Who the hell thinks of specialty throat tea? “Know that I’m only drinking this because I don’t want to have to deal with your nagging.”
“Hendrix, buddy, you have no idea how much I bite my tongue. If it had been up to me, you would’ve been off the road months ago,” he said, picking up his mug. He pointed at the plate of scrambled eggs and toast and pursed his lips.
“See how you nag me?” I asked as I grabbed the fork and took a bite of egg.
Fuck, that was buttery and delicious. I paused to take a bite of what looked to be twelve-grain toast.
I stared at the toast, then glanced back at Sawyer. “Did you put honey on this?”
“Again, for your throat,” he said, automatically reaching for his tie. “Dr. Ahmed will be here a little before noon, so I wantedto make sure you’d had at least one good dinner and a decent breakfast. Don’t want her to think I’ve fallen down on the job.”
As much as I made fun of the man, he was being really thoughtful, and I made a mental note not to bust his balls as much.
Gesturing to my notebook, he asked, “Am I interrupting your process?”
Kinda, but I don’t mind it so much.
“Nah. Just don’t judge me if I need to hum through the specifics as I write down the notes.”
He dropped his chin. “I would never.”
I snorted, taking another sip. “Yeah, sure. You look like you’re about to go into a courtroom. I look like I got dragged behind a semi.”
“This is just how I dress. I’m not judging you, Hendrix. I never have.”
I rolled my eyes. “Bullshit. All you do is nag at me. I swear, if I let more than thirty seconds go without responding to something on the goddamn group chat, you switch to private messaging me, all up my ass about it.”
“That’s not judgment. That’s concern,” he said, clasping his hands on his lap, his breakfast only half eaten.
I grabbed my phone and pulled up my notifications. “This you?” I asked, shaking the screen at him. “Missed calls, missed texts? Using my government name? What the fuck?”
His jaw sharpened as he dug into his jacket pocket, retrieving the newest iPhone. Tapping the face, he turned the phone so I could see the display.
“You set up a Google alert for me?” I asked. “I swear, you’re worse than my publicist.”
He made a face, then tapped the screen again, pulling up a video from the concert in Mexico City.
Someone close to the front of the stage had been recording my performance on their phone and caught everything. The way I swayed, the way I missed the first and then the second intro to the song. The way I fell to the ground like a marionette with its strings cut. My guitar, which was more for show than anything else these days, broke, sending a squeal through the speaker system.
Fuck. I might not play much live anymore, but I’d owned that guitar—named Mary Ann—since high school.
Refocusing on the video, I watched as Robbie threw his guitar down and raced over to me, untangling me from my now-dead instrument. He rolled me onto my back and checked my pulse and my breathing, sending a thumbs-up to the horrified crowd.
Seconds later, Sago was there, rolling his vest to place under my head while someone from the crowd was hoisted onto the stage by security.
“He’s an emergency doctor,” Sawyer explained as I watched the guy order around the concert paramedics, who’d rushed the stage from the side.
I handed his phone back, not wanting to see any more.
“I’m not nagging you. I’m not judging you. You scared the shit out of me. Out of all of us, really. We’ve been worried about you for a long time, Hendrix.”
The morning’s cozy vibes vanished into thin air.
I set down my tea and wrapped myself up in the blanket, staring at the river. After a few minutes of icing out Sawyer, he took the hint, gathered his things, and went back inside.
Dr. Ahmed was thrilled with my progress. “You look so much better than yesterday.”
I gestured at Sawyer. “Agnes here has been making me eat and drink. I blame him.”
