by Megan Derr
One of the crew shot him a strange look and Jet shook himself. The last thing he needed was for the wrong people to catch him making romance-eyes at Jason. Bending back to his job, he quickly had everything ready and prepped and slipped away once more to join the others.
A short time later, he heard Masterson take the stage to make a production out of announcing them—after nudging oh so subtly for people to give him more money. Jet only put up with it because it was a cause they strongly supported, though he was such a fucking mess since his blow up with Jason he couldn't remember which cause of theirs Masterson shared. He'd just have to ask Dai later.
Dai nudged him and Jet took the earplugs he held out, settling them into place as they waited for Masterson to finally stop yammering. Finally the moment came and Jet strode onto stage to the sound of cheering. It kicked up to an even higher frenzy when they saw him, the tattoos and long hair and sparkly clothes that set Jet distinctly apart from the rest of his band mates.
Taking his place at his drums, he started up the beat for their first number while the others enjoyed their moments and even thoughts of Jason vanished in the magic of the music.
Track 08: 'Simple' is Another Word for 'Complicated as Hell'
Jason never got tired of looking at Jet when he was all dolled up for the stage. It was a look that should have come off as forced, typical, and cliché for a rocker, but Jet worked it like he owned it and Jason had always been helplessly weak for it. Rock god and twink all rolled into a bundle of irresistible. He always secretly wished he could get his hands on Jet while he was still dressed like that, or ask Jet to doll up just for him, but it wasn't the sort of thing he'd ever felt right asking about. Not with the way things stood between them. If he could fix things, though, and they remained a thing … maybe …
Yeah, like he would ever actually do it. No way in hell.
He sipped his champagne and wished he'd given in to the temptation for something stronger. But he was there to work first and fix everything with Jet later. Looking at his watch, he saw he had fifteen minutes remaining before he had to make the delivery. The envelope burned a hole where it was tucked into his jacket, but he could last fifteen more minutes.
What he didn't like was that Alvese wasn't supposed to have shown up until eight-thirty, but Jason had arrived at eight and noticed him only minutes later. That didn't say easy, simple drop-off to him. That said something was wrong and it was his ass that was going to suffer for it.
It was too late to back out because Azura hadn't exactly given him a back-up plan. At least he could handle himself.
Jason finished his champagne and handed it off to a passing waiter, content to huddle against a wall, listen to Dai sing, and wait until it was time. It really was a shame that their parents wouldn't unbend enough to see Dai and Jet perform. They might have been the antithesis of what all their parents wanted—and wanted for them—but hell, even Jason could only remain angry with them for so much for so long.
Though the voice was Dai's, Jason could hear Jet in every single word. He flicked his gaze to the back of the stage where Jet was fully immersed in his drums, playing like there was nothing else he'd rather do in the world.
Even with everything that weighed him down, Jet played flawlessly. Dai might have been the main face of the band, but anyone with half a brain knew Jet was the primary brains behind the band. If he had wanted his father's company, Jet would have made it flourish.
Despite everything pressing down on him, Jet played on.
And Jason had given in to a fit of temper and insecurity and called him a slut before throwing him out. He hoped he could fix it.
Glancing at his watch, Jason saw he had three minutes. He looked around and saw Alvese slipping out of the ballroom by way of the door all the way at the back. Following him, ignoring the sense of unease that still crawled along the back of his neck, Jason stepped out into the hallway. He looked around and saw Alvese at the south end by a set of double doors that led to a back patio area. Alvese hung back well in the shadows and clearly was waiting for someone.
As Jason reached him, Alvese looked surprised, but then he shook himself and laughed. "Escaping that racket, too? What is it really like working for a bunch of artists and family at that? Your brother is nothing like you. Must be hard."
"Who are you to insult my family to me," Jason said coolly. "I know we are not acquainted."
