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“Security briefing with Gideon,” Beckett said. “Can I come in?”
Jackson snort-laughed. “Sure, man. Not like you’ve asked permission to go into my bedroom since we were kids.” Jackson opened the hotel room door, depositing his wheeled suitcase next to the closet as Beckett followed him in. “You think they have anything good in the mini bar?” He ducked down to open the mini fridge, a grin spreading across his face as he took in the selection of craft beers, locally distilled spirits, and prepackaged snacks. “God bless boutique hotels for carrying on the mini bar tradition.” He tossed Beckett a package of buckeyes. “Remember the first time we came to Cleveland?”
Beckett fingered the package of peanut butter fudge balls. “We ate so many of these we got sick.”
Jackson opened a bottle of some kind of premixed cocktail made with local vodka, closing the mini fridge and dropping into one of the leather arm chairs in the corner of the room. He kicked his feet up on the ottoman, chuckling. “Mom would have been so mad.”
Beckett frowned and leaned on the edge of the desk across the room, setting down the candy. “You heard from her lately?”
“Not in a few weeks. You?”
Beckett shook his head.
“We should go see her. When the tour’s done,” Jackson said. “I wouldn’t mind spending some time in Miami before we start work on the next album.”
“I’m not—”
His brother drained the cocktail, dropping the empty bottle in the trash can with a clang, and jumped up to grab another from the mini bar. “You sure you don’t want one?”
“It’s not even noon,” Beckett said.
Jackson shrugged, popping the top off the bottle. “It’s our day off.”
Beckett scrubbed his hand through his hair, cuffing the back of his neck. “Jackie, there’s a video going around online. Of you.”
“When isn’t there?” He dropped back into his chair and dug his phone out of his pocket, texting with one hand while he nursed his drink with the other.
“It’s that guy from the bar in St. Louis.”
“Who cares about that dipshit?”
“There are all these comments. Other people with stories about you. From this tour.”
Jackson smirked, continuing to text. “Fans fucking love me.”
“Not fans. Would you put your phone down, please?”
His brother’s lips settled in an annoyed puss as he finished whatever message he was sending and set his phone down on the table beside him. “Why are you so strung out about this?”
“I’m trying to have a conversation with you.”
“Then go ahead. Converse.” Jackson gestured for his brother to continue.
“All the stories, they’re about shit you did when you were drunk.”
Jackson scoffed. “What shit?”
“Cursing out a bartender. Throwing that glass at the gala. Hitting on your charity auction date.”
“She came on to me,” he said, jabbing his finger in the air towards his twin. “She’s just mad she was too chicken shit to follow through.”
“It’s not just the people commenting on the video,” Beckett continued. “The guys and I talked and—”
“You’re talking about me behind my back now? What the fuck?”
“We’re worried about you.”
“Are you? Or is this Kat talking?”
