The first finger of dread slithers up my spine. “So a different judge will approve it. This is Los Angeles. I know I’m not the only musician on probation in this town who needs to travel for work.”

“The judge assigned to review your request is an unforgiving prick.”

“Seems like everyone in the legal profession is.” He takes the barb and my condescending chuckle without so much as a flinch.

“The good thing is I know him.”

“Of course you do.” I lace my fingers behind my neck like I’m not sitting here talking about my future. “Gotta throw your weight around somehow, huh?”

He groans in frustration, but I know that groan is the last step before he clenches a fist, cocks it back, and plows it in my face.

Good to see he still has some fight left and that the corporate world hasn’t completely sucked the life out of him.

“You know, I don’t have to represent you, right? I have plenty of business and run a lucrative practice with clients who actually care about their reputations and the outcome.”

I grunt. My mood is shit and the dress down I got from the guys last night weighs heavily on me. The assurance I gave them that everything is chill is ringing hollow right now.

“You’re not the only successful Gizmodo family member,” he says, crossing his arms over his chest. “And yet you sit here with your shitty, I don’t give a fuck attitude like I owe you. Let’s get something straight, I don’t owe you shit. You want to help yourself? Fine. You don’t want to help yourself? No skin off my fucking back, but I suggest you knock the damn attitude off or you’re going to find yourself up shit creek without a paddle, and I sure as shit won’t jump into that mess to save your ass at that point.”

I hold my hands up and grin. Looks like I’m not the only one having a bad day. I may hate the message but it’s not the messenger’s fault. It’s mine. I’ll own it but that doesn’t mean I have to care one bit about it. “Okay. Fine.”

“It’s not fine. Far from it, Jase,” he says, using my first name. One that few get away with calling me.

“You’re right. It’s not. Give me the rigmarole. Tell me what a piece of shit I am. That I’m shaming our family name that clearly neither of us cares about. That I’m—”

“How about you admit you’re fucking up and don’t give a shit that you are? How about you act like you care? Like you’re contrite and might have taken the three-year probation you were handed—the one that was a fucking gift—as an impetus to grow up some and be a better man?”