by Megan Derr
Fuck, he didn't even know anymore.
How had it happened? Jet realized he'd taken off before Jason had told him everything. He scrubbed at his face and tried to figure out what he was supposed to do. God. The funeral. The business. The people.
Jet wanted to throw up.
He looked up as the door opened, and all the turmoil in him abruptly calmed. No matter how tumultuous their relationship, Jason was his calm when he needed it. An empty, soundproof room when he couldn't take the noise anymore, when even music scraped him raw.
Jason closed the door behind him, then moved to sit beside him. They sat there, silent, for what seemed like hours. When he looked at his watch, though, Jet realized it had only been about fifteen minutes.
"So what happened?" he finally asked dully.
"Heart attack," Jason said in his detached lawyer tone. Jet didn't realize till he heard it how much he needed that tone right then. "His doctors have been warning him to back off the booze and the bad food and the late nights. Aunt Bethany has been haranguing him, too. He was too stubborn to listen. They tried to save him, but he died at around two in the morning."
Something nagged at Jet's mind then, but he was too tired to figure it out. "No one told me until nine fucking o'clock today because?"
"Because I said I would handle it, and I would do it when I deemed best," Jason replied. "It's being made public in an hour and a half. We're going to speak with the board of directors, then the press. A quiet press conference, nothing flashy. That's for the business. I'll arrange a press conference for the band later with your agent."
Jet nodded. His mind and stomach roiled as he tried to decide what he should do. "I'd better go," he said at last, fucking hating the idea. He couldn't stand the withering, condescending men who had always surrounded his father. Hated the cold offices, a world that was not as foreign to him as he wished.
Christ, what was he going to do about his father's business?
Later. He'd worry about it later. "I guess I'd better get cleaned up."
"I'll wait downstairs," Jason said and left as quietly as he had come. Jet ignored the need to call him back, beg Jason to hold him. They were getting along only because they weren't childish enough to kick one another while the other was down.
That didn't mean Jason would do something ... something lover-like if Jet asked. Hell, if Jet wasn't holding the Jayla Crystal thing over Jason's head, he wouldn't have Jason at all.
Making a rough sound, Jet stood up and went to get dressed. He took a shower, even though he'd gotten one when he first woke up, just to let the hot water soothe him a bit. When he was steps away from boiling, he finally shut the water off and after roughly toweling dry, padded into his bedroom to select his armor. There were very few occasions where he could not get away with some variation of jeans and t-shirt. At most, jeans and a button down. It was part of his image, and he'd always made it work for him.
But there were those few occasions, and even he wasn't tacky enough to wear casual clothes to announce and discuss his father's death. Opening the smaller of his two closets, Jet stared at the collection of formal wear.
The idea of wearing a suit turned his stomach. It just made it all too real; he wasn't wearing a suit until the funeral. Finally moving, he picked out black slacks and a dark green, button down shirt. He laid the clothes on the bed, then pulled on boxers, socks, and found a suitable belt for the slacks. When he was finally dressed, he brushed his hair, but otherwise left it alone. He put on his watch, his signet ring, and simple diamond studs in his ears; he was as ready as he was going to be.
Jason waited in the front hall, idly playing on the piano there. It was slightly out of tune, but Jet had never gotten around to calling someone in to fix it. He stood and listened for a moment, hundreds of emotions tightening the knot in his stomach, making his eyes ache with the effort to hold back tears he would not fucking cry.
Though Jason was not a musical prodigy like Dai, he was no slouch. There was always something haunting about the way Jason played; even when he picked happier pieces of music, he managed to inject something sad into them.
A few minutes later, Jason stopped playing. He turned around on the piano bench and rose smoothly to his feet. Looking Jet over critically, he finally gave a minute nod and said, "Ready?"
Jet nodded, grabbing his keys and wallet from the table by the door as he led the way outside. A car waited at the bottom of the steps, a gleaming black beauty of a Mercedes. One of the firm's cars, Jet knew. Jason's personal car was a dark green '76 Camaro.
