Page 78 of A Little Broken

“He’s from The Drift,” Hawke announces from beside Roman and Ford.

Surprisingly, the gang’s all here. Jagger, Hawke, Ford. Even Roman decided to stick around. Guess they’re curious to see if the rockstar’s worth their time. And even though I know this is only an audition for a position I have no desire to take permanently, I’m grateful for the distraction. For the rush I can only get from three things. Playing in front of an audience. Good sex. And a solid brawl. Since IndieCent Vows is on hiatus, and Tatum’s acting like a thorn in my side, this is the first fix I’ve had since the bonfire. And fuck, I’ve needed it more than I care to admit.

“We know people from The Drift,” Hawke defends.

“For example,you,” Ford jokes, referring to Roman.

“I’m also older than you,” I add.

“And his last name isn’t Six,” Roman adds dryly.

The words syphon off my newly-found adrenaline, and I scowl, flexing my hands.

“That’s right.” Jagger scrubs the edge of his jaw with his taped knuckles. “Paxton…Turner, is it?”

I give him a short nod.

“You know, I think you’re lucky,” Hawke adds. “Wish our dad would’ve bailed like yours did.”

The words hit like a lash, though I keep my expression indifferent. He has no fucking clue. What it was like. To have a man you looked up to. Respected. Hell, he bought me my first guitar. Gave it to me on Christmas despite my mom insisting we couldn’t afford it. Only for him to leave without a word. Vanish into thin air, leaving nothing but a broken woman and a confused little boy to mourn him.

Ford’s chuckle cuts through the memories, and he asks, “How’d you wind up playing with our uncle, anyway?”

Rolling my shoulders to stay loose, I answer, “Right place at the right time.”

“Just like your run-in with Roman, am I right?” Hawke offers.

Jagger’s expression stays locked down as he continues staring at me. It reminds me of his uncle. The way he leads his brothers. The way he’s suspicious of everything and everyone. Even me. A stranger. A stranger with connections to his uncle, but a stranger nonetheless. Coming to some kind of conclusion, his mouth lifts on one side as he crosses his arms. “How long are you staying in town?”

I shrug. “Apparently, it depends on your father.”

Ford chuckles. “Yeah, Daddy Dearest likes to keep Judge on a tight leash.”

“Doesn’t change the fact that they’re trying to figure out how to shut us down,” Hawke adds. “The question is, are you here to help them?”

His expression turns cold, and it catches me off guard. How easily he cannibalized his easy-going facade before showing me his true colors, and exactly how little he misses. Like a fucking hawk. And that’s all it takes. I get it now. The reason why they’re kings of their school and Harden Heights in general despite their age. They might’ve been born with a silver spoon in their mouths, but these brothers are far from soft. If I don’t play my cards right, I have a feeling they’ll have no problem chewing me up and spitting me out. The question is, what do they expect me to say?

“I think you’re forgetting you are the one who invited me here,” I point out. “Not the other way around. But sure, I’ll bite. Clearly, you don’t follow your uncle’s band very much. Don’t worry, I’ll catch you up. Me? I’m the fuck up. Always have been, always will be, and since Judge was called in to keep your shitunder wraps, you should know my involvement is the last thing he wants.”

“Why?” Ford prods.

“Because it’ll only do the opposite. Which is why I’m gonna have to pass.”

“Pass?” Ford scoffs. “We haven’t offered you anything yet.”

“Yeah, but you’re going to,” I decide. “It’s why you invited me here.”

“He’s right,” Hawke announces, clearly impressed how I pieced together their plan despite the few pieces I was given in the first place.

“Listen, I’ve already been down this road. So, thanks. And I, uh, I had fun today.” I glance at Jagger, finding his gaze still glued to me. “If you ever wanna brawl again, I’m in. But an official fight night?” I shake my head. “Like I said, I gotta pass.”

Jagger stays quiet, his attention never wavering and far more unnerving than it has any right to be.

“Roman?” he calls.

With a slow nod, Roman steps onto the mat and approaches me. “Listen Pax, there’s a lot of money?—”

“I don’t give a shit about the money.”

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