Sweet Ache

Chapter 33

HAWKIN

I tap the rhythm out to the song circling in my head, lyrics absent but beat present as I try to work through the nerves humming in my system. I’ve worked crowds of thousands of people but sitting here on the hard leather seat, the judge’s bench in front of me, Ben to my left, and nothing but the unknown stretched out before me, I’m nervous as fuck.

Add to that he took my phone from me so that it would not interrupt or distract the proceedings, so I’m shit out of luck when it comes to trying to ease my anxiety by getting lost in mindless rounds of Angry Birds.

I’d kill for some Skittles right now. Maybe candy would help calm me.

“Relax,” Ben murmurs, closing his hand over the top of mine to stop my thumb from thumping, and immediately the jogging of my knee beneath the table takes its place.

“Easy for you to say,” I snap, my misplaced anger directed at him. It’s not his future and his freedom on the line here. Come to think of it, it shouldn’t be mine either. I sigh loudly. This self-doubt is such a new thing these days and I hate it.

“I have a feeling everything is going to—”

“Feelings don’t mean shit!” I bark in a hushed whisper, and then squeeze my eyes shut to staunch my anger. I mean the comment in more ways than one, and I can’t fucking think about her right now because I need to focus on this, on the here and now.

Ben sighs in resignation as I glance over my shoulder for the hundredth time since we’ve been sitting here waiting for the judge to arrive. I know she won’t be here but for some reason I keep looking, keep hoping. I’m a poor fucking pussy-whipped sap.

Keep telling yourself that, Play, and you just might believe it. Being whipped is the least of the things I need to worry about. Thinking I’m falling in love with her is a tad bit larger.

I shake my head in shock as the realization hits me right now when I can’t do shit about it. The panic I expected to feel should this day ever occur doesn’t come because I’m scared, but rather because of how bad I fucked this up. I may finally have found a woman I’ll let in my battered heart and then lost her all in one fell swoop.

Stellar.

My eyes sweep back over the benches and see no one, not even Vince. I told the guys I didn’t want them here but despite that I still expected Vince to be here representing the band. And a small part of me is shocked that Hunter’s not here. I wouldn’t put it past him to want to watch his brother pay for his sin, take a little bit of joy out of me being in the legal hot seat for once. It’s a fucked-up thought but it’s true. Besides, he’s pissed at me enough right now because I’ve cut off his funds, so I’m thankful he’s skipping this party.

“Man you’re making me nervous,” Ben says in my ear, and thank fuck whatever was up his ass ten minutes ago when he walked in this courtroom has been removed because last thing I need right now is him being an asshole to the judge and jeopardizing my freedom. “There’s an accident on the ten. We just missed it but that’s why the judge is late. Just relax.” He draws the word out and if I hear the term one more time I’m gonna flip my shit.

If only traffic was the reason that Quinlan isn’t sitting behind me too. I’d bet a million times over that were things right between us, I could ask her to be here, but think I should refrain from doing what got me into the mess with her in the first place.

I tug on the collar of my shirt and wonder how in the hell Hunter can wear these damn shirts on a daily basis. I’ve got enough things trying to tighten around my throat and suffocate me, last thing I need to add to it is a shirt.

“Ben?” the feminine voice behind us says.

“What’s up, Steph?”

Steph? I turn to see who she is, surprised by the tiny, eye-catching woman behind me when I’m so used to Ben’s usual male aide. She holds out my phone and looks at Ben, asking if it’s okay for me to take it.

“Mr. Popular,” he teases. “Sure. It’s not like the judge is here anyway.”

“Thanks, Dad,” I mock as I reach out to take my phone the same time Steph closes her hand.

She gets flustered when our skin touches and jerks it back. “I’m sorry…. I didn’t mean to … Here.” She shoves my phone out to me, face turning red. I realize the same time Ben starts chuckling that Steph is nervous because of who I am. Poor thing, trying to do her job and not fangirl at the same time.

“Thank you,” I murmur as I give Ben a look, wondering if she has the job because he’s hitting the hottie. Her skills outside of the office are presumably more important, and by the sheepish look on his face I know the answer.

I take my phone, relieved to have something to fidget with even if it’s just for a moment. And then once it’s in my hand trepidation floods me because I worry that it’s going to be from Westbrook, something wrong with my mom.

My heart suddenly vaults into my throat when I glance down and see it’s from Quinlan. We need to talk. We hit a sour note and need to find the right chord again, decide where to go from here. Call me when you can. Good luck.

I have to hold in a childish whoop of excitement. Relief mixed with hope surges through my system and I swear that I’m so emotional over her text because I’m inundated with anxiety right now about the trial, but shit, I’ll take whatever I can get from her at this point. I need to get my foot in the door so that I can explain, prove to her that I know I fucked up and I’m not really that guy. I’m this guy, a man still a little out of tune but a helluva lot more in sync than I was back when I made that stupid-ass bet with Vince.

Right when I start to text her back, as I’m trying to figure how to say the million things running through my head, I hear, “All rise.”

“Fuck,” I mutter as the bailiff announces the judge’s presence in the courtroom. Perfect damn timing.

I look at Ben, down at my phone, and know I have only seconds but at the same time I fear if I don’t respond, Quinlan is going to think … I don’t know what she might think. I shove the phone over the railing behind me to Steph. She looks at me with surprised eyes. “Go give this to Vince. He should be here any minute. Have him call her. Tell her I’ll call her when I’m done.” I swear I sound like a pathetic sap but she just nods. Now, I just hope I’m right in thinking he’ll be here.

The severity of what the next few minutes, hour, who knows how long, may have over my life hits me again, as I stand and face the front of the courtroom. The quick reprieve I felt with Quinlan’s text is gone immediately with only the lingering whisper of possibility as the judge walks in.

Just like I do before taking the stage to calm my nerves, I hang my head down, close my eyes, and take in a fortifying breath. I can pretend all I want that I’m a hard-ass, that this isn’t a big deal, but when it comes down to it, the man before me with the black robe holds my fate in his hands.

The silence stretches as he sits down, and then I hear throats clearing—the press filling the benches behind me, waiting to report my fall from grace. I know if I get off, it will be a blip of a byline, but if I get sentenced it will be this week’s cover of People. My pulse thunders in my ears and I feel like my shirt is strangling me as the pins and needles I’m standing on begin to jab their way into my confidence.

“So, Mr. Play”—I look up when the judge’s deep baritone hits my ears to meet his eyes—“are you trying to fulfill the middle cliché of the sex, drugs, and rock-and-roll reputation …?”