Page 6 of Gin and Bear It

“So a regular day for you?” I shoot back.

He just raises an eyebrow at me in his usual vaguely condescending way and looks at his phone.

He was up Dad’s ass-crack our entire lives, being his shadow and his perfect successor. Then something blew up between them last Thanksgiving. Apparently things are still rough, because the air among all of us gets icy when Dad comes in. Almost late, by the way, but he’d never admit that he ever does anything wrong.

He and JD exchange a few terse words about the business, even though Dad’s retired now. Maybe if Dad hadn’t ground himself into dust for decades, putting his health at risk, he’d still be in charge.

Eventually someone calls all of us back to a conference room. The Stryker side of my family is smaller than my mom’s side—Mom has a lot of sisters, who all have a lot of kids, while my dad only has two brothers—but it’s still a tight fit. An older man comes in last, shuts the door, and stands at the front of the room.

“Welcome.” The lawyer couldn’t look more like he was typecast for this job. He probably graduated from law school before Hawaii became a state. “We’re here to go over the will and testament of John David Stryker the Second.”

He doesn’t waste any time and gets right into it. He runs through the terms for my father and uncles, which is surprisingly extensive. Shit about the business and all its assets bores me to tears, but JD nods along, his frown deepening sometimes.

“Please note that the following is a quote from the deceased, and not my own words,” the lawyer says, adjusting a button on his suit jacket. “‘I have special conditions for each of my grandchildren. You all were born into this position, and most of you didn’t do a damn bit of work to get the good fortune I can bestow upon you. So each of you have to work for this.’”

“Figures he’d be a dick beyond the grave, too,” Wes mumbles.

“Quiet,” JD says, without much heat to his words.

The lawyer reads off our individual conditions for getting our inheritances. Each one is an individualized “fuck you.”

The conditions are varying degrees of awful, probably because Grandpa played favorites. Wes, I guess, did okay in his eyes, because he just needs to increase the company bar’s profits by 10 percent by a certain date, which he’d already do as manager. But in contrast, our cousin Andy, who literally travels around the world for a living, has to live in Jepsen for a full year straight without a vacation.

I brace myself when the lawyer reads off my name.

“‘For you, Ashley, I have two requirements,’” the lawyer reads. “‘The first is that you work for the family business. You will receive twenty-five percent of your inheritance upon starting your work, and the rest after successfully working for the company for one year.’”

My shoulders relax a little. Have I ever wanted to work for the family business, under my father or JD? Fuck no. But since I’m technically unemployed and need money, I’ll take it. And probably hate it, but that’s not the point.

“The second condition is that you need to get legally married, and continue to be legally married, for the first year of your time at the company.”

My stomach drops through the floor.

I’m usually a “never say never” kind of guy. My two exceptions are cave diving and marriage. And if someone forced me to choose, I’d put on scuba gear and dive into a crevice insome lake that no one needs to explore.

Fuck.

My chest tightens and I bite the inside of my cheek. The money I’d get would cover all of my problems. But I can’t get fucking married.

Even if I were in love with someone, why would I tie myself to them forever? What happens when the shine wears off?

Nothing good. Maybe—a huge maybe—we could hold on for an entire year, but at what cost?

I barely listen to everything else the lawyer and my family say for the rest of the session. My brain feels like it used to when I stupidly did shows without much hearing protection early on in my career. Like everything around me is muted and three steps removed from my actual consciousness.

My body gets up on autopilot when everyone else does, and we go into the lobby again. My cousins who got fucked over even harder than me are openly having meltdowns, but I’m still numb.

“Call me when you’re ready to start working, Ash,” JD says to me, pulling out his phone. His lock screen photo is of his dog Bubba being snuggled by his fiancée Katrina.

I swallow and pull out my phone, too. I have more emails that I don’t want to look at, but how long can I run from my problems? The fans will find out that the band is basically done. Caro and Gordon are probably planning their PR to make themselves look good. Dylan will want to make moves to get our royalties.

I can’t wait for a solution to fall into my lap.

I need to figure something out. I need to get that fucking money, even if it means getting married.

THREE

ASH