"I know you by reputation," Alvese replied unperturbed. "Who doesn't know the cool prince of the Kristopherson family and the brat princes who ran off to sing and dance. Yet still you help them. It's admirable even as it's laughable." He gave a sharp, leering smile. "I had the pleasure of meeting your cousin earlier this evening. He is even more colorful in person than on television. I could almost understand why you dealt with them, if they weren't family and you had fringe benefits, but then, I was never much for family loyalty, I admit. Still, I suppose they must be good for business."
Jason barely restrained himself. "I did not come out here to discuss Forever and a Dai with you, Alvese." Alvese's eyes narrowed when Jason said his name. "You're waiting for something I have," Jason continued.
Alvese gave him a thorough up and down look then smirked. "I am more than willing to take whatever you have, Mr. Kristopherson. Or should it just be Jason at this point?"
Jason sneered. "Mickey was right—you are an ugly little bitch."
Pure, unfiltered fury flashed in Alvese's eyes, there and gone like lightning. "Give me the package, Kristopherson. And a word of advice: Azura only cares about himself, his little pets—you've clearly met the charming slut of the group—and that corporate bitch he's always protecting. Everyone else is expendable, even the golden child of the firm that keeps him out of prison."
"I'm not going to look down on another man for being ruthless when my job relies on that very skill," Jason said idly, pulling the envelope from his blazer and holding it out. "Given the dubious nature of some of your rumored connections, I'm not convinced you're one to criticize. A good night to you, sir."
Alvese snatched the envelope, tucked it away, and stepped past him, ramming hard into Jason's shoulder. Rolling his eyes at the juvenile display, Jason waited until Alvese was gone before he returned to the ballroom himself.
He slipped back inside just in time to hear a slow number that had always torn him up because he could never tell for certain if Jet had written it about them, or if that was just massive ego-tripping and wishful thinking on his part. Throughout the ballroom everyone had fallen silent and still, utterly enthralled as they listened to Dai sing a bittersweet song about love broken by life.
Jason grabbed a flute of champagne and a small plate of hors d'oeuvres. Settling in front of a large window, he set the plate on the ledge and ate stuffed mushrooms and shrimp rolls between sips of champagne. He licked butter from his fingers while the song concluded and the crowd went crazy cheering and demanding more.
Though they were technically finished, the clamor for an encore and Masterson's less than gracious encouragement drove the band to play one last, lively number. Jason was more than a little impressed at how many people actually started dancing.
He sighed in annoyance when he felt his phone start buzzing and reached into his jacket to pull it out. The number of a particularly high-maintenance client flashed up at him. Of course Lerner was calling then. The man's timing was remarkable in its ability to inconvenience. Keeping his champagne with him, determined to get rid of the man as quickly as possible, Jason slipped back out into the hallway to take the call.
Hitting the receive button, he held the phone to his ear, turning to walk down the hallway—
—and the world exploded into pain as something slammed into his nose. Jason could feel it break. He dropped his phone and champagne and tried to get his bearings and retaliate, but with tearing eyes and blood pouring out of his nose, doing anything was impossible.
Before he could manage to do more than try not to fall over, someone slammed a fi
st into his gut, and that was followed immediately by someone else grabbing him from behind and throwing him into a wall. Jason screamed, or tried to, but that required breathing and he wasn't quite managing that.
His hair was grabbed and yanked roughly, and then his head was slammed into the wall again. Tears streamed down Jason's face. He swung out wildly, desperate to get any leverage just to get away, but all he did was scream in agony when the son of a bitch who grabbed his hand did something to his fingers. Were they broken?
Jason got his eyes open as someone yanked him forward and stared into an ugly, battered face with the prettiest green eyes. Then the beating resumed, kicks and hits and yanks coming at him from all sides. There were two of them. Maybe three.
Then, mercifully, it stopped being comprehensible and eventually he blacked out.
He woke briefly to the sound of someone frantically screaming his name. Jason opened his eyes and stared up through tears and probably blood, but couldn't really see anything. He could still hear, though, and that voice, that achingly familiar voice, would not stop saying his name. Was he crying? "Jet …"
When he woke a second time, Jason had the vague impression he was moving. People were talking.
