Page 63 of A Little Broken

Sure, he is.

Instead of pushing a moot point, I cut to the chase, asking, “Can you at least tell me if the band is finished or not? I’m going out of my mind here.”

“Then maybe you need to find a hobby,” Dodger suggests dryly.

I smirk back at him. “I could always ask Judge’s nephews if they have any suggestions.”

The amused curve of Dodger’s mouth falls. “Not funny.”

My smirk grows. “Too soon?”

With a twitch beneath his right eye, Judge rests his elbows on the desk separating us, and I prepare myself for a brotherly lecture. Because that’s what he is. That’s what they both are. Brothers. Touring the world for years together will do that to you. Place a familial spin on a business relationship while giving everyone in the makeshift family front-row seats to the good, the bad, and the ugly. Usually, it’s not a problem. Usually, we’remaking fun of each other or sharing inside jokes. Then there are times like this. When everyone’s on edge, and the lines most people would respect with colleagues is long gone, leaving a shit-ton of room for overstepping bounds.

“Look, I know you don’t want to hear this, but it’s the same shit as before,” Judge informs me. “The band is important, yes. But you’ve already made plenty of money, and family comes first.”

I bite my tongue to keep from pointing out that when it comes to Judge’s family, money and familial ties are a blurred line at best.

“Any idea when you’ll have an update or a plan or…something?” I prod.

Judge sighs. “Not at this moment, no.”

“And what do you know?”

His eyes narrow, proving I hit a nerve, though I’m too annoyed to give a shit. “I know you have more than enough money to be spending your time doing whatever you want instead of wasting ours by calling a meeting we’ve explicitly told you we’re not ready to have,” Judge replies.

Asshole.

My fingers dig into the arm of the leather couch. “You know, I ran into Roman the other day.”

“And?” Dodger asks.

“And we talked,” I offer.

“About what?” Judge pushes.

“About the fact that both of us are far from The Drift nowadays.”

“Anything else?” Dodger prods.

I could tell him no. I could lie and not mention Roman’s invitation to fight. But even though my bandmates don’t always deserve it, I know where my loyalties lie. “Asked if I could still fight,” I add.

Dodge exchanges a curious look with Judge, proving the information holds the weight I assumed it would.

“Did he, now?” Dodger mutters.

“Yeah.” I scratch my temple. “The question is, why would he do that?”

“Don’t play stupid,” Dodger demands. “We all know we’re here because they’ve been dabbling in some shady shit.”

Stretching my legs out in front of me, I say, “Exactly. And if I can piece together why we’re here, Roman can, too.” My attention cuts to Judge. “And so can your nephews.”

Like a vault, Judge gives nothing away as he agrees, “I’m sure they can.”

“So why be subtle?” I ask.

“Because they’re slippery little fuckers,” he admits grudgingly. “And even if they don’t want to acknowledge it when it’s inconvenient for them, those boys carry the family name. They’re expected to uphold a set of standards most don’t understand. Especially Roman. If they did, we wouldn’t be here. We’d be on tour, and there would be no need for you to find a new hobby, so if you feel like reminding Roman of this, be my guest.”

Well, would you look at that? Seems the guy can string together more than two sentences after all. I hold his stare from across the office, fighting the urge to be an asshole, when it’s clear he wants to claim the title after a speech like that.

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