He was silent as they made their way across town, out of the residential areas and into the heart of downtown. Jason worked for Kristopherson, Carmichael, and Jones, one of the top firms in the city. It had been started by their grandfather a million years ago. Jason's father had taken it over twenty-some years ago, and everyone knew eventually Jason would assume the mantle.
Jet's father, being the younger brother, had opted to take over the family's side business. He'd taken a couple of middling diners that pulled in little more than spending money and turned them into a popular chain that had gone nationwide in his fifth year of running the business.
It was an empire that Jet had been groomed to take over from the moment he could walk. The grooming had ended abruptly when he'd chosen to pursue music instead. He'd walked out at nineteen and never looked back. Abandoned the college selected for him, the plans made for him, and thrown everything into music school. Dai had been right beside him, and that had made the whole 'throwing his life away on a chance' a lot easier.
Hadn't always made it less lonely, since Dai's family still talked to him while Jet's was painfully silent, but it had made it easier.
Dark slid over them as they drove into the parking garage. "Is this a sit and let you do all the talking kind of meeting?"
"For the most part," Jason said. "Hanners will make digs about Dai. McCarthy will press about the future of the company. Jones will actually be upset—he liked your father. The rest will offer condolences and otherwise hold their tongues. Ignore them as you like, but if you want to pick a fight, keep it to a minimum. You're going to have it a lot worse after the will is read, which will happen on Thursday. Funeral is Wednesday."
The car door opened, but Jet didn't climb out, just stared at Jason. "This is moving awfully fucking fast."
"Uncle Jeff was very thorough in his paperwork."
"Too fucking bad he wasn't thorough about his health," Jet said bitterly and climbed out of the car.
They fell silent again as they walked through the parking garage to the elevators and took one all the way up the twenty-fifth floor. The firm had seven floors, each one allotted to different branches of law. Jason, he knew, had started in corporate law, but had moved to entertainment shortly before he joined the firm almost right out of law school.
Stepping out of the elevator and through the open double doors that led into the firm itself, Jet finally began to feel anxious. The room where they were meeting was dead ahead, the blinds on the glass walls drawn up. He could see every single fat cat in the room and knew they all regarded him as a mouse.
He could handle them, but just thinking about it exhausted him further. His father was dead, for fuck's sake. He shouldn't have been bracing for a fight with greedy suits eager to throw him out the nearest window.
The hand that fell on the small of his back startled him—and, surprisingly, calmed him. Jet glanced in surprise at Jason, fighting a sudden impulse to stop, grab him close, and take comfort in a soft, quick kiss.
But Jason wasn't looking at him, and Jet did not want to cause the scandal of the century by kissing his cousin in the middle of his uncle's firm. Jason opened the door to the meeting room and guided Jet inside and to one of the three empty seats.
"Why are we here on a Sunday?" asked a wiry man who looked like he could stand to eat a couple of the sandwiches that had made the Jeff & Beth Diners so popular.
Jason glanced at Jet, who gave him a mi
nute nod. Clearing his throat, Jason stood up, splayed his hand on the gleaming wooden table, and said, "It is with much regret, gentlemen, that I must inform you that Mr. Jefferson Matthew Kristopherson passed away last night. There will be a press conference in an hour; the funeral is on Wednesday at three pm."
There was a moment of silence as shock washed over the room.
"My condolences on your loss," said one of the three women at the table, looking at Jet with what seemed to be real sympathy. "If there's anything we can do, Mr. Kristopherson, you've only to let us know."
The others around the table quickly followed suit, some more sincere than others. A man who barely fit into his dark suit and whose black hair was badly dyed, shifted impatiently and then finally asked, "I don't mean to appear heartless, but where does this leave the company? That is not a matter—"
"Rest assured that Mr. Kristopherson was no fool. He made absolutely certain that all would be well when he was no longer here to oversee it himself. This is not a business meeting, Mr. McCarthy."
