“Hen—”
“They do,” he finally answered, “but his company has a diversified portfolio in everything from oil and gas to—now—punk superstars. If I had to guess, he decided that if we were going to ruin his son’s name, he’d find a way to own us, or at least me.”
I cursed again. Over the years, I’d offered to help Hendrix renegotiate his contracts, but he’d always waved me off, sayingthat his management team was looking out for him. It had been frustrating as hell to have to stand on the sidelines as he’d made business decisions without me. This, however, was worse than either of us had realized.
“What does this mean for you?”
“Up until now, it just meant that he was making sixty percent of every album sale and concert ticket. But now he must be gloating that I’m off the road.”
“Why?”
“He wins either way. Once I realized who owned my contract, I had my lawyers approach his lawyers with a deal: I’d do a limited series of concerts, turn over all the tour profits to them, and they’d cut me loose.”
“Shit.”
“Exactly. I haven’t fulfilled that agreement. I thought I was being smart, but then they came up with a schedule that?—”
“Was designed to bury you.”
“Yeah. I said yes to it ’cause I didn’t want to be beholden to him a minute longer than I had to be.”
“How many concerts do you have left?”
“Seven.” He sighed from the pit of his stomach, as though that were an unimaginable number. He sounded about ninety years old.
“You aren’t anywhere near ready to go back out on the road right now.”
“Iknow.” He shook his head. “I thought a month out I’d feel better than this. I at least thought I’d have more energy. I can’t imagine the state I’d be in if you’d left me to my own devices,” he admitted with a wry look.
“Bet that hurt to say.”
“You have no idea.” He absentmindedly plucked at the strings. “I used to be able to play seven shows with my eyes closed. But now, every time I even think about touring, I want to vomit.”
“I’m sorry to hear that.” I squeezed his arm. “Dr. Ahmed said that we can start short walks and light weight training.”
He stuck out his tongue and made puking noises.
“Whatever, Hendrix. I remember how much you loved playing live. This is how we get you back out there.”
“I dunno.” He sighed. “This past summer may have cured me of that. I don’t know why Sago and Robbie agreed to the schedule.”
“Sounds like they’re good friends.”
“Better friends than I realized,” he said, frowning. “They’ve been together for God knows how long. How could I have missed that?”
“It’s easy to miss things you aren’t looking for,” I replied. “But now youhaveto let me use my contacts to find a solution to this.”
“No way. It’s my mess. I got into it, and I have to get myself out.”
“That’s not how friendship works.” I lifted my hands, shrugging. “Sorry.” I was not sorry in the slightest.
“Sawyer, you’ve already done too much,” he said, gesturing with the guitar.
“You have no idea the lengths to which I would go to ensure you’re okay,” I said quietly. I’d already ripped my heart from my chest. Everything else was relatively painless.
He blew out a breath. “I don’t get it.”
My eyes fell to his messy hair, and I clenched my hands into fists, fighting the urge to run my fingers through it. “Don’t get what?”
