Page 64 of A Little Broken

“Why does it matter what your nephews do outside of school?” I ask. “Yeah, they’re doing some illegal shit on the side, but having their shady uncle come and tell them to stop is a little pot-calling-the-kettle-black, don’t you think?”

“Careful,” Dodger warns.

“You know I’m right. And you forget I was raised here,” I add. “Judge is the one who started all the bullshit undergroundactivities before his nephews were even in middle school. Can you blame them for following in his footsteps?”

“I’m aware of the part I played,” Judge grumbles. “Why else do you think I’m here?”

“Then shut it down, and we’ll be on our way,” I suggest.

“It’s not so simple.” Judge scrubs his hand over his face. “Those boys might think they have a handle on shit, but their activities are starting to draw the wrong kind of attention.”

“Which is why we need to dissuade the boys from running this city into the ground,” Dodge argues, speaking for his best friend.

“And how do you plan to do that?” I demand.

Pinching the bridge of his nose, a dejected Dodge mutters, “Good question.”

Judge only stares at me, his jaw ticcing.

It isn’t the first time I’ve been on the receiving end of Judge’s intensity. With nearly black, soulless eyes, a shaved head, and enough muscles to battle an ox, he’s a scary motherfucker on his good days. When his blood is already simmering beneath the surface of his olive skin, and his sole focus is directed at you? He’s downright terrifying.

“What is it?” I snap.

He leans back in his chair, and cocks his head. “You want something to do?”

“Other than sit on my ass and wait for the next tour, if there is one at all?” I scoff. “Yeah. Yeah, I guess you could say I could use a distraction.”

“Stay on the paparazzi’s radar.”

I pull back, surprised. “You hate the paparazzi.”

“Which is why I’m suggesting you stay on their radar. Not me.”

“And how would this help us get back on tour?” I push.

“One. Mindy says any publicity is good publicity,” Dodger says, mentioning the band’s publicist. “We need IndieCent Vows to stay relevant even if we’re taking a break.”

“It doesn’t hurt that the more the public is focused on you, the less they’ll be focused on my nephews,” Judge adds without bothering to hide his annoyance.

He makes a good point on both counts. And if I agree, at least I’ll have something to do. I’m going stir crazy here, and it’s only been a couple weeks. The possibility of being holed up in one of Judge’s family mansions while Judge and Dodger put out a few familial fires over who knows how long feels like torture.

“To what end?” I ask.

Judge sighs. “Until my brother decides his sons are in the clear.”

“So we need Titas’ approval?” I challenge.

“If you want to go on tour again, yes,” Judge answers numbly.

The hilarity of the situation withers like spoiled fruit.

Is he serious right now?

I’m annoyed we’re playing this game. AnnoyedI’mplaying this game, considering my lack of connection to the infamous and shady as fuck Titas Harden. Why the hell should he have any say in what I—or any of my bandmates—do in the first place? Attempting to keep my annoyance in check, I rest my elbows on my knees and state the obvious. “Your brother’s a dick.”

“Trust me, he knows,” Dodger says under his breath.

“He’s also the reason IndieCent Vows is what it is,” Judge adds, albeit grudgingly. Twisting his chair toward the window again, he steeples his fingers in front of him, even more steely than usual.

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