2. Brooks
2
brOOKS
“Smile real pretty. This one’s going in the papers, for sure.”
The schmuck taking Brooks Kent’s mug shot smirked.
Brooks gritted his teeth, restraining the fuck off that floated through his head. Not that the asshole is wrong.
This was about as far from the evening he’d envisioned when he’d shown up for his concert tonight in Baltimore, Maryland. His buddy, Cormac Doyle, had flown in from Nashville to sub the electric guitar for the night—this was practically Cormac’s turf.
Their plan to make a quiet exit to Cormac’s small hometown in Western Maryland, then spend the week fishing and boating at a lake, had all gone sideways when Kayla had shown up at sound check, though.
“Follow me, Kent,” another cop said, tilting his head toward a doorway.
A doorway that would lead him to jail for the night. Or at least until Darren posted bail for him. Who knew when his manager would show up, though.
Brooks rubbed the torn skin on his knuckles. Would the cops give him ice for his bruised face if he asked? Not that he gave a shit about how he looked. But the split lip was hurting like hell, and the worse he looked when the news leaked about his arrest, the worse the public would view his fight.
Plus, I don’t want anyone to think that motherfucker got anything other than one good cheap shot at me.
He decided against asking anyone here for anything. Better to keep his head down. Shut up. Don’t give them any more dirt to bury you with.
He’d learned that lesson about ten years too late.
The sharp squeak of hinges sounded as the officer opened the door to the jail cell. As Brooks slipped through it, the officer thrust a napkin and a Sharpie at him. “Can I trouble you for an autograph?”
Seriously?
The officer smiled sheepishly. “My wife was headed to your concert. Damn near crushed her when she found out about it being canceled, and she’s been texting me for the last hour complaining. I figure this could be a good consolation prize.”
Brooks hesitated, then took the Sharpie and signed the damn napkin.
At least they had the decency to put him in a jail cell alone. They’d also let him finish his phone call to his lawyer when they’d shown up to arrest him. Christine had promised to get his manager working on bail.
Not that he expected special treatment. Mike was pressing charges for assault, and the fact was, Brooks had wanted to beat the shit out of the prick.
He’d punch Mike all over again, too. He hated Mike Valders more than he’d ever hated anyone—even his own father. Which says a lot.
Brooks sank onto the bench, his shoulders drooping.
His bruised left hand was going to hurt like hell for at least a week. And he knew he’d catch all hell from not performing tonight. Fuck my life.
The shuffle of a footstep pulled him from his thoughts.
Darren.
“How the hell did you get here so fast?” Brooks asked, rubbing his forehead.
“You pay me to be fast.” Darren looked over his shoulder at the officer who’d let him in, as though to dismiss him. Then he stepped closer to the jail cell bars. “Unless you’d like to spend the night here.”
“Fuck no.” Brooks stood. He just hadn’t expected to be here for only two minutes.
Darren smirked, his perfect white teeth shining in the fluorescent lighting. “You can thank me later. Let’s go.”
Whatever small miracle Darren had pulled to get him out of this place so quickly wasn’t something Brooks would question. Not fast enough to save his concert tonight, of course, but nothing could be done about that at this point.
By the time the cops returned his belongings and he walked out to the parking lot to his awaiting car, it was already close to midnight. He should have gone on at eight. What a way to finish the tour.
Darren held out the keys. “You been drinking? That’s the last thing?—”
“Not unless you count the shots of Jack Daniel’s with the cops,” Brooks quipped sarcastically. He snatched the keys. At least Darren wasn’t threatening to drive him. Brooks had made that rule clear from day one of their partnership. He drove himself everywhere, whenever possible.
“Straight to the hotel, you hear? We’ll be having an emergency meeting to see about damage control. Ava already knows, so save your breath if you’re expecting me not to shoot straight with you here. It’s bad, Brooks. Worse than ever.”
“It’s one fucking concert. One stupid arrest. Mike’s charges won’t hold water in front of a judge, but I’m not going to even let it get to that. I already told Christine to settle it out of court. Mike loves nothing more than money, so that should keep him happy for a while.” Besides which, when he’d talked to his lawyer, she seemed to think that a settlement would be the way to go. Less noise.
