CHAPTER TWO
Gizmo
“D isorderly 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.”
“What is a judge to think when you say ‘I’m on my best behavior. I won’t do the same shit I’ve been doing again’?”
“Who said I was going to say that?”
His chuckle is condescending and so much like our father’s that I roll my shoulders and fight the urge to walk out. “Me. Your lawyer. I’m the one who said you were going to say and do that or else I won’t represent you.”
“Come on.” I sigh. “The dramatics are so not like you.”
“Dramatics?” he scoffs. “Really?”
Bitterness coats my tongue but I swallow it down like cheap vodka. “Really.”
“So that latest story isn’t true?”
“Which one would that be?” I narrow my eyes at him and shake my head in disgust.
“Exactly. Which one would that be ? There are so many posted you don’t even know what the latest is.”
“There are opportunists everywhere willing to lie for a payday. Willing to say an innocent picture is something bad. I don’t have to tell you that.”
“And yet the one journalist in particular who keeps the stories about you alive by constantly stirring the pot is causing you the most trouble.”
“Lori is... Lori is just that—an opportunist,” I state about the journalist who has the biggest hard-on for me. “I didn’t do shit.”
“And there’s always an excuse for your behavior.”
I bite back my smart-ass remark, my cutdown to blame him when I’m well aware of my own actions. I own them. It’s so much easier to blame him.
Hasn’t it always been?
“I put in the request to your probation officer like I always do when you need to go overseas. He said he’d bring it to the judge.”
“Like he always does,” I finish for him, wanting to hurry up this fucking urgent conversation we needed .
“Correct. And he did. But the judge who normally approves your travel, your... exceptions, without pause, is no longer there.”
The first finger of dread slithers up my spine. “So a different judge will approve it. This is Los Angeles. I know I’m not the only musician on probation in this town who needs to travel for work.”
“The judge assigned to review your request is an unforgiving prick.”
“Seems like everyone in the legal profession is.” He takes the barb and my condescending chuckle without so much as a flinch.
“The good thing is I know him.”
“Of course you do.” I lace my fingers behind my neck like I’m not sitting here talking about my future. “Gotta throw your weight around somehow, huh?”
He groans in frustration, but I know that groan is the last step before he clenches a fist, cocks it back, and plows it in my face.
Good to see he still has some fight left and that the corporate world hasn’t completely sucked the life out of him.
“You know, I don’t have to represent you, right? I have plenty of business and run a lucrative practice with clients who actually care about their reputations and the outcome.”
I grunt. My mood is shit and the dress down I got from the guys last night weighs heavily on me. The assurance I gave them that everything is chill is ringing hollow right now.
“You’re not the only successful Gizmodo family member,” he says, crossing his arms over his chest. “And yet you sit here with your shitty, I don’t give a fuck attitude like I owe you. Let’s get something straight, I don’t owe you shit. You want to help yourself? Fine. You don’t want to help yourself? No skin off my fucking back, but I suggest you knock the damn attitude off or you’re going to find yourself up shit creek without a paddle, and I sure as shit won’t jump into that mess to save your ass at that point.”
I hold my hands up and grin. Looks like I’m not the only one having a bad day. I may hate the message but it’s not the messenger’s fault. It’s mine . I’ll own it but that doesn’t mean I have to care one bit about it. “Okay. Fine.”
“It’s not fine. Far from it, Jase,” he says, using my first name. One that few get away with calling me.
“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.