The drum set was new—or at least, new to him. A friend who had been a drummer in a high-school band was getting rid of it to make room for a baby crib.
Dustin had grabbed the opportunity and bought the set for a song. He’d never played a percussion instrument in his life, but he figured now was as good a time as any to learn.
It wasn’t the first instrument he would have taught himself to play in his life.
How hard could it be?
He made a couple of tentative taps on the snare drum with his sticks, and then pounded the bass a few times with the foot pedal.
Smiling with satisfaction, he began pounding in earnest, perfect rhythm with the beat of the jazz CD. He didn’t care at the moment whether or not he sounded good. He was only trying to have a good time. Technique would come later, with many strenuous hours of practice, he knew.
He sent a timely prayer to God that the insulation in his house would be sufficient to keep his neighbors from knocking his door down with their complaints about the horrible din.
Suddenly, out of nowhere, someone clamped his hand tightly on Dustin’s shoulder.
Dustin made an instinctive move, standing in a flash, turning and knocking the man’s hand away in one swift motion of his elbow and then crouching to pounce on the unknown intruder.
“Hey, take it easy,” Addison said with a deep, dry laugh Dustin immediately recognized. “I didn’t mean to startle you. I tried knocking, but you couldn’t hear me over all that racket. Sounded like the roof was caving in or something.”
Dustin chuckled.
Addison shook his head and laughed in tune with his brother. “The door was open, so I just let myself in. I hope you don’t mind.”
Dustin wiped his arm against his forehead, as his hands were still tightly gripping the drumsticks. “Naw. Guess I was pretty distracted, messing with this thing.” He popped a quick beat on the snare drum for emphasis, then clasped both sticks together and jammed them in the back pocket of his jeans.
He crossed his arms over his chest and stared at his suit-clad big brother. “What are you doing here, Addy boy?” he asked in genuine surprise.
Addison rarely visited Dustin’s small house, which was located in Wheatridge, one of the many sprawling suburbs of Denver. In fact, he’d never been there without a direct invitation first.
He had shown little interest in Dustin’s hobbies, or anything else for that matter. They had never been close, even as children. Addison was the jock, and Dustin the artist. It had always been that way.
Addison wasn’t fond of anything artistic, from drama to Monet. Football, baseball, soccer—these had made up Addison’s teenage world.
And Addison had always been the brains in the family, in Dustin’s estimation. As the CEO for a major financial corporation, and an important person in the Denver social scene, Addison didn’t have time to dabble with anything beyond the walls of his chic, downtown penthouse condo and lush corner office. His only interest in the arts as a successful adult was as his business required, and nothing more.
“I’ve come about Dad’s will, Dustin—specifically, the terms of the trust fund,” Addison said tersely and abruptly in the crisp business tone he always used. Dustin sometimes thought Addison hid behind that tone in order to keep his emotions on a back burner. The two brothers certainly weren’t as close as Dustin would have liked, though he put the blame for that more on his father than on Addison.
Dustin clasped his hands behind his back. His father’s will was not something he really wished to discuss, though he knew it was inevitable. It had to be done, and sooner rather than later. Addison was right on that one point, anyway.
Their mother had died when Dustin was fourteen and Addison was sixteen. He remembered her as a sweet, delicate woman who always smiled and always had an eye and an open hand for the poor and needy. She had kept the house full of laughter and singing, and always had a prayer or a song of praise on her lips.
His father, on the other hand, was as cold as stone, a strict disciplinarian who practiced what he preached—that God helped those who helped themselves.
Never mind that that particular “verse” wasn’t really in the Bible.
Addison Fairfax, Sr., had worked long hours establishing the firm Addison Jr. now led and held a majority interest in.
Dustin knew his father had wanted him in the company, as well. Addison Sr. had been bitterly disappointed when, as a young man following his own strong, surging creative impulses, Dustin took a different career path.
To Dustin, being boxed up in an office all day would be like caging a wild beast; and the thought of spending all day crunching numbers—especially anything to do with money—made him shiver.
It was enough just to balance his checkbook every month. That was not the kind of life for him, caged behind a desk with nothing but figures on paper for company.
He wanted to help people, but in another, more creative fashion. One on one, where he could reach out and touch his customers, smile and encourage them to smile back at him.
He pinched his lips together to keep his smile hidden from his brother’s observant gaze. It was an understatement to say that math had never been one of Dustin’s better subjects.
And so now it came down to his father’s last wishes, laid out plainly, literally in black and white. Dustin had been at the formal reading of the will. He knew what it contained, especially in regard to what he was expected to accomplish in order to win the coveted trust fund, which Dustin desperately wanted, but for reasons he would disclose to no one.
At least not yet.
And that was no doubt why Addison was visiting him today. It was up to his big brother, as trustee of the fund in Dustin’s name, to see that Dustin cleaned up, became a pillar of society and made a real contribution to the world in some way not explicitly drawn out in the will, but legal nonetheless.
Dustin knew Addison wasn’t thrilled with the job. He had enough responsibility with his own work without burdening himself with his younger brother’s supposed faults. But there was one thing Dustin knew about his older brother—he would follow his father’s dictates to the letter without question.
Even if Addison didn’t necessarily agree with the terms. Besides, it was legal, drawn up and finalized by their father, who’d known exactly what he was doing.
“You want the money, don’t you?” Addison asked crisply, his golden-blond eyebrows creasing low in concern over his blue eyes, all traits of his father.
Dustin had his mother’s curly black hair and green eyes. It was a startling contrast between the two brothers, and just one more way they were different from one another.
Dustin took a deep, steadying breath. “Yes, I do,” he said solemnly. “You know I do.”
That was as much information as he was willing to offer, which no doubt perplexed his older brother.
“Hey, Addy boy,” he said, cheerfully changing the subject, “you want a soda or something?”
“I’ve asked you repeatedly not to call me that,” his brother responded through gritted teeth, shaking his head in warning.
“Why do you think I do it?” Dustin responded with a laugh.
“You little punk,” Addison said affectionately. He grabbed Dustin around the neck and scrubbed his knuckles across Dustin’s scalp, just the sort of roughhousing they’d done as kids. “Don’t forget I’m bigger than you. I can still knock your block off anytime I want.”
“I’d like to see you try,” Dustin