Page 9 of Broken Instrument

“Mortin didn’t need me to intervene to confirm you had a dog in here,” he reminds me. “Pix isn’t exactly discreet.”

I bite the inside of my cheek but don’t bother to argue. The bastard has a point.

“So, where is he?” Fender asks. “Buddy?”

My upper lip curls. “Good question. You’re his friend. You tell me.”

“I wouldn’t know. I haven’t seen him lately.”

“Oh?” I fold my arms, my frustration boiling just beneath the surface all over again as I take in the stranger who’s turned my night upside down. First, he saved me, but now I’m not so sure it was a coincidence. Not when my brother disappeared, leaving his messes for me to clean up––again––and I’m about to be evicted because of it.

Squeezing the back of his neck with one hand while petting Pixie with the other, the strange, albeit sexy stranger rocks back on his heels and shrugs one shoulder. “We don’t exactly hang out in the same crowds anymore.”

“You mean the drug-dealing felons kind of crowds?” I spit.

Surprise flickers across his face, but he covers it with indifference. “Something like that. Bud never mentioned you.”

“Not surprised. We aren’t exactly close.”

He cocks his head to one side. “Then, what are you doing with his dog? Pix is his baby.”

I bite back my annoyance. Little does this guy know, Bud has an actual child he neglected for years before he slowly started to come around. Until recently, when he fell off the face of the earth. Again.

“It was either me or the pound,” I mutter, motioning to the giant, drooly beast.

Fender chuckles, low and throaty. “Bud would never send Pixie to the pound.”

“Yeah. Well, when you go on a binge and disappear, leaving your dog locked in your apartment for a week until the superintendent calls your emergency contact, who happens to be your sister whom you haven’t spoken to in months, I guess we’ll have to agree to disagree.”

Fender jerks back, confused. “What?”

“I’m sorry, did I not make myself clear? Bud went on a bender, disappeared, and left me to pick up the pieces. Again. Oh. And did I mention the fact that apparently, he hadn’t been paying rent either? Which is why I couldn’t stay at his place with the dog until he showed back up? Nope. The guy’s in debt up to his eyeballs––”

“Bud disappeared?” he interrupts, still reeling, though I’m not sure why. If they were friends like Fender said, I would’ve thought he knew Bud’s MO.

I shake off the thought and answer, “Yup. He disappeared, which I thought he’d grown out of since his ex mentioned he’d been turning his life around, but he fell off the wagon again. Ain’t that a bitch? So, you know the mutual friend you mentioned? Maybe you could call him and see if he’s seen Bud lately. Maybe ask him to remind Bud there are other people in the world, and he has responsibilities he needs to take care of.” I motion to Pixie. “Exhibit A.”

Fender clears his throat, avoiding my gaze as he scratches at the scruff on his strong jaw. “Sorry. I can’t.”

“Why not?”

“Because I’m not in that life anymore.”

I roll my eyes. “Neither was my brother. Or at least he said so the last time I spoke to him.”

“Bud was trying to get clean?”

“Bud was being Bud. Making promises he had no intention of keeping. Now, if you’ll excuse me. I have to figure out what I’m going to do with his freaking dog now. Mortin’s officially staking out the hallway––”

“I can take her.”

My brows pinch. “Excuse me?”

“I can take her. You know, until your brother shows up again. That way, you won’t get evicted, and Pixie won’t wind up at the pound.”

It would be easier if I said yes. If I lied to myself and said I haven’t gotten attached to the giant butthead and our nightly snuggles. If I said I won’t miss her gentle snoring or the way her entire body wiggles with excitement when I get home from the grocery store.

But the truth is, even if I did admit it out loud, she isn’t my dog. If she were mine, I would consider moving into a new place. But our relationship is temporary. Like everything else in Bud’s life. And I have no doubt he’s going to do what he always does. He’s going to show back up in a few weeks, acting like everything is hunky-dory. Like it’s my job to carry the weight of his mistakes and decisions. Just. Like. Always.

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