucking big. Then instinct takes over.
I turn back to the crowd and flash that filthy grin, throwing confidence into the lights because if there is one thing Phoenix Stone has always been good at, it is selling a lie so well that people thank me after buying it.
I drag the mic stand toward me, lean into it, and let the camera catch the sweat running down my neck and the ring in my lip. The giant screens blow me up to forty feet high, turning me into every bad decision in the building.
Women scream.
I wink. I smirk. And I give them exactly what they came for.