McCarthy reluctantly subsided, shooting a look Jet's way. Jet ignored him, attention more on the man who looked very much close to tears. Jones, he thought Jason had said. Huh. He hadn't known it was possible for his father to be that likeable to anyone.
The nasty thought immediately made him feel like an asshole. Jet drew a breath and let it out slowly. "Any further questions?" he asked.
"I'm surprised your partner isn't here," said another man, a gym whore if ever Jet had seen one. He was pretty in a plastic way, someone who clearly tried hard to emulate Jason's natural beauty and composure, but would never achieve it.
"Dai is taking care of our business while I attend family business," Jet said.
The man sneered. "I hardly think warbling a few songs is a business."
"That is enough," Jason said. "A man is dead—a colleague of yours, a friend, and you are sitting here making snide comments? Please remember that until the will is read and the late Mr. Kristopherson's desires are known, your position is tenuous at best."
"I am on the board—"
Jason cut him off with a glacial look. "There are ways to remove you. If there is nothing further, this meeting is over. I'm sure I do not need to tell anyone that speaking to the press is a bad idea."
One by one, the group rose, some leaving, some approaching Jet to offer more personal condolences. Thirty minutes later, Jet and Jason were alone in the boardroom. "I'm already sick of this shit," Jet said.
"It's going to get worse," Jason said curtly. "Do you want some coffee or anything? The press conference—"
"I know more about press conferences than you," Jet snapped back. He stood up and left the boardroom and walked angrily down the hall to the break room.
There was a small cluster of people there, but they fled when they saw him—except one young woman, who looked like she couldn't have been out of college long. "Um. Hi. I just wanted to say I love your music."
Some of Jet's anger eased, if not gone then at least distracted by the familiarity of talking to a fan. "Thanks. We're always happy to hear we're doing something right." He smiled at her and reached for his wallet, pulling out one of the cards he always carried that had a coupon for so much off tickets. "Take care, keep enjoying the music." He winked, and she laughed and then fled.
Left mercifully alone, Jet scrubbed at his face and then went to the coffee pot. His stomach growled, reminding him he hadn't eaten in forever, but the idea of food just made him want to hurl. Not that the coffee was going to do him any favors, but his stomach had long been beaten into resignation on that point. Toward the end of their just-finished tour, coffee was all that had gotten him through it. Germany was nothing but a fucking blur.
Familiar footsteps drew his attention, and he half-turned to glare at Jason. Staring back, face blank, Jason said in neutral tones, "Your mother is here."
"Damn it," Jet said, sighing. He gulped down his coffee, uncaring that it singed his tongue. Was it too early for alcohol? That definitely wasn't going to stop him when he got home.
He strode past Jason—and froze when Jason grabbed his arm and dragged him back. "You don't have to talk to her right now."
"My father, her husband, is dead. I'm her son, even if she probably wishes she had one more like you. I can't just ignore her."
Jason grasped his shoulders and squeezed lightly. "Whatever. I know what Aunt Bethany is like. She'll come at you with claws out."
"Don't pretend to care," Jet snapped, eyes burning. "We both know why you bother to put up with me at all, cousin. Let me go."
To his surprise, Jason obeyed. Jet strode off back down the hall, saw the boardroom was empty, and kept walking until he came to Jason's office. To his complete unsurprise, his mother had taken throne on the brown suede sofa there. He was surprised none of her handmaidens were about, but maybe she thought she'd appear more tragic if she was alone.
Stepping into the office and closing the door, Jet greeted, "Mother."
"Jefferson," she replied and dabbed at her eyes. To her credit, she looked as if she'd been crying—really crying, not for-a-purpose crying. "I didn't think you'd come."
Jet bristled at that, but managed to keep his tone civil when he replied, "I'm a selfish bastard, mother, not a complete asshole."
She pursed her lips at his language, but said only, "You will be giving his eulogy."
