Page 10 of Sweet Surrender

“Whatever.” I roll my eyes as visions of me with zero tattoos in a stuffed suit and glasses flash through my mind. Then I look at my brother and see the same thing and cringe. My chuckle is unforgiving. “No thanks. I’ll take my chances.”

He waves a hand. “Fine. Do you want to tell the guys or are you going to leave it to me to tell them that they need to find a new drummer for the tour?”

My stomach drops. “They wouldn’t do that.” My voice is barely audible.

“No? They’re just going to let months’ if not a year’s worth of planning for the concert promoter, for the band, for the staff, for the fans, be all for nothing because you refused to walk the straight and narrow for a few months?”

“The judge will lift the restriction. The last one did for the gigs we played in South America last year.”

“Does the band even know your participation is in question or were you keeping that from them?”

Those words are like a knife to my heart. It’s never been a problem before. But when I look up to meet his eyes, I’m sure he knows the answer—they don’t.

“Tickets would need to be refunded. Venues reimbursed. Crews that have spent all this time prepping, out of jobs.” He blows out a whistle, clearly insisting on twisting the knife. “I think you need to choose wisely here.”

“Fine. Okay. I’ll go feed the homeless. I’ll try and sign on to do more charity work. I’ll make sure the pictures taken of me are there.”

“You already do that,” he says. “Once a week, you spend the day at the Mission down in the Third District. Everyone who knows you knows that. That’s not an image makeover.”

“Well, it’s better than pictures of me in the clubs, right?”

“There will be no more pictures of you in clubs because you won’t be going to any. You’re going to find yourself a homebody all of a sudden who prefers to go to charity galas and barbecue in the backyard with friends rather than live it up on the town.”

My jaw clenches but I control the urge to tell him he’s fucking crazy.

You did this to yourself, Giz.

“Fine. Sure. Why don’t you take my balls while we’re taking away my manhood?”

“And you said I was being dramatic. Jesus, Jase—”

“I’ll post about my trips to the homeless shelter. Make my time spent there more known.” The thought makes my stomach pitch—using someone else’s demise to make yourself look better—but I can’t fuck the band over.

“That’s not going to cut it. It’s not enough.”

“Then what will, Nate the Great?”

He glares at me. He has always hated that nickname. “You’re going to get married.”

It’s my turn to glare at the dropped bomb. I chuckle. “That’s fucking hilarious.”

“I don’t seem to be laughing.”

“That’s crazy talk.”

“In a town full of crazy talk and where nothing is as it seems—according to you and your opportunist photos—it’s not so crazy.”

“And you’re telling me you think everyone’s going to buy this shit—that me, Jase Gizmodo—serial dater—”

“The word ‘dater’ is a bit generous, don’t you think?”

“Serial fuckboy?” I lift my brows as sarcasm drips from my words.

“Much better.”

“Of course it is. Anything for you to put down what I do in my life that you’d kill to be able to do in yours.” The animosity stretches between us in a stare full of clenched jaws and unspoken words.

Nathaniel’s Adam’s apple bobs. “Judge Watkins is as conservative as conservative can be. He’s big on family values, not so big on tattoos, and no doubt listens to classical music because even Christian rock is too scandalous for him.”