K. Bromberg: Sweet Ache

“You mean it was in Hunter’s pocket.”

This conversation needed to have ended like ten minutes ago. Or better yet, never have happened.

“Nah. It was me. People kept mixing us up all night long because we both had on jeans and dark T-shirts. My jacket, my pocket, my fault.” End of story, Ben. Drop it.

My mind flashes back to the look Hunter gave me and the desperation in his voice as he tossed me his jacket when the cops came barging in. “Please, Hawke. It’s not mine. I swear. I can’t go to jail for this stupid mistake. It’ll kill Mom.”

“Convenient theory.” He breaks through my thoughts and brings me back to the here and now. “But you’re forgetting the simple fact that there are pictures from the party and not once were you wearing that jacket … but Hunter sure as hell was. Your martyrdom is admirable, but I still call bullshit,” he says, leaning back, with contempt in his eyes.

And I hate putting it there, hate seeing the obvious disappointment and knowing that I’m letting him down, but I can’t do what he’s asking. I can’t risk Hunter being locked up for the long haul under California’s Three Strikes law for some stupid coke. Mom’s health is bad enough as it is—losing her baby might just push her over the edge. Might be the last straw.

And besides, I don’t go back on my promises.

Vince snickers again and Ben’s eyes shift over to glare at him. “You think this is a fucking joke, Vinny?” Ben says, reminding Vince of the hoodlum punk he once was and the nickname he’s distanced himself from as much as possible.

The laughter stops immediately, the tension ratchets up another notch, and their inherent dislike for each other rears its ugly head. “You want your boy here locked up? Your new album and tour to go to shit because he’s getting some love in cell block G? Can’t sing to the groupies then, now, can he?”

Vince sits forward in his chair and just shakes his head. I can see his anger vibrating beneath the surface, but thank fuck he reins it in, because I sure as hell don’t need more to deal with.

“I know what’s at stake, Benji . No one has to spell it out for me.” He raises his eyebrows, the come at me taunt written all over his face.

“It was mine,” I reassert to break the hold of our shared history and bring their attention back to the shit I need over and done with.

“I’m still not buying it. You ready to perjure yourself and have both you and Hunter end up in jail? Protecting your brother is one thing, but hell, Hawke, you ,” he says on a cough, and I sure as hell know he means Hunter, “were carrying enough grams to be charged with intent to sell. We’re talking hard time here if you get convicted.”

“I won’t be convicted.” I make the pronouncement with certainty, although internally doubt slithers into the cracks of my resolve.

“You said you’d never have a number-one single on Billboard either,” he replies, eyebrows raised, “and I believe you’re sitting on four of them in the last two years…. Never say never, Hawke.”

“You made your fucking point, Ben. Now get off my case and quit passing judgment on me. I—”

“I’d love to get off your case. In fact, there shouldn’t even be a fucking case because it should be Hunter and not you sitting here.” The silence practically suffocates me as his eyes dare me to correct him. To confess I’m taking the rap for my brother.

I want to say fuck this shit, storm out, and go beat the hell out of Gizmo’s drums until my arms are sore and my ears ring, but that won’t fix a goddamn thing. Instead, I lean back in my chair and rest my head, eyes to the ceiling and fingers pinching the bridge of my nose.

I’d bet my ass that a judge isn’t going to throw the book at me. There’s no way.

“And before you sit there and start thinking that a judge wouldn’t give you hard time for your first real offense, think again.”

How in the hell did Ben know what I was thinking? “Fuck that. I’m as clean-cut as they come besides the shit we all did as kids.”

“You mean as clean-cut as rockers come, right? Because let’s face it, the Abercrombie & Fitch look works in your favor, but you still have a documented press record of being the hotheaded rebel: club fights, paparazzi run-ins, a penchant for fast cars….”

“And your point is what? Being hotheaded and being a fucking drug dealer are two different things, right?” Vince speaks up and shifts forward so his elbows rest on his knees. The guy would go to bat for me in a goddamn football game if I asked him to.

But of course so would Ben. At least my back is covered from all angles.

Then his comment about prison hits me again and I shudder at the thought of who else might want my back if I was to be convicted. Fuck me.

I blow out a frustrated breath and close my eyes, knowing I’m going to piss somebody off regardless of the decision I make. It sucks when doing what’s right and what is required of you are two completely different things.

So let’s add a few more people to disappoint to my list . Save Hunter and then possibly my mom and keep my promise, or let him sink, lose my integrity, but make everyone else happy?

But what makes me happy? None of the fucking above.

“True, but a judge would just love to make an example of that pretty face and your public status. The women screaming they want to have your babies may boost that ego of yours but they aren’t going to do you an ounce of good influencing a judge on the length of your sentence.”

Vince snorts beside me. “I wouldn’t put it past his fangirls…. I’m sure a few would offer the judge their blow job services in order to save this asshole. Gives a whole new meaning to the phrase ‘Meet me in my chambers,’ right?”

I roll my head against the back of the chair to glare at him but he ignores me. And I know he’s pissed, know he’s fed up with Hunter’s bullshit affecting me and in turn the band.

So I stare back at the ceiling, head and heart in conflict but only because I know this is wrong, that I’m just as guilty for enabling Hunter. Know that when I tell myself this is the last time I’m going to save his ass at the expense of mine that I have to really follow through.

Blood is thicker than water but you can still drown in it all the same.

I lift my head up and look at Ben again. “What are my options?” I refuse to talk about whether it was really me or not again for the umpteenth time. Subject’s dead.

Ben twists his lips as he looks at me with confused disbelief over why I’m standing my ground but he shouldn’t be, he knows my history. “Man …” He sighs in resignation. “I wish you’d reconsider, but I knew you weren’t going to, so I spoke to some associates of mine who know the judge on your case and well … and there is a possibility …”

“A possibility? Dude, I need something concrete here,” I tell him, glancing over at Vince, who’s staring at Ben in anticipation of how he’s going to fix the impossible situation.

“Well, the judge is an alumnus of USC and likes to make his status and success known by giving back to the school in unique ways.”

He’s fucking lost me here. What does this have to do with me? “And …?”

“Well, my associates suggested that maybe if you agree to do a seminar about public media and the pressures on the modern-day public persona—”

“A seminar?” I swear to God Ben’s lost his mind. Does he not remember that school was not my strong suit? Shit, I was so busy daydreaming about song lyrics and escaping into their notes, I never paid attention. Well, unless she had a short skirt, a tight top, and an appreciation for the backseat of my car. I sure as fuck paid attention then. “Like teach, lecture, whatever one class?”