"No, I will not," Jet said flatly. "If you try to force my hand, I won't show up."
"You would skip your father's funeral—
"He skipped my life!" Jet snarled, barely fighting the urge to put his fist through another wall. His hand already hurt like hell, he didn't need to make it worse. "I sent you CDs, tickets, invitations. You didn't show for my graduation, not the concerts, the charity events, the awards ceremonies. Nothing. He's my father and I didn't hate him, but I sure as fuck didn't like him enough to endure your machinations. You want someone to speak who gave a damn? Get Jones. He was crying harder than you. If you only came here to bully me, mother, instead of to act like fucking family, then just go."
Her mouth tightened to a flat line. "I'm here for the press conference."
"Fine," Jet snapped, then raked his hands through his hair. He just wanted it over with so he could go crawl into a hole. Blowing out an irritated breath, he headed for the door. "Come on, it's going to start any minute now."
"Wait a moment, Jefferson," she said.
She smelled like cherry blossoms with a hint of coconut and something else he'd never identified. The scent was custom, one she'd worn all his life, made by a friend of hers in the business of making people smell good. When she reached him, she combed her fingers gently through his hair, settling it back into place. Clucking her tongue, she fussed with the collar of his shirt and smoothed it down. "You should have worn a tie," she said, but the reprimand was surprisingly gentle for her.
Jet stared at her hard for a moment, but then sighed and hugged her ever so briefly. "Come on, let's get this over with."
As press conferences went, it was relatively painless. Jason was good at his job and had only called in those reporters with whom he had a solid rapport—men and women who knew better than to fuck around.
The business side of Jet was already anticipating the interviews they would be requesting after enough time had passed. It made him think of the press conference he'd have to do as part of Forever and a Dai.
His father was dead. It really didn't seem fair that the world couldn't stop intruding for ten fucking minutes. Who was it who had sung about the world not stopping for a broken heart? Sounded country. Fuck it.
By the time it was all finally over, Jet barely heard anything that was said to him. He said goodbye to his mother, ignored everyone else, and went without protest when Jason led him back to parking garage.
Inside, Jason put up the privacy window between the front and back halves of the car. Jet raised his brow in silent query, and Jason said, "The will is getting read on Thursday."
> "Yeah, you said."
Jason stared at him a moment, as if turning a decision over in his head one last time. "I'm not telling you what I'm about to tell you."
"Awesome," Jet said, hating whatever it was already. "So why are you telling me?"
"Because I think you're going to want to be braced for it."
Jet snorted. "Braced for what? That he's giving his shit to someone else? Who?"
"You," Jason said quietly. "Everything, minus the house and some money for your mother and some things he left to the rest of the family, is going to you."
For the second time that day, Jet felt like the world had been yanked out from underneath him. "That. Fucking. Bastard."
Why would his father do that? The entire goddamn world knew Jet didn't want it. He was a drummer in a rock band for crying out loud. He'd turned his back on his family, except for his cousins, years ago. He was pushing thirty, making it nearly eleven years since he and his parents had stopped speaking.
Jet fisted his hands in his lap, barely keeping his anger at bay. When the car finally stopped in front of his house he threw himself out of it and climbed the stairs. Once he got inside, he locked the door behind him and made straight for the kitchen.
The liquor cabinet had plenty of options, but Jet went straight for the bourbon. By the third shot, the tears had won out, and Jet set the bottle aside and cried.
Track 02: Pleasure Doing Business
Jason ate breakfast in the kitchen with the hope that he would be left alone. So far it seemed to be working. He wished he'd been able to make his escape the night before, but his father had not left off discussing his brother and the business and a million other things that really could have waited.
About the service and the funeral? Nothing. About his brother? Less than nothing—if that was possible. His plans for his brother's company? Plenty. Jason was not looking forward to the kaboom that would result when he finally read the will. Two more hours and he would have to handle that headache, and he was dreading it more and more with every passing second.
