Page 60 of Broken Instrument

And from me.

20

HADLEY

The morning light filters through the window, casting a warm glow around my room. I roll over but freeze when I recognize a strong arm wrapped around my waist.

My eyelids feel heavy, but I blink away my exhaustion and twist around in Fender’s grasp.

He’s still asleep.

He looks peaceful like this. The constant worry lines etched into his skin have softened, and his hair is a mess. He’s so freaking handsome, it almost hurts to look at him. Like I’m staring at the sun. Someone larger than life with no idea how to settle.

“Why are you staring?” he grunts, though he doesn’t bother to open his eyes.

I grin. “Sorry. I think I’m still reeling.”

The worry lines reappear, and he peels one lid open to look down at me. “About that––”

“Thank you,” I interrupt. “For bringing me home. For keeping me safe.”

“Hads…”

“I mean it.” His scruff feels prickly against my hand as I palm his cheek. “I feel safe when I’m with you, Fen.”

He shakes his head and pulls away, untangling his body from mine while leaving me cold and alone.

“Last night… I’ve been thinking about it a lot, and it can’t happen again.”

“The drugs? Yeah. I agree––”

“No, I meant…” He pauses, scrubbing his hand over his face roughly. “You and me.”

Pushing up onto my elbows, I sit up, lean my back against the dark headboard, and bring my knees to my chest. “Why not?”

“The guy drugged you because of me, Hads.”

“What? That’s bullshit. Despite what you may like to believe, women are preyed upon every single day. And even though no one likes to acknowledge it, the truth is, anytime I leave my house, I know there’s a risk of something happening to me. Every woman knows the risk. So, yeah. I went to the bar and should’ve paid better attention––”

“What happened to you wasn’t your fault,” he growls.

“Maybe not, but when you go for a swim in shark-infested waters, you’d still be smart to pay attention to your surroundings. That’s on me.”

“No, it’s on me. Because that shark wouldn’t have attacked you if it weren’t for our…friendship.”

The term stings, considering how desperate I was to jump his bones last night, but I let it slide and argue, “No offense, but you don’t know––”

“Yes, I do. He was my brother’s friend. The guy who drugged you,” he clarifies. “Marty sent him to prove a point. To prove I have something to lose if I don’t give him what he wants.”

My lips part, but I choke back my gasp, doing my best to hide my surprise with a look of indifference. “And what does he want?”

Sitting on the edge of the bed, Fender cradles his head in his hands, looking as defeated and broken as he did when he showed up on my doorstep early this morning.

“He heard about Hawthorne’s deal. He wants to help with my music career.”

“So?”

“So, he wants in on a piece of the pie,” Fender grits out, looking over at me.

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