Page 154 of A Little Broken

Tongue in cheek, he stares at me from across the booth and shakes his head back and forth. “Livid.” He brings one of the shot glasses to his lips and tosses it back.

I nudge him with my foot beneath the table. “And?”

“Already took a shot.”

“Tell me!” I beg.

Licking his lips, he asks, “You really wanna know?”

I nod.

“I finally realized why some people cheat. Because with you? I was so desperate for another taste, I would’ve come running.And that scared the shit out of me.” He pauses, surprising me with his honesty. “Why’d you tell me you were engaged?”

Digging my teeth into the inside of my bottom lip, I fight the urge to deflect. To shy away from the truth. To take the shot and keep the game moving. Instead, I murmur, “I think we both know the answer to that.”

He reaches across the table but stops himself from touching my hand. “I wanna hear you say it.”

I could. It’s a question I’ve mulled over more times than I can count over the years. Why did I tell Pax I was engaged? And why did Archer’s name slip past my lips when Pax pushed me on it? Was I really so pathetic? So damn delusional? Even after all these years, it’s confusing and irrational and immature. I should’ve told him the truth. Should’ve been strong enough to express my feelings, no matter how terrifying they were. I lift the shot glass to my lips, but instead of pouring it back, I stop myself and set it back on the table. “I knew that if I didn’t stop you from chasing me, there’s no way I would’ve gotten away.”

His brows dip. “And that’s a bad thing?”

“At the time? Yes.”

“And now?”

I pick up the glass and swallow the Jack Daniels, ignoring the burn as it glides down my throat.

“Fair enough,” he murmurs.

“So, what happened with you and the band?” I ask.

He tilts his head. “What do you mean?”

“I ran into Dodge a little while ago, and he said something…kind of strange, honestly,” I admit. “I wanted to ask you about it.”

“What’d he say?”

“Just that your job can be isolating, especially with assholes for bandmates.” I hesitate. “Pretty sure he was referring to himself.”

“At least he owns up to it,” Pax mutters dryly.

“What happened?”

“Nothing, really. That’s the fucked up part.” Pax’s frown deepens as he stares at the shot glass in front of him. “You know I was the stand-in, right?”

“You were?”

“Yeah.” He shrugs. “The original guitarist, Rudy, he grew up with Judge. They were best friends. Talked about starting a band and brought Dodger along after running into him at some dive bar. Rudy was running his mouth, Judge stepped in. They were outnumbered, and Dodger had their back. After that, they considered themselves brothers, and Dodger joined the band.”

“And Tuke?”

“The record label set them up.”

I nod, too curious about the turn in conversation to continue playing our little drinking game. “And you?”

“After Rudy died from a drug overdose the night before a show, I wound up stepping in and landing the gig.”

My eyes widen. I’ve never heard this story. He must’ve felt like such an outcast. That had to have been hard. I can’t even imagine. Thumbing the edge of the empty shot glass in my grasp, I muse, “They must’ve been impressed with your performance.”

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