Page 117 of Before You Fell

“Then I’ll fucking learn,” he says.

I turn and walk toward the doors and the woman and her clipboard.

“Hi, Willow. My name is Suzanna,” she says as we climb the steps.

The glass doors open and cool air brushes my face.

I step over the threshold and, for one second, everything in me wants to turn around and run straight back to Phoenix.

But instead, I follow Suzanna inside.

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.”