“If you think I’m on your side with this, you’ve got another thing coming,” Darren snapped, glaring at Brooks.
“Think.”
“Huh?” The lamppost above them threw a shadow onto Darren’s features.
“The expression is, ‘you’ve got another think coming,’” Brooks said dryly.
“No, it’s not. And who cares?”
He wouldn’t normally correct Darren about something dumb like this, but it proved the point for him. “Because you’re wrong. You think you know, but you don’t.” Brooks crossed his arms. “Just like you haven’t heard my side of what happened tonight.”
“I don’t have to.” Darren pulled out a pack of cigarettes and lit one. “I’ve heard it all before with you. And this time, you’re doing it my way, kid. Because if you don’t, we’ll both be fired.”
Brooks winced at the moniker. Darren was maybe ten years older than him. He rubbed his dark beard, his face itching from the discomfort of just about every damn thing that had happened today. Instantly, his neck felt hot, the watch around his wrist too tight, the damn black T-shirt too constricting. His jeans dug in around his waist, and he nearly ripped his flip-flops off.
Taking a calming breath, he managed, “And what’s your way?”
The tip of the cigarette glowed in the dark. “You know. I suggested it to you last fall after the Vegas?—”
“ Abso-fucking-lutely not.” The words spilled out of Brooks’s mouth faster than he could even react. Hell no.
“Yes, Brooks. We tried it your way. And your image is shot to hell. You want the public to think you’re doubling down on being a narcissistic asshole star who’s out of control? Then you better start looking and acting sorry. You need to recoup your reputation—which is barely salvageable, according to Ava. The studio isn’t happy with you, especially after that last album didn’t do so hot.”
“Maybe that has something to do with all the sampling shit you all pulled when my back was turned,” Brooks growled. Enough already.
“Samples or no, it wasn’t your best work, Brooks.”
Ouch.
But tell me something I don’t know.
“Yet . . . I’m still selling out shows, aren’t I, dickhead?” Brooks’s eyes narrowed. “You know what, Darren? You don’t have to wait to find out if Ava’s going to fire you. You’re done.” His hand enclosed around the key fob. “I’ve had just about enough of your bull?—”
“I already floated the idea to Ava, and she loves it, by the way. Thinks it’s the best PR move you could make. It did wonders for that actor from Turntable. Ava wants to go for it.”
Of course she does. Brooks leveled his gaze at his manager, strongly considering decking him, too. Then again, when had punching anyone ever gotten him anywhere?
Darren’s proposed plan was infuriating . . . but a sad commentary on public perception of his life, too. Who wouldn’t believe that Brooks Kent needed to check into rehab, sex therapy, and whatever other so-called treatment Darren planned? No one would bat an eyelash. A few loud apologies, some groveling, sorry-faced social posts where he admitted his addictions had taken him to a bad place—hell, it might even get him some interviews and sympathy.
The public gobbled that shit up. Darren was right.
No way, no how.
“Then tell Ava to come up with something else. Because I’m not doing that bullshit plan. Ever.” Brooks unlocked the car and slipped into the driver’s seat. “See you around.”
“Straight to the hotel or?—”
Slam. The door silenced Darren, who clearly hadn’t taken his firing seriously.
Brooks started the car with a push of a button and pulled out his phone.
Cormac picked up on the first ring. “What the fuck happened to you?”
“Long story.” Brooks adjusted the mirrors on the car. “Quick question. You still heading back home tonight?”
“I’m halfway there. I figured you’d be, ah . . . otherwise occupied.”
“You mean you figured I’d be in jail for at least the night?”
“Yeah, man, I mean, I’m glad you’re not unless I’m your phone call, in which case, I gotta tell you, I’m a terrible lawyer.”
Brooks chuckled. “No, don’t worry, I’m not that stupid.” He cleared his throat, glancing in the rearview mirror. Darren appeared to be heading across the parking lot. “Mind if I still come crash at your place?”
“Yeah, sure. I’ll text you the address. It’s a few hours away, though.”
Brooks pulled out of the parking spot, not bothering to wait for the text to come through. When it finally did, he opened it in his Maps app and glanced down.
Brandywood, Maryland.
Could be Podunk, Maryland, for all he cared. He just needed to get out of here.
Fast.