Page 172 of A Little Broken

“Hey, man,” Roman greets me. “I was gonna call you in the morning.”

“Oh?”

“Yeah, you did good tonight.”

I did good tonight? That’s what he wants to talk about? Considering the bombshell Dodger threw at me on top of Tatum’s meltdown, my fight is the last thing on my mind. Hell, if it wasn’t for the stitch in my side and my swollen lip, I’d say it happened a week ago. Funny. How time moves so slowly yet so fuckin’ fast sometimes.

“Any chance you want in on another one?” Roman continues. “Ford wants to set up a drag race, then Hawke has a few ideas we’re gonna feel out, but I’m thinking a couple months from now, we’ll do the same thing as tonight. You in?”

“I, uh,” I hesitate. “Nah, man. Tate didn’t take it so well.”

“Yeah, I noticed. She was losing her shit while you were in the ring. She okay?”

I glance at her building again, unsure how to answer. “Just dropped her off so she can get some rest.”

“I get it,” Roman mutters. “No worries, man. Seriously. Gotta keep your woman happy, right?”

“Yeah,” I murmur. “Happy and safe.” I pause, replaying my conversation with Dodger. I want to ask if Roman knows the shit he’s really meddling in, but I also know the guy. If I don’t play my cards right, he’ll hang up and stonewall me until he winds up in a casket or next to his brother in a jail cell. “Listen, I need to ask you something.”

“Yeah, for sure. What’s up?”

“Have you talked with Judge to hear him out?” I question. “What he has to say? Why he thinks this shit is a bad idea?”

“Are you asking if we know about Rudy?” Roman challenges.

My lungs stall as I realize how easily Roman connected the dots, though it doesn’t make me any less uneasy. “You know about Rudy?”

“We all know about Rudy,” Roman replies. “And Judge is a good guy, all right? But he should stick with what he knows best, which is music, and let us continue doing what we do best, which is making money and giving the people what they want. And what they wanted tonight was you. Fuck, man. You delivered. Congrats again. If Tate ever decides she has the stomach for this, give me a call. I’ll get you set up. If not, no worries. You fucking killed it, which means we all fucking killed it. Stay safe, all right?”

The call goes dead, and I tap the edge of my cell against my chin, knowing I just took ten steps backward with the guy, though I have no idea what to do about it.

Fucking perfect.

49

TATUM

It’s been two days. Only two days. Yet, it feels like a lifetime. When Pax walked me to my door, I knew he wanted me to ask him inside, but I couldn’t. I couldn’t invite him inside. And I hate myself for it.

I hate myself for a lot of things, but I especially hate myself for that.

Tugging my pillow to my chest, I stare at the blank television, too exhausted to do anything else other than crave chocolate shakes and lobster rolls, the first of which I devoured as soon as I made it home after the fight. I shouldn’t have called in sick. Maybe if I’d found the discipline to get out of bed this morning, I wouldn’t be hurting so much. Or maybe not.

Who the hell knows?

The familiar clink of keys against the counter greets me, but I don’t turn toward it.

Rory’s home again. She took Hades for a walk. She also invited me to join her, but I turned her down. Add another tally to theTatum’s a failurecolumn. Perfect.

“Okay, what’s going on?” Rory demands. “I’ve given you forty-eight hours, and you’re still at ground zero, which means ignoring you has given us no results. Talk to me.”

My attention snaps from the blank television to my best friend. “There’s nothing to talk about.”

Arms folded, she quirks her brow. “Liar. What’s going on?”

“Nothing.”

“Tate…”

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