Page 11 of Sweet Surrender

“No doubt he’s a hypocrite with a mistress on the side and has a secret fetish.”

“And if he did, that wouldn’t matter to your case,” he says.

“Then find a reason, a conflict of interest, over why he can’t make a ruling in this matter.”

“That’s not how it works. This is a probation request. He has no personal stake in this case that would be grounds for me to ask that.”

“Then does he have a daughter or a niece or something I could date? That would cause enough of a conflict.”

“You’re grasping at straws, Jase.”

“Then give me another option here,” I all but beg, “because you’re making it sound like straws are all I have to hold on to.”

“I gave you the option.”

“Marriage?” I can barely get the word out. “No, it’s not.”

“Well, like I told you, I have a good working relationship with Judge Watkins. I’ve had a pre-emptive conversation with him over the matter. I explained about the world tour and about how we’d prefer to resolve the matter in the coming months to guarantee that you can leave the country. I asked him what effort of good faith he needs to see from you, to believe that your past record and career doesn’t define the man you are despite it doing just that thus far.”

“His response?” I already know, but I’m asking anyway.

“He said as a good, Christian man, he knows family is the one grounding force for most troubled men.”

“Men like me.” Sarcasm drips from the syllables.

“In his jaded eyes, yes.”

“Then suggest to him that I’m coming to live with you. My family and an officer of the court. And we can be done with this. You can report back that I’m home reading Crime and Punishment every night and teaching Sunday school and then all can be right with the world.”

“Abigail agrees.”

“Why would you go and talk with her?” I groan. I love my agent to death—she does a great fucking job—but she’d do anything to make her job easier. She loves squeaky clean when I’m a little more grit and rough edges.

“Look. You’re a part of BENT,” he says, referring to the name of my band, “but you’re acting like the only one in the world you care about is yourself. I know that’s tough to hear. Even tougher given our . . . history, but I’m on your side.”

“This is bullshit, Nathaniel. No one gets married to prove to a judge that they’re stable. Marriage doesn’t equal stability. Look at our family, for fuck’s sake.” My voice breaks with the desperation I suddenly feel but don’t want to admit to.

“I understand your hesitancy—”

“Resistance—”

“Fine. Yes. Resistance.” He blows out a sigh. “But this is what he told me he needed to see to know you’ve made progress. That you’ve seen the error of your ways and want to better your life.”

“Then he’s really not as smart as he should be to sit on the bench if he thinks a paper marriage certificate means all my sins are washed away.”

Nathaniel clears his throat, but there’s something about the look on his face that says there’s more. And that look isn’t what I want to see right now.

“What is it?” I ask.

“You’re right. It would be naive of him to think that if you got married out of the blue that you’d suddenly become a saint.”

“What did you say?” I groan.

“I planted the seed is all.” He shrugs like it’s no big deal, but he forgets that I know him better than most. I know that action and the pinched look on his face says he’s already done something. “Watkins thinks that over the past few months you’ve been slowly falling for your soon-to-be wife. Quietly. Out of the limelight. That she’s changed you and you can’t wait to marry her and settle down.”

“You’re fucking serious, aren’t you?”

“Dead serious.”