Jet (Marked Men, #2)(12)

I knew it bothered her that I didn’t come home often, considering they lived just a few miles down the road. But I couldn’t abide him stepping out on her and constantly hurting her. I knew he did a number on her emotional state, and I wouldn’t put it past him to have taken it further, to take it to a level none of us would be able to ignore anymore, but I was at a loss as to what to do about any of it. My mom was a great lady and she deserved someone who treated her like she was a queen, not a consolation prize.

“What do you want?” My patience was running thin.

We stared at each other in silence for a long minute before he pulled his shades back down and crooked the corners of his mouth up in a grin that made me want to punch him in the face.

“That band you helped get signed—Artifice—they’re pretty huge right now. You wrote most of their album, didn’t you?”

“So?”

“So I’m thinking they owe you pretty big, and it wouldn’t kill you to put in a call to them to see if they want any help on the European leg of their tour that’s coming up.”

I was two seconds away from grabbing him by the collar of his stupid bowling shirt and shoving him against the side of the building, when he held up a hand and smirked at me.

“I know you love your momma, son. What about her? You really want to leave me to my own devices for an unknown amount of time where she’s concerned? Who knows what that will look like this time? Neither one of us is getting any younger.”

The challenge in his voice was clear—as was the threat to my mom. I glared at him and consciously talked myself out of ripping his head off his neck and kicking it across the parking lot like a soccer ball.

“You’re out of your damn mind, old man. I already hate your guts. You really want to go this route with me?”

“She ain’t ever going to leave me, son, and you know it. There ain’t a damn thing you can do to me while you’re worried about her at home with me, and we both know it. Set up something with Artifice. I’m not asking to be their tour manager, or even the sound tech, but I want in on the show. I need a little adventure and a whole lot of good times.”

I was going to skin him alive and then use his bloody carcass as a stage prop. I pushed past him with a growl.

“I’ll see what I can do, but if she calls me and it so much as sounds like you upset her or were even thinking of upsetting her, I swear I will run you over in the street like the dog that you are. If you think blackmail is the way this relationship is going to play out, you don’t know me at all.”

“You’re damn straight I don’t know you. No son of mine should be wasting his God-given talent in this town, when he could be all over the map making millions and dropping panties in every city.”

I looked at him over my shoulder as I unlocked the door. “It is my undying wish that I was no son of yours, but neither of us is that lucky. Go away, Pop, before you make me do something that one of us will be sure to regret.”

I went into the darkened space, turning on lights as I went. It took a real honest effort to lock back down all the aggravation and resentment that always boiled to the surface when I had to deal with the old man.

It bothered me on an inexplicable level that he insisted we were so similar. I had been born with the talent he so desperately wanted. I had the life he longed to live practically banging down my door, and it infuriated him that all I wanted was for my poor mother to recognize that she deserved better and get away from him. I would never claim that I was an angel when I went on tour, and I would never deny that being in a band was a surefire way to get laid by the ready and willing. But I never left someone behind with a promise that I would behave, and I never had anyone in particular waiting for me to come home. I didn’t make promises I couldn’t keep. I learned that firsthand from him.

I set up the recording area and leafed through the list of songs the guys in Black Market Alphas dropped off. It was a stupid ass name, but the kids were talented and had a lot of potential to make it big. They were more poppy than I liked, falling more along the lines of Avenged Sevenfold. They were hard enough that teenage boys would dig them, but with enough harmony and melody that teenage girls would rock out to them as well. Plus they were young—the lead singer was only like eighteen or nineteen, so they had a lifetime to get better or flame out and die, which was probably more likely. I agreed to work with them because the drummer who wrote all the songs had a ton of talent and reminded me a lot of myself when I was younger.

Being in a band was hard work and being in a good band was often more work than the reward was worth. I was lucky that the guys I played with understood that I was happy being a big fish in a small pond here, rather than a speck in the ocean that ate new bands alive elsewhere.

I might be conceited in other ways, but I knew that wasn’t the case when it came to my ability to play good music. I knew I could sing and I could rock any guitar you put in my hands. I had enough fury at my old man and anger and angst built up over a lifetime to fuel me to write songs that were both powerful and relevant.

I also knew that I had enough swagger and attitude to own any stage I walked on, and that if I wanted my audience to feel what I was feeling, I could pull them in and refuse to let them go until I was ready. I was a good front man. What I didn’t have was the patience to play the game, or the desire to let others think that they had a right to what I had created. I didn’t have the necessary tolerance for bullshit and ass kissing that it took to be a major player in the industry.