Boxed Set: Traitorous Heart Volumes 1-6 (The Traitorous Heart Series) by Breena Wilde

approached me. I’d spoken to him a few times, but there’d been no commitment made. The label seemed to be mostly interested in me; they would bring in their own musicians. It wasn’t unheard of, but my band mates were more than just background noise, they were family. The label would sign all of Crushed Velvet or none of us. I’d made that clear. And, as expected, it’d been a few days since I’d heard from them.
    It was disappointing, but there was no way I was dumping the rest of my band. If we were going to hit rock star status, it would be as a group. I didn’t need the money. We would wait until the right set of circumstances availed itself.
    My father didn’t need to know that, though. I’d share when we had a contract.
    “Not yet.”
    The waitress brought us each a tumbler of iced bourbons. I hadn’t realized that was what my father ordered, but I was more than happy to drink it. I gulped down the liquid, enjoying the flavor and the burn. My dad was many things: arrogant, a liar, deceptive, and cruel. On the plus side, he had great taste in the world’s finer offerings, including women and alcohol.
    “You’re wasting your time, Griffin. It’s embarrassing to have to tell my collogues that my son doesn’t want to go into the family business because he’d rather get on stage and sing to a bunch of drunken sluts.”
    I gritted my teeth. Took another gulp of the liquid. “Tell me how you really feel.”
    He leaned forward. “Stop being a fuck up.”
    Fuck. You. I stared into the glass, watching the ice melt. We’d had this conversation more than once. I’d tried everything to make him understand. Sure, the endless line of women was awesome; no way I would ever complain about that. But it was so much more. Writing songs helped me deal with the death of my mom and the heartbreak of having a father who, when he looked at me, saw only a murderer.
    Writing allowed me to deal with life—the good and the bad. I’d even started working on a song about Katie. It was a strange feeling when the words came to me about her. I’d never written a love song before. It evoked all sorts of strange emotions. Most of which I wasn’t ready to deal with. But that was one of the great things about writing a song. 
    “It’s what I want to do with my life.” I brought the tumbler to my mouth and scavenged for more of the fiery liquid. When it was gone I shook the glass at the waitress.
    “Would you like another?” She batted her lashes.
    “Thank you.”
    She took my glass and walked away. My father took a sip of his drink, his eyes on the waitress’s ass. It was times like those that I wondered about the relationship between my mom and dad. What had it been like before she died? Had she loved him? Had he been kind to her? Watching the way his eyes slid over the girl’s body I thought I had a pretty good idea what sorts of thoughts were running through his mind.
    “Life is about more than dicking around. You need to make a life for yourself.”
    “I know.” Our weekly dinners were miserable. My father started them on my twenty-second birthday, but after seven years I still didn’t understand why my father kept them going. He seemed to hate them as much as I did. He hated me. That much had been clear a long time ago.
    My father chuckled, a harsh, unfeeling laugh. “You don’t know shit. You stay out late, drinking and partying, wake up late, and consider it your job playing music and drinking beers with your buddies. That isn’t making a life for yourself, that’s wasting it!” He flung the words at me. They stung. I could see his point; in his eyes and probably in the eyes of a lot of people, I was wasting my life.
    But that’s because they didn’t know me. They didn’t see that there was much more to what I did than that. And I accepted it.
    Truthfully, I didn’t give a shit.
    Maybe that was my secret trust fund talking. It probably was. Money would never be an issue—my mom had seen to that. It’d