Then nothing again.
When he woke the third time, he felt like shit and wished he could pass out again. As the world filtered into comprehension, he realized he was in a hospital. The sounds of machinery and air conditioning kept the room from being completely silent, but nothing ever fixed that creepy hospital smell he hated.
Jason stared up at the drop-tile ceiling, fuzzy thoughts drifting through his head. Jet. Dai. He was going to kill Azura. Simple indeed. When he found Alvese he was going to torture the bastard until he screamed like the coward he was and then he'd leave him to bleed out slowly.
Ugh. He felt like microwaved death. Jason closed his eyes and wondered just how much damage Alvese's goons had done. Everything hurt. Thinking hurt. Didn't such a high level of pain earn him a magic button to get the good stuff flowing?
Christ, he hated hospitals. From the broken leg at seven to the day Dai needed to get stitches—a day Dai didn't even remember—his Uncle, the time a client had taken a bat to him in the parking garage, a handful of unstable fans of various clients …
Jason thought wistfully of a mountain cabin and being locked inside by snow with nothing to keep him company but Jet at his most naked and shameless. Jet …
He tried to sit up to get his bearings, but immediately regretted it and slumped back down, tears of pain stinging his eyes. When he tried to speak, his voice wouldn't come; his throat and mouth were entirely too dry to manage it.
The door opened and Jason's eyes snapped to the nurse who stepped through the door. She looked tired, but smiled warmly at him as she approached the bed. "You're awake. We were starting to worry about you, Mr. Kristopherson. I won't ask how you're feeling. Let me just check you over. I bet you're about ready for another dose, hmm?
He tuned out the chatter, though her voice and the rhythm of it was soothing and actually did help as she went about sanctioned medical torture poking and prodding him. Everything was made infinitely better when the morphine kicked in—he assumed it was morphine, anyway. Whatever it was, it made him hate life a little less.
"Better?" she asked, and he kind of hated how nice she was because it was so much easier to bark and snarl at people when they were jerks. Not that he could do any such thing at the moment. Instead, he just gave the barest nod.
She smiled. "Good. The doctor will be here shortly. You took a pretty bad beating, Mr. Kristopherson; been asleep for a couple of days. They wanted to keep you in New York, but your family insisted on moving you here for your own safety. Certainly didn't help your injuries, however." She scowled briefly in disapproval, then smoothed the expression away. "Your cousin has barely left your side and your brother is here nearly as often. They're very sweet." She nodded toward something Jason couldn't see. "All kinds of media circling the hospital trying to get information or pictures." She wrinkled her nose in distaste. "Thankfully, your bodyguards are keeping that well-contained."
Bodyguards? The morphine was beginning to move him from 'fine' to 'nap now', but Jason fought it. "Body—" he broke off with a grimace, but managed to get out, "See."
The nurse frowned, confused for a moment, but then her expression cleared. "You want to speak with your bodyguard? I'll get him for you, but don't try to speak or move too much. You really were hurt badly." She looked him over one last time then bustled out of the room.
A moment later the door opened again and the man who stepped inside looked like he'd fallen out of a cheesy action flick: built large, smooth-shaved head, dark glasses, a well-tailored black suit with a designer purple and silver tie, and leather gloves that fit his hands too well to be anything but custom.
The man approached the bed and picked up a small cup that held ice. "Nurse said you could suck on these." He fed one to Jason, then removed his dark glasses, tucking them away as he said, "Azura assigned me to look out for you until he decides it's no longer necessary. My name is Allen Sweet. When I'm not here, you'll be looked over by my handler, Jack. Azura sends his condolences and says he will convey them in person once he has addressed the situation and made certain there will be no repeats."
When the cold ice had all melted and Jason's mouth and throat no longer felt like they were made of sandpaper, he tried to speak. "Anyone else hurt? The package?"
