Page 4 of Sweet Surrender

“You’re right. It’s not. Give me the rigmarole. Tell me what a piece of shit I am. That I’m shaming our family name that clearly neither of us cares about. That I’m—”

“How about you admit you’re fucking up and don’t give a shit that you are? How about you act like you care? Like you’re contrite and might have taken the three-year probation you were handed—the one that was a fucking gift—as an impetus to grow up some and be a better man?”

“The last thing I need from anyone, let alone you, is to act like you’re my father.”

“Then take it from your lawyer,” he grits out. “You’re going to be hard-pressed to find a judge, let alone this judge, to allow you to leave the country. How’s that for starters?”

Mic drop.

His voice is so calm, so nonchalant, but he knew damn well that those words would stop me dead in my tracks.

The only thing I love is my band—my chosen family. And my brother, a person I’m bound to by blood and history, sure as shit just got my attention.

“You’re lying,” I say. Because yes, while I love Nathaniel, I also tend to hate him for things beyond his control. And right now, I loathe him for hitting me where he knows it hurts the most.

“Not lying, no. He’s that kind of judge.”

“Then be a better lawyer,” I throw at him.

The look he levels me with says a dozen different things. I am a better lawyer. Stop hating me because of our father’s choices.

“Insulting me isn’t going to make your situation better. You keep fucking up and aren’t learning your lesson. You’re on probation and yet another round of pictures were posted three days ago of you in a club with a bottle in one hand and a dozen empties in front of you.”

“I was drinking. So fucking what?”

“It’s also a violation of your probation.”

I scrub a hand over my face in frustration. Three-fucking-year probation for one hotel room. One really bad night where I trashed it after a rough day dealing with my mom and a fucking awful night taking it out on the guys. A night that I’ve since paid the repairs for, paid the fines for, and done what the courts asked of me. And yet that one fucking night is like a pair of handcuffs growing tighter each and every day.

I roll my shoulders. “It’s bullshit. You’re telling me that no one else on probation is drinking? Fuck that, Nate. Just—”

“Discretion is a real thing.” I go to speak and he holds up a hand to stop me. “Your selfishness, your constant fuck you to authority, is going to affect the select few that you care about.”

“Yep. Got it.” This conversation is just about over.

“That world tour you’re planning isn’t looking so worldly right now, is it?”

“Fuck this.” I stand up and toss the magazine beside me onto his perfectly polished table. “We’re done here. I don’t want to hear your insults or your—”

“Truth hurts. But you go. Run to the closest bar, down your drinks, run away like you always do when shit gets tough rather than ask me how to fix it.”

“I will.” I waltz out of his office and past his front office staff. What I’d give to have a door to slam, but all that’s in this fucking place is the spring hinges.

Run away like you always do when shit gets tough.

I will, Nathaniel. Just taking an old page out of the Gizmodo family playbook.

CHAPTER THREE

Hendrix

“You’ll figure it out. I have faith that you will.” Paul’s voice is in my ear causing goosebumps—not the good kind—to chase over my skin. My hands fist on my design folder as I shift on my feet and look around the line ahead of me in the coffee shop.

“Easy for you to say. I’m not supposed to be figuring anything out. I’m supposed to be baking my ass off.”

“Then go do it. Why are you on the phone talking to me?”

Paul’s lucky he’s not standing in front of me or else it might be a tough task for anyone to remove my fingers from where they’d be wrapped around his throat.