Page 26 of Broken Instrument

Her straight, white teeth dig into her lower lip as she peeks up at me. Then she drops her gaze to the ground.

“Is everything all right?” I prod, hating how I already know the answer. Of course, it's not. Her brother’s missing, and the police found new evidence or some shit. But I don’t know what else to say or how I can make her feel better.

“Yeah,” she lies. “It’s just…a couple of weeks before you showed up, Isabella, Bud’s ex, went to the police and filed a report. His disappearance was all over the news for a few days, which is probably why Dr. Grover knew about it. I don’t think Bella wanted to admit Bud might’ve fallen off the wagon again, ya know? The investigation is still ongoing, but you know Bud, right? And even though the police found some other evidence like I mentioned earlier, it’s not exactly comforting either way. There is no bright side. No silver lining right now. And I guess when Dr. Grover mentioned Bud, it was one more reminder of how my private life isn’t so private. Not right now. And the lack of answers in the whole thing is…” She sucks her lips between her teeth, forming a white slash across her face as she shakes her head. “It’s exhausting.”

The tightness in her smile is pathetic at best as she peeks up at me, but the fear in her shiny eyes kills me. The fear for her brother. She’s been so adamant he’s on a bender and will show up any day now, but her gaze? The way her lower lip trembles slightly as she forces the oxygen from her lungs? They tell a different story. She’s scared. And I hate that she’s scared.

“Dammit, Hads.” I pull her into a hug without giving a shit whether or not it’s appropriate. She needs it. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s fine.” Her arms wrap around my waist and squeeze. Letting me go, she backs up, wiping beneath her nose with the back of her hand again as she forces another smile. “I just wish I knew whether or not my frustration is merited. I keep telling myself he’s being a selfish prick, but a small voice wonders if it’s really the case. And that’s…” She shakes her head and rubs her hands up and down her crossed arms. “That’s where it gets a little scary. My mind starts going haywire because I write thrillers for a living, and either A, I can’t tone it back, and my imagination gets the best of me. Or B, I overcompensate by cursing out my brother for disappearing when I have absolutely no idea whether or not it’s his fault. But no matter the circumstances, I can’t write. I can’t focus. I simply keep waiting. And the waiting is slowly killing me inside. So…yeah.” An awkward laugh escapes her as she digs into her purse for her keys, avoiding my gaze like it’s the plague. “I guess you could say I really do need the distraction.”

“I’m happy I can help,” I offer. “Look. I gotta make a call, but if you need anything, I’m…”

She peeks up at me again, pushing the car fob to unlock her door, prodding, “You’re…?”

A fucking disaster who has no right to the woman in front of him.

I clear my throat and open her car door. “I’ll see you around.”

“At the show, right?”

I nod. “See you then.”

* * *

My hands shake as I stare at Marty’s contact information from behind the wheel, my blood practically vibrating in my veins as my heart rate skyrockets. Mouth dry, I lick my lips and take a deep, barely-controlled breath and press the call button.

Hadley left almost thirty minutes ago, but I couldn’t start my car. I couldn’t shove away my guilt for being related to the one guy who might know where Bud is. But I also couldn’t push aside the craving flooding my system as soon as his name filtered across my mind.

Martin Hayes.

Fifty percent brother.

One hundred percent asshole.

Shit.

It rings four times––I counted––and a familiar voice crackles through the speakers.

“Hello, Brother.”

9

FENDER

“Daddy Dearest says I’m not allowed to talk to you anymore,” Marty tells me through the phone. I squeeze it a little tighter, threatening to crack the damn thing, but force myself to ease up on it.

“And I’d like to keep it that way,” I grit out. “But I have a question to ask you before we go back to cutting ties.”

“Cutting ties? Why would we want to cut ties? We’re family, remember?”

“Cut the shit, Marty––”

“Lots of cutting talk, don’t you think? Maybe I should tell Dad––”

“I just want to ask you a question,” I bark. “And after everything you put me through, I think I deserve an answer.”

“Everything I put you through?” He laughs. “That’s rich––”

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