I trusted him. I believed him. Who wouldn’t after two years together? And now with the shit he packed up and took with him—his clothes, his electronics, his self-help books that clearly worked for shit—one would say taking his money back was warranted and it was. What wasn’t, however, was the money he took from our joint account. Stole. The one we started and pooled our savings to qualify for the loan.

And now I’m left in dire straits.

Like the kind of straits that have me wondering how I’m going to deliver one thousand cookies in two weeks’ time. I need money for the supplies, and yet I can’t make the money unless I provide the cookies. Even more, I can’t pay for workers to help me make the cookies because all the money goes to the supplies so it’s probably going to be me, myself, and I baking and decorating until my fingers want to fall off. Oh, and I need a bakery to actually make those cookies in, but paying rent when credit is already maxed out is enough to sap anyone’s creativity.

Yeah.

Fuck you, Paul.

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER TWO

Gizmo

“Disorderly 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—”