Page 98 of How to Be a Rockstar's Girlfriend

Jett chuckles. “You may have a point.”

We reach the brewery and are immediately shown to a table in the corner.

“There are some tourists in here,” the waitress says. “Better to stay a bit hidden.” She narrows her eyes on me. “Unless you’re going to hit on them.”

I raise my hands. “Not me. I’m taken.” I motion to Jett. “He might be interested, though.”

Jett frowns. “I’m supposed to be taking it easy.”

Taking it easy has never stopped him from charming a fan into his bed before. He uses sex like a drug. When he isn’t consuming actual drugs. Although, he doesn’t do drugs around us anymore. Not after the great mushroom debacle.

“You doing okay?” I ask once we’ve ordered and the waitress has left us alone.

He taps his forehead. “Do you need to ask?”

“I meant mentally. You’re not interested in chasing after female fans and you were moping around this morning.”

He drums his fingers on the table. “Just bored. Ready to get on tour again.”

Before Mercy, I felt the same way. Anxious to hit the road, to play big venues, have the fans scream at me. But not anymore.

I miss the music. But the rest? Being exhausted all the time? Unable to sleep on a moving bus? Waking up not knowing what city I’m in? Nah.

My phone buzzes in my pocket. Usually, I ignore it. But maybe it’s Mercy. Maybe she’s done with work early. Excitement fizzles in my blood.

I don’t glance at the caller before answering. “Hey! Missing me?”

“Son,” my dad begins and my blood boils. How did he get this number? Why won’t he leave me alone?

“No. I don’t want to hear it.”

“Don’t make me sue you again.”

I growl. “Sue me all you want. You’ll never win.”

“Son,” he begins again.

“I am not your son.”

“I saw you born in the hospital, I raised you until you left for college, I paid for your guitar lessons for years.”

Here we go again. He paid for the guitar lessons and thus he has a right to all of my earnings. Never mind I’m the one who played those strings until my fingers bled. Never mind I’m the one who shared a studio apartment with four other men to save money. Never mind how I survived on noodles and day old pizza for years until we got our first record deal.

My dad and mom are the ones who suffered. Not me and my bandmates.

“You haven’t been answering my calls.”

“Probably because I don’t want to speak to you.”

“You are my son. You will answer me when I call,” he demands.

We could go around in circles for days. I’m not interested. I haven’t been interested in years. Not since the first time a process server announced You’ve been served.

“What do you want?”

“We need help getting the car fixed.”

I massage my temple where I feel a headache coming on. “What’s wrong with the Mercedes?”

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