"No one else was hurt," Allen said, a faint smile curving his mouth. "There were no issues with the package—other than, of course, yourself." Jason nodded and relaxed against his pillows. "Get some rest, Mr. Kristopherson. Everything is being taken care of, and I believe your family is returning in the morning to check on you. In the meantime, you appear to be in very good hands." Like the nurse, he nodded at something Jason couldn't see before he slipped quietly from the room, sliding his glasses back into place.
Jason finally managed to turn his head enough to see what they'd indicated. Jet. His heart kicked up as he looked at Jet curled up on what had to be a hideously uncomfortable couch, still wearing his clothes from the concert and his long hair a tangled mess. He slept like the dead. Had Jet really stayed with him the entire time? Why hadn't Dai dragged him off?
Your cousin has barely left your side.
The words made Jason's heart give a lurch. If there was press clamoring and he'd been given bodyguards, then obviously everyone knew who he was, who Jet and Dai were, his family—and Jet must be needed to help fob off the media and calm down both their families. But he was there.
He slumped back against his pillow and tried to make his mind work, think of all the work waiting for him, how his clients would be affected if he was out too long—
The thoughts broke off as the door opened again and a doctor who looked like a kindly grandfather stepped in. "Good afternoon, Mr. Kristopherson. I'm sure you'd like to go back to sleep, but I'm glad you're still awake so we can go ahead and discuss your injuries. You took quite the beating, young man. Your head especially …"
Jason filtered the doctor speak to comprehensible English as he listened to the litany of his injuries: nasty lump on the back of his head; a cut on his forehead that had needed stitches; broken nose, split lip (that really didn't seem worth mentioning, but he admired the thoroughness); bruises around his throat (had they choked him at some point?); one cracked rib, more bruised; dislocated fingers on his right hand (he remembered that moment); another nasty cut on his right calf requiring stitches; so much bruising they'd worried about internal damage and wanted to keep an eye on him; and assorted cuts and scrapes all over the place.
It didn't sound like anything he couldn't heal from on his own damn couch, but Jason didn't ask about going home yet. He knew better. It sounded like he'd be weeks recovering, however, which was just annoying.
He just bet nobody would let him get any work done while he was recuperating. Jason began mentally drafting his arguments and guilt tr
ips, because if he didn't have something to do while he was being treated as if he was fragile, the murder list was going to grow and grow.
The doctor finally finished the unhappy catalog, concluding, "We'll keep you here until the stitches come out at the end of the week, mostly for observation. After that you should be free to go home, barring further complications, of course."
"Thank you," Jason said, gritting his teeth as the doctor and nurse lingered a few minutes more to fuss and discuss before they finally left. Slumping back, Jason closed his eyes, more than happy to daydream about Jet and a mountain cabin until the morphine finally carried him off to sleep.
When he woke again, the first thing he saw was his brother. He sat up enough to flick his gaze to the couch, disappointment crashing down hard when he saw that Jet was nowhere around. Shifting back to his brother, he asked, "What day is it? What time?"
Dai lifted his eyes to the ceiling. "I'm not telling you either of those things because then you'll just start trying to work. In case you missed it, Jay—you got your ass kicked. Those fucking spooks out there weren't provided by the firm. What the fuck are you—" He broke off, taking a breath. "How are you?"
"Been better," Jason said, wishing the words had come out more snappish. "Just yell at me and get it over with."
"What the fuck were you doing?" Dai snarled. "Shit is bad out there, Jay. That's why they're keeping you in here for as long as fucking possible! People are muttering about the Azura Syndicate and the Emperor. What the hell are you doing mixed up with those guys?"
Jason said nothing, saving his energy to deal with his father. If his beating had just blown things with a client, then it was guaranteed he wouldn't have to worry about going back to work. "It's fine," he finally bit out when Dai continued to glare expectantly.
"You call this fine? You were beaten nearly to death—"
"My injuries aren't that bad."
For a moment it looked as if Dai would be more than happy to make them that bad, but he reined himself in, raking hands through his hair. "There's shit all over the news that apparently this isn't the first time beatings have landed you in the hospital."
