Page 43 of Broken Instrument

HADLEY

“I’m so sorry,” Mia starts, her long hair hanging in a wavy curtain to hide her face from my scrutiny.

Like she’s ashamed.

The question is, is it because she was caught and had to be escorted home by freaking Fender? Or is it something else?

Still fuming, I shake my head, unwilling to give her an inch. Not right now. Not when I’ve been freaking out and debating whether or not to call the police for hours.

“Do you have any idea how terrified I’ve been?” I seethe, my teeth clenching. “I’ve been losing my mind––”

“Hey, Hads. Do you mind if we talk for a sec?” Fender interrupts.

Again, I shake my head, still trying to process the mess in front of me. I force myself to step aside and give them room to come into my apartment. But I don’t say a word. I’m afraid if I do, I’ll say something I’ll regret, and even though Mia most definitely deserves whatever word vomit would come tumbling out, she’s just a child.

A child who freaking snuck out and gave me a heart attack.

Without waiting for an invitation, Mia darts off to the second bedroom down the hall, disappearing through the crack in the door and closing it firmly behind her. Fender tucks his hands into his pockets and rocks back on his heels, letting the awkwardness of our current situation settle over us in the middle of my entryway.

Lovely.

He looks as good as I remember. It’s not like it’s been eons or anything since we last saw each other––since I kissed him and he rejected me. But still. Part of me had been hoping I’d imagined his strong arms and wounded gaze that called to me.

Nope.

Still as potent as ever.

Thankfully, I’m too pissed at my niece to focus on it.

“What are you doing here?” I demand.

“She was at SeaBird––”

“The bar?” I almost screech.

He shoves his hair away from his face, looking sheepish. “Uh, yeah. I was playing, and––”

“I’m seriously going to kill her.” I take a step toward the hall, but Fender reaches out and grabs my arm.

“Stop. It isn’t her fault.”

“Not her fault?” I shrug out of his hold and fold my arms, begging him to change my mind. “How’d she get in?”

“Probably has a fake ID, but that’s beside the point.”

“Beside the point?” I almost screech––again. He grabs onto my arm a second time and tugs me into the hall outside my apartment in search of privacy.

“Listen. I know she scared the shit out of you. But right now?” He drops his voice low. “She doesn't need another lecture––”

“Another lecture?”

“She kind of already got one,” he mutters, avoiding my gaze.

“From who? You?” I scoff, annoyed with both the conversation and the way I can’t seem to find the willpower to shrug out of his hold. Apparently, I only have so much self-preservation, and my earlier retreat from his grasp was all I could muster for one night.

Great.

“She needs someone to listen, Hads. A friend. Someone to tell her everything is going to be okay.” He looks down at me, my chest brushing against his as I realize how close we’re standing. The touch of his hand around my arm causes goosebumps in its wake as he slides it down to my wrist before letting me go. And I hate how I miss it instantly. His touch. His warmth. The slight scratch of his calloused fingers against my bare skin. All of it.

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