To Amy Tannenbaum: Thank you for your guidance through this crazy minefield of publishing. I’m lucky to have you on my side.

To Kerry, Jessica, Erin, and the team at Penguin: Thank you for making my first foray into traditional publishing not too scary.



Prologue


HAWKIN

“If you really want someone to manhandle your ass, I’m sure I could arrange for it to happen discreetly for you.”

I whip my head up and choke on the M&M’s I just swallowed. Did he really just say that? I meet Ben’s unamused eyes staring from behind his glasses and he just raises his eyebrows. His out-of-character comment causes me to stutter, while Vince chuckles at my friend’s dig.

“You’re my lawyer—get me out of it.” I shake my head and match him glare for glare. “Earn the big bucks you charge me…. Now, wouldn’t that be something?”

I know I’m being an ass but I’m fed up with everything right now. The lyrics that won’t come to complete the album, Ben sitting across from me daring me to tell him the truth so he can scold me like the kid I was when we first met years ago, and fucking Hunter and his bullshit that has me in this predicament.

Again. But this time with a helluva lot more on the line.

“You want to be an asshole, Hawkin? I can play that part real well too in case you’ve forgotten. How about you come clean? How about you make Hunter pay for his own mistakes and you stop risking everything you’ve worked so hard for?” He leans forward, props his elbows on the massive desk, and continues our visual pissing match over his folded hands. The truth in his words hangs heavy in the air between us.

“I told you—the jacket was mine.” I grit my teeth on the lie. “I don’t know how the blow got in the pocket…. Shit, I was drunk off my ass. I set it down for a few minutes—some groupie probably stuffed the baggy of the shit in there or something. I don’t remember. Party got out of control, cops came, shook us all down, and it was just there in my pocket.”

“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?”

“More like twelve classes,” he deadpans and pushes the jar of chocolate across his desk, using my notorious sweet tooth to try to soften the blow.

“Hell no!” I say the same time Vince bursts out laughing hysterically like a goddamn hyena. Did Ben take the blow from evidence and get high? Because hell if he doesn’t sound like it with that suggestion. School was a sour note played on an out-of-tune guitar to me, and now he wants me to teach?

Clearly Ben doesn’t think our laughter is very funny, because he just sits and stares at me until our laughter dies down. He’s just about to speak when the intercom on the desk beeps. “Yes, Jennifer?”

“Mr. Levine’s here to hand deliver the contracts and wants a quick word with you if possible?”

“Tell him I’ll be right there but I only have a minute because I’m with a client,” Ben says as he rises from his chair, holding a hand up to me. “I’ll be right back. It’ll give you time to think this over … and you do need to, Hawke. You’re in some serious shit here. Twelve lectures and you’re in the judge’s good graces, meaning the possibility of a lighter sentence if any at all.” He buttons his suit jacket as he moves from behind the desk toward the door to his office. “Your options are limited: no band and jail time or teach the seminar and finish up the album.”

He puts his hand on the door and turns to meet my eyes again. “Don’t toss the idea. You need this, Hawke. If you’re protecting Hunter to help your mom, what do you really think will happen to her if you’re gone? The one person who’s really looking out for her?” And with that he opens the door and leaves the room as I bite back the expletives I want to hurl at him.

“Fuck man!” I exhale the words once the door is shut, put my hands behind my head, and slouch back in the chair, his low blow hitting its mark dead on.

“Dude … you teaching? That’s hilarious,” Vince says, words interspersed with laughter. “Professor Play. Sounds like a bad stage name for a porno.”

“Shut it, Vince.” Even if I had any intention of saying yes, what the fuck would I talk about? I mean I’m sure the judge isn’t looking for someone to lecture about the women who ask me to sign their tits or who hand me their panties as a proposition. I shove up out of the chair, needing to move, to chew over all of this.

“Well, if you’re not sure what to do, man, I’d say you should just tell the truth and quit cleaning up Hunter’s shit.”

“I am telling the truth!” I grit the words out with my jaw clenched, hands fisted momentarily as I control my urge to punch the wall beside me. They need to stop making me repeat myself.

“Yeah. Uh-huh.”

“Vince.” It’s the only warning I can give him because he’s right, and I don’t have anything else to convince him otherwise. He’s my best friend for Christ’s sake, knows me better than I know myself, and yet here I am, spinning a web of lies, hoping he can’t see right through them.