Page 155 of A Little Broken

“They were desperate, and I did the job.” He smiles, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. “Even now, I’m not an official member, as fucked as it sounds.” His chuckle falls flat, making me want to hug him. “I get paid to play.Gotpaid to play,” he clarifies. “Not to contribute creatively, and I sure as shit am not on any of the copyrights for the music or anything like that. Just show up and play the songs they want me to play.”

“Does it bother you?”

“Not at first, especially ‘cause Tuke has the same deal. But…”

“You started caring?” I assume.

He sighs. “Judge is a hard man to read, and to get close to, thanks to Rudy’s death.”

“I guess Judge and I have that in common,” I murmur.

His eyes soften. “Guess you do.”

“And so do you,” I add carefully. “Don’t think I haven’t forgotten that little tidbit about your parents.”

“Gotta love when a solid origin story kicks you in the ass, am I right?”

“Mm-hmm. The real question is, how do you make it look so easy?” I ask. “You’ve had as much hardship as the rest of us, if not more. And here you are, a well-adjusted, sexy, musician with a side-hustle that gives you very lickable muscles.”

He chuckles. “Glad you find my side-hustle worthy of your appreciation, but I’m not sure well-adjusted is quite as fitting as you might think.”

“Well, would you look at that?” I quip. “Youarecapable of being humble.”

His laugh lightens. “I’ll drink to that.”

He picks up another glass, and I do the same. Clinking them together across the table, we each take a shot before I ask, “So, I already know your history with fighting, what got you into music?”

“Isn’t it my turn?” he challenges.

“Humor me.”

“Only if you dance with me afterward.”

I glance at the crowded dance floor and nod. “Deal.”

“All right. What got me into music,” he says, repeating my question. “Let’s see. My dad got me a guitar for Christmas when I was seven. He taught me basic chords and shit, then online tutorials took over until he left. I refused to touch it afterward until I walked in on my mom trying to trade it for some pain meds from a neighbor the same night Rafe was arrested. That’s all it took. Seeing where my life could end up if I didn’t pull myhead outta my ass and the lifeline that was six feet in front of me if I could just let go of my resentment toward my dad and play again. So, I did. I stole it straight out of her hands and refused to go anywhere without it after that.”

“So in a way, if it wasn’t for Rafe, you might not’ve ever chased your dreams and become a rockstar,” I realize.

“Yeah.” He nods. “I guess you’re right.”

“I kind of love that,” I admit, bumping the toe of my shoe against his calf beneath the table in hopes of turning his frown upside down, even if I get it. The guilt he must carry for being the one to turn his life around before it was too late. But he can’t change the past any more than I can, and trust me, if anyone’s tried to figure out how to change the past, it’s me. “Talk about turning lemons into lemonade, right?” I add.

“Guess so.” He picks up the last shot and throws it back. “Now, what do you say?” Slipping out from his side of the booth, he offers me his hand. “Shall we?”

Moving to the center of the room, we dance, swaying our hips to the beat. The song is slow and sultry, and I blame the two shots of alcohol swimming through my veins as I arch my back and grind my ass against Pax, though it doesn’t feel like he’s complaining, if the bulge in his slacks is anything to go by. Yup. Talk about the perfect way to end an evening. I could dance like this all night. Lifting my arms, I wrap them around Paxton’s neck as he pulls my ass against him and dips his head, pressing his mouth to the curve of my neck. The heat of his lips makes my thighs press together. I arch my hips even more, craving him more than I should, considering the not-so-private ambiance we’re basking in. When the back of my strap catches on something, my dress loosens, and I clutch at the fabric, realizing my top is most definitely broken.

What the hell?

My body stiffens, and I try not to lose my shit as I look down, taking in the broken strap. Considering the price of this bad boy and the fact that I’m seconds away from potentially flashing someone, I’m kind of pissed. Just when the dancing was getting good, this happens? What do I do now?

Moving closer, Pax murmurs, “Hey, you good?”

“My dress.” I keep my hand on my boob, then with my opposite hand, fiddle with the strap, trying to figure out how to fix the damn thing.

When he realizes what I’m doing, Pax turns me to face him and messes with the frayed fabric for a solid two seconds until his fingers find the top button of his dress shirt, and he slowly undoes it.

“What are you doing?” I ask.

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