Page 65 of A Little Broken

“So what do you say?” Dodger offers. “Help us out. Keep the paparazzi’s attention. Have fun. Fuck girls. Get into fights. All your favorite things.”

“Sounds like a great plan. There’s only one problem.” Running my tongue along my upper teeth, I keep my frustration in check, reminding him, “You know I left that life behind.”

“Then revisit it,” Dodger offers. “Because right now, we don’t have anything else.” He motions toward the hallway. “Come on. I’ll walk you out.” He guides me toward the entrance, but the sound of our footsteps against the marble tile doesn’t even begin to put a dent in my racing thoughts.

When we reach the front door, I say, “Can I ask you something?”

He nods.

“Why does this matter?”

He hesitates, peering over his shoulder to confirm we’re alone in the foyer before giving me his full attention. “A lot of weight comes with a name, Pax. I know you don’t get that ‘cause…” His lips press together. “Look at it this way. At least it’s one thing you don’t have to worry about. But Judge? There’s more at play here than it seems. We’ll talk later, yeah?”

“Yeah, sure thing.” I turn toward the front but hesitate. “Let me know if you need anything else, all right?”

“Yeah, no worries.”

18

TATUM

I’m late. I mean, technically, I make my own schedule, but sleeping in wasn’t on my agenda this morning, and it’s been one thing after another. As I pull up to the gate of my last house for the evening, I notice a car parked not far down the road. Someone’s leaning against the driver’s side door. Squinting, I realize they’re holding a camera with a massive lens pointed directly at the house.

What the hell? If this isn’t fishy behavior, I don’t know what is. Maybe the owner of the house is famous or something? Or maybe not? Honestly, I don’t even know.

When the creeper catches me staring, I punch in the gate code and wait for it to open. Once it does, I pull through but stay parked on the opposite side, refusing to move on the off-chance the creeper tries to ride my bumper and follow me onto the private property.

Thankfully, the gate closes without any issue, and I pull up the long driveway, parking in front. It’s still strange. Having access to a random person’s house. A potentially famous random person. Yup. People are way too trusting. My body aches from the previous two houses I finished cleaning today, but at least Rory can’t give me shit for dropping the ball at work. And to behonest, I’m grateful for the distraction. But I could really use a nap.

One more house.

I saved my favorite for last. The baby blue colonial with the music room.

Once I’m inside, I set the cleaning supplies on the kitchen counter, head straight to the music room, and grab a Doomsday record from the collection. After setting it on the turntable, I position the needle and click play. It blares through the speakers as I get to work scrubbing, mopping, and dusting every inch of the mansion until it’s practically sparkling.

Blowing the tendrils of hair from my face, I assess my work and smile when my attention catches on a worn book with a familiar cover. It’s lying on the window seat overlooking the ocean. Curious, I move closer, recognizing the title. It’sThe Count of Monte Cristo.And not just any copy. It’s the same edition I was reading when Archer died. The memory hits out of nowhere, fast as lightning and just as sharp.

I peek into the empty hallway, then check the time on my phone. I don’t know why. It’s not like anyone is ever home when I’m cleaning. Honestly, I would be convinced ghosts lived in all of the houses I clean if I didn’t notice the fingerprints on the faucets or the unkempt sheets. Still, the book calls to me. Sitting in my favorite spot in the house. Begging to be opened. I haven’t readThe Count of Monte Cristoin months. I try to read it every year. Not because I'm necessarily in love with the story—it's a tragedy—but because it reminds me of him. Archer. I was in the middle of reading it for the first time when I saw him for the last time.

“Hey, Tate.”

My cheeks heat as I look up from the pages, finding the one and only Archer Buchanan staring at me.

“Oh. Hi.”

“How’s the book?”

I shrug and turn back to the pages. The words blur together, but the idea of holding Archer’s ocean blue gaze is more than I can bear. Not without melting into a puddle on the spot. “It’s fine.”

The couch dips as he sits beside me. “It’s one of my favorites.”

Breathe, Tate. Breathe.

I sneak a peek at him. “Oh?”

“Yeah.” He chuckles. “Although, I gotta say, Dante’s quite the grudge holder.”

I look down at the open pages again. “He is, isn’t he?”

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