Page 2 of Sweet Surrender

“Fuck you, Paul.”

It doesn’t feel as good as it once did. The words. The gusto behind them. The anger they barely alleviate. At first saying them was my way to get out the overwhelming emotions—the hurt, the disbelief, the heartache. And it worked.

But the hurt has been replaced by anger. The anger colored in big, bold strokes with despair.

I look around my cookie bakery. Everywhere is bright pastels and happiness. In the signs and awning outside, in the decor inside, and in the obnoxiously happy sentiments and designs on the cookies in the case.

This was all mine—but unofficially half his.

I trusted him. I believed him. Who wouldn’t after two years together? And now with the shit he packed up and took with him—his clothes, his electronics, his self-help books that clearly worked for shit—one would say taking his money back was warranted and it was. What wasn’t, however, was the money he took from our joint account. Stole. The one we started and pooled our savings to qualify for the loan.

And now I’m left in dire straits.

Like the kind of straits that have me wondering how I’m going to deliver one thousand cookies in two weeks’ time. I need money for the supplies, and yet I can’t make the money unless I provide the cookies. Even more, I can’t pay for workers to help me make the cookies because all the money goes to the supplies so it’s probably going to be me, myself, and I baking and decorating until my fingers want to fall off. Oh, and I need a bakery to actually make those cookies in, but paying rent when credit is already maxed out is enough to sap anyone’s creativity.

Yeah.

Fuck you, Paul.

CHAPTER TWO

Gizmo

“Disorderly conduct. Drunk and disorderly conduct, again. Criminal damage to property. Misdemeanor assault.” Nathaniel looks up from his laptop screen and eyes me over his glasses. “Should I keep reading your rap sheet? Because I can. The list is long and not so distinguished.”

My sigh is as heavy as my stare is bored. It’s not like he can see it though because my shades are dark and my head is fucking pounding—but hell if last night wasn’t worth it. “Your point?”

“My point is it’s one thing to be a rock star. It’s another thing to be the stereotypical nuisance that goes along with it.”

“Just like it’s one thing to be a lawyer, Nathaniel, and another thing to be the stereotypical uptight asshole that goes along with it,” I say in the same mocking tone that he did.

My brother stares at me with a disdain he’s undoubtably felt for longer than either of us can remember. The differences between us have always been night and day. Rebel and saint. Out of control versus fall in line.

“Sure. Fine. Say what you will.”

“I did,” I say. I’m being an ass, and I know it.

“I like my life,” he asserts.

No, he doesn’t.

“Ditto.” I shrug and earn the same scowl he’s been giving me for years. “Is there a reason for this ‘meeting’ you demanded, or is it just another way to let me know you’re perfect and I’m the fuck-up?”

Same shit. Different day.

My combat boots make the only noise in the posh office as I lift them up and cross them on the coffee table.

“My point was your record shows a history of habits, of acting out, and—”

“And I paid the fines asked. I did the community service required.” Jesus Christ. How many times do we have to rehash this? “I don’t get what the big deal is this time around. The courts or whoever allowed me to travel last time. Do your job and they’ll approve it again this time.”

“Huh.” It’s the only sound he makes and for some reason, it unsettles me when it shouldn’t.

“What is that supposed to mean?”

“Your legal indiscretions are one thing. The nonstop TMZ mentions and photos are another.”

“Dude.” I chuckle and roll my eyes. “I can’t help that paparazzi get paid to take pictures and make shit up.”