Sweet Ache

“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 …?”

Chapter 34

QUINLAN

Be there in thirty.

When I stare at the text once again, giddiness soars through me. I know we need to talk about things, sort out the creases, but at the end of the day, I want Hawke in my life and a chance for whatever this is to take its course.

I finally want it to rain.

Anticipation runs rampant as I look out the front window again. I’m nervous, excited, and a little unsettled at the text. I’m not sure what I was expecting in response to my text. Maybe a bit more enthusiasm? I don’t know. I’m overthinking this, know he said he would be here in thirty minutes and that in itself says he hasn’t moved on and wants to try to work things out.

Being cautious is okay, but it doesn’t take away the toll of the emotional wringer I’ve been through the past few days. Plus, I just plain don’t want to be hurt any further. I need to play it all by ear when he gets here, follow his lead.

Add to all of this the notion that the hearing must be over and if he’s getting here this quickly, then it must have gone in his favor. At least I think that’s how it works, but my clean record is proof of my naïveté of the judicial system.

Busying myself, I put some music on, and then shut it off, not wanting to appear like I’m trying too hard. In a fruitless attempt to waste time, I check my makeup, pull my hair up, and then let it back down.

When the knock sounds at the door, my breath hitches, nerves jittering through me from head to toe. I rush to the door and then force myself to stand there for a moment so that I can retain some of my dignity. I smooth my hands down my shorts and slowly open the door.

A cautious smile spreads across my lips at the sight of him in the just-setting sun’s light, which halos his silhouette. My rush of nerves collides with cautious optimism. He looks different from how I’ve ever seen him, sans his beloved vintage rock T-shirts, and wears a button-up dress shirt and slacks. My first thought is that he needs to change because he looks nothing like my rocker boy and too much like Hunter, but I really don’t care, he’s here and we’re going to figure out how to navigate this minefield together.