Page 8 of A Little Broken

“Just like always, am I right, Herb?” Mr. Security tosses back at him.

I can feel Mr. Security’s footsteps over the thrumming music a few walls away. I shouldn’t be able to, but I do. Hell, maybe it’s my imagination. But it doesn’t change anything.

Step. Step. Step.

He’s coming closer.

Before I can overthink it, I grab Rory’s hand, then race along the corridor and past the linebacker. “Thank you!” I yell as our feet slap against the concrete floor. When we reach the arena, my heart is still racing. I slow to a walk and sneak us into the mosh pit near the front of the stage. All things considered, it’s shockingly easy, especially compared to our efforts since I knocked on the metal side door.

Once we’re past security, Rory announces, “You’re insane.”

I grin back at her. “You know you love me. And thank you for the tickets,” I add, glancing at the now-empty stage, “even though we missed Doomsday. This is amazing.”

“It’s memorable, I’ll give you that much,” she grumbles.

She’s not wrong.

And even if it was unintentional, sneaking into the concert and flirting with a cute security guard is giving me a high like no other. Basking in it, I listen to Rory chatter on about her plans this upcoming year and all the amazing things she’s planning to do. I have no doubt she will. The girl has the power to do anything she wants in this world. She’s smart. Beautiful. Andhas more connections than the Queen of England, thanks to her family’s fortune.

I’m not sure how much time passes before I turn back to the stage just in time to watch IndieCent Vows take their places. Or at least, that’s who I assume is up there. The only one I know is… There he is. Dodger Anders. We’ve never met. I’ve been cultivating distance from all things Lockwood Heights since long before Archer’s death. But Rory, not so much. As long as no one brings up anything to do with Jaxon Thorne, she’s an open book. This includes my family, her family, and all of their friends, including Dodger’s parents.

I study the man standing in the middle of the stage. Curly, light brown hair cut close on the sides and longer on the top. Freshly-shaven face to show off his chiseled jaw. Strong biceps and veined forearms as he cradles the mic. And the voice of a fucking angel, though he isn’t singing at the moment. Nope, he’s making a smartass comment about their guitarist being MIA, when a man with sandy blond hair appears. His head is tilted down as he tinkers with his sleek black guitar. When he lifts his head and smiles at the crowd, my jaw drops.

Well, if it isn’t Mr. fucking Security.

What are the odds?

Rory laughs beside me, clutching her stomach as her body threatens to topple over. Ripping my stare from the Adonis on stage, I glare at my best friend.

“You knew?” I screech.

“Of course, I knew! I tried to tell you when we were outside, but noooo,” she drags out through bouts of laughter. “Someone had to be a know-it-all and fix things without my help, now, didn’t you?”

Shaking my head, I turn back to the stage as Mr. Security’s long fingers begin plucking at the strings.

Damn.

2

PAXTON

“Get your ass out here,” a low voice grumbles through my earpiece. Surprisingly, it isn’t Judge. It's Dodger. Not surprisingly, he’s even more pissed than Judge would be. Okay, that’s a lie. I’ve been on Judge’s shit-list since I replaced his best friend as lead guitarist. Even so, it’s not my fault Rudy died, now is it? But somehow, the weight of his ire always falls on my shoulders.

Urging me to get my ass in gear, Danny, one of our roadies, hands me my baby. An ebony Gibson Les Paul. She was my first purchase from my first paycheck, and fuck, if I’ve ever loved anything more. Over the years, I’ve collected at least a dozen guitars, hell, maybe two dozen, but this one? This one’s my favorite. I slip the lime green strap over my head, all too aware of the time and how much of it I wasted.

Rolling my shoulders, I let out a slow breath, realizing I didn’t get my smoke.

Fuck. Too late now.

It’s a good thing the girl was cute. If only I’d run into herafterI had my smoke. I tap the outside of my thigh, indecision warring through me. I need to be on stage. Scratch that. I neededto be on stage ten minutes ago. Dodger is gonna kill me, and if he doesn’t, Judge will.

I turn to Danny and give him a thumbs up. When he returns it with one of his own, confirming I’m good to go, I traipse onto the stage like I was fucking made for it.

I’ll never get over this rush. The sounds. The lights. The energy.

“Aaaand, here he is. Everyone’s favorite asshole,” Dodger quips.

Laughter ensues from the audience as I move to the microphone set up in front of my spot on the right side of the platform. Adjusting it slightly, I reply, “Pretty sure the title belongs to you, Dodge.”

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