Twisted Broken Strings (South of Forever, Book 0)

Chapter 4

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Jett sat cross-legged on the floor of her motel room, her laptop open in front of her. On the screen, her ex-rhythm guitarist gave her a half smile. She wanted to rage at him. Instead, she sat with her hands in her lap, her eyes locked on the screen in front of her.

"It's okay, Jett," Phillip Hilton said quietly. She thought she saw tears pooling in his eyes. He reached up and ran a hand over his balding head. At only thirty-five, he had less hair than a newborn. "I think this look is working for me." He smiled, but his voice cracked. The screen behind him beeped steadily, displaying relatively good statistics—good for Phillip, anyway.

She struggled to smile back. Her lips felt heavy, though. She could still remember the way his lips felt on hers, all those years ago, when they were still a new band and sleeping in roach-infested motels seemed romantic and dangerous and adventurous. The memory made her smile.

"There ya go," Phillip said. His eyes crinkled. After a moment, though, his smile fell, and he gazed at her. "I'm sorry, kid."

A sob escaped her lips. "What the hell, Phil?" She swallowed hard and brushed the tears aside. She wanted to ask him why he didn't fight harder, why he didn't demand more chemotherapy or radiation. One look at him told her why, though. Dark, baggy circles sagged under his eyes. The skin on his face and neck was grey. Only his eyes were the same, luminous things that made her wonder why she hadn't just married the guy. It was too late, though. She brushed a strand of hair out of her face and adjusted her position on the floor. "I'm coming to see you," she said.

"No you're not," he countered. He pointed a shaking finger at her. "You're touring hard and you're going to keep recording this album. You're going to find someone who can play better than me, and you're going to keep kicking ass." Fresh tears fell down his cheeks.

She watched as he leaned back against the cushions of his hospital bed. The iPad he had balanced on his lap shifted slightly, and for a moment her view went to the floor. A second later, it straightened out. Phillip smiled back at her. She could see his entire torso. His body looked even thinner in the baggy hospital gown, or perhaps the gown was the smallest size they had. She didn't want to think about that. Instead, she mulled over what he had said a moment before. Her eyebrows furrowed. She desperately wanted to tell Phillip about the guy who might be replacing him. The last thing he needed, though, was to worry about trivial things. Instead, she nodded at him. "Deal. If you get any worse, though—"

He held up a hand to silence her. A moment later, his arm dropped feebly to his side. "Can't really hold the iPad much longer, babe," he said. Even after they split up, he had never stopped calling her that.

"If you let me come see you, you won't have to," she said.

They locked eyes, and her heartbeat sped up. After all those years, even on his deathbed, Phillip Hilton could still set her veins on fire. "I don't want you seeing me like this," he admitted. A single tear dripped down his cheek.

The tears flowed freely from her own eyes. "Maybe it'll do you some good. Get the old blood pumping." She winked at him.

He laughed, but the laugh turned into a cough, and he winced. The lung cancer had metastasized into his other organs and bones. Every breath, every movement, felt like a chainsaw grating on his body. At least, that was how he described it to her. "You'd have to be on top," he said between deep, rasping breaths.

She smiled. "I think that can be arranged."

"I've gotta go," he said, and she knew what he really meant was that he was too tired, or maybe too nauseous, or even in too much pain. She also knew that those three words were his way of saying "I might not see you again, but I'm not going to say goodbye."

She blinked the tears away, and kept the smile on her face. "You rest up," she said. The hairs on her arms rose, and a chill zipped through her. Somehow, she knew this would be their last conversation. She tried to think of something funny to say, some parting words that wouldn't be too final, that might even make him smile. She only gazed at him, memorizing the shape of his face and the crow's feet at the corners of his eyes.

"I love you," he said, surprising her. Never, in the ten years they had known each other, had they ever come close to uttering those words.

She swallowed hard. "I know that, you doofus," she stammered. "There's no need—"

He held up a hand. "Not today, but it's almost time," he said. "I know it. I don't wanna scare you, but I can feel it."

She bit down on her lower lip, gating the scream from escaping her throat. It wasn't fair. Phillip was a good man. He was a talented musician. He was a loving friend. Her hands clenched into fists. She was grateful that he could only see her from the waist up. She fumbled for the right words, but they wouldn't come. She could only nod at him. If only she had left sooner. If only she hadn't missed her flight. If only that boy diva hadn't kept her for so long. If she ever saw Koty Jackson's face again, she was going to rip it to shreds.

"I know you're beating the crap out of yourself right now," Phillip whispered. She had to turn up the volume on her laptop to hear him. "Knock it off."

"Okay," was all she could manage.

"Gotta go," he gasped.

"I love you, too," she said quickly as he severed the connection. She wasn't sure if he heard her. She stared at the laptop for several long minutes, debating whether to call him back. No, she told herself. Let him rest. He doesn't need you to bother him with all of your last-minute crap. Then the tears began pouring down her cheeks, and she was screaming. She slammed the laptop closed and collapsed onto her side, thrashing and sobbing. A string of "if only" statements ran through her mind: if only she had loved him harder, if only she had let the band take more breaks, if only she could be by his side right that minute.

The world kept spinning, though, and Perpetual Smile had to keep going. It was what he wanted, what he had told her and the guys countless times. She hated it, though, hated him for making her carry out his wishes. If he wasn't so stubborn and she wasn't so loyal, she could be lying next to him in that hospital bed, stroking what little hair he had left and singing to him. She would have stayed by his side, rather than tour and record another album.

The sobs wracked her body, that last thought piercing her already bleeding heart. She curled into a fetal position and covered her eyes, as though the lack of sight would make the rest of her pain go away.

Her phone vibrated in her pocket.

Her first instinct was to grab it and hurl it across the room. No one should be calling her. She wanted to be safely locked in her hotel with her grief. It might be Phil, she thought, and she sucked in a slow and ragged breath. If it was him calling, she wanted to sound calm. She tugged the phone out and looked at the display.

It was Perpetual Smile's manager.

She knew, immediately, that it had nothing to do with Phillip and everything to do with that pop star asshole who had sent his demo in. She stared at the screen as the phone continued to ring, her finger hovering over the button that would accept the call.

She didn't want to know, she realized. Then she realized something else: it didn't matter who replaced Phillip. He would never be good enough. Perpetual Smile was finished.

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