4. Paxton
4
PAXTON
C learing my throat, I announce, “Tuke, Judge. This is Tatum and Rory, or as I like to call them, Birthday Girl and Baby.”
“You old enough to be here or are we gonna get the cops sniffing around for serving a minor alcohol on stage?” Judge demands.
Shit, I didn’t think about that.
I pin Tatum with a stare and wait for her response, trying to gauge exactly how much shit I might be in if she lied to me in the alleyway.
“I’ll be seventeen in June,” she tells him, sober as a fucking nun before a smirk teases the edge of her lips. “Just kidding.”
“Thanks for the fuckin’ heart attack,” Tuke grunts. “How old are you really?”
“It’s my twenty-first birthday.”
“And the baby?” Tuke prods. He turns to a red-faced teenager behind Tate.
“I-I didn’t drink anything, I swear,” Rory promises.
“Her name’s Squeaks,” Dodger corrects him. Not gonna lie. I’m surprised he lasted so long with keeping his big-ass mouth shut. With his arms spread wide, he approaches and pulls her into a hug. “Hey, baby girl. How you been?”
“Good,” she returns. “How are you?”
“Can’t complain.” Letting her go, Dodger scans her up and down again. “Been a while. Feels like you’ve grown an extra twenty inches.”
I hold my breath to keep from laughing because the girl can’t be over five feet tall, which would’ve made her a freaking toddler the last time he saw her.
“How’s boarding school?” he prods.
Boarding school? Guess that explains the time between run-ins.
“Good,” Rory answers. “I graduate this year.”
“No shit?” Dodger grins. “That’s amazing, Squeaks.”
Beaming, she tucks her hands into her back pockets and rocks back on her heels. “Thanks. I’m so ready to move on, it’s not even funny.”
“I can imagine. Any plans after graduation?”
“I was just accepted to RHU, actually.”
“No shit?” He smiles. “Judge’s nephews were accepted there, too. Right, Judge?”
Judge’s head lowers into a subtle nod, but he doesn’t comment.
Dodge turns to Tatum and closes the distance, offering her his hand. “Not sure if we’ve ever been formally introduced. I’m Dodger, Raine’s older brother. Heard a lot about you.”
“Tatum.” Grudgingly, Tatum takes Dodgers’ tatted hand and shakes it once before letting it go and wiping her palm on the outside of her thigh.
“Ophelia’s little sister, right?” He scans her up and down again. “You two look nothing alike.”
“Thank god.” Tatum grins and folds her arms.
Damn. Way to wear your emotions on your sleeve. Talk about a one-eighty. I think I found the answer as to why she lied about being sick over her birthday. My interest multiplies. I mean, how can’t it? Seems the girl has more bite than bark, which is saying something, considering this conversation. But the really crazy part? Dodge isn’t up my ass about being late on stage tonight, which means this girl is officially my savior, and I owe her one. Big time.
“Speaking of family, I’d appreciate it if you didn’t tell anyone we saw each other. I’m supposed to be at home with the flu, so…”
“Aren’t you a little old to be lying to your family?” Tuke asks before stuffing a piece of jerky into his mouth.
“Aw, come on,” she quips. “You’re never too old to lie to your family. Right, Rory?”
With a fake smile, Rory presses her hands together in a prayer gesture. “Pretty please, Dodge?”
“You know your secret’s safe with me.” Head tilting, Dodger adds, “You guys should stay a while. We have drinks. Food. Whatever you want. Except no drugs.”
He gives Tuke a pointed look, and Tuke grins around his mouthful of jerky. “Drugs are bad. Stay in school.”
“Already graduated but great advice.” Tatum clicks her tongue against the roof of her mouth and lifts a shoulder. “Unfortunately, we should get going, so…”
“You sure?” Dodger asks.
“Yeah, definitely. We’ll call an Uber and be on our way. Rain check, though. For sure.” The girl doesn’t bother hiding her sarcasm as she gives him a thumbs up and takes a step toward the door.
Not gonna lie, it’s hot as fuck. People don’t stand up to Dodge, and they don’t turn him down. They don’t turn down anyone in the group. And it sure as shit isn’t only ‘cause we’re famous, either.
“You sure you can get an Uber at this time of night?” he counters. “And after the concert? And in this part of town?”
The man isn’t wrong.
Not only is the concert in the middle of nowhere, it’s also late. Anyone willing to make the drive is likely already booked, which means the girls will be waiting at least thirty minutes until a ride becomes available.
“Pretty sure it isn’t your problem,” Tatum argues.
“You’re right. It’s your parents’ problem, isn’t it?” Dodger counters. “Should I call them now or…?”
Her gaze narrows. “I thought you said we could keep my parents out of this.”
“And I thought you’d know why I have issues with young girls getting rides in the dark. Or have you forgotten what happened to my sister a few years back?” he challenges.
Aaaand, there it is.
The bane of my existence and one of the few mistakes Dodger has no issue holding over my head. You see, Dodger was supposed to give his sister a ride that night, but his bike wasn’t working, so he asked me to pick Raine up instead. And I was going to. I just…wanted to get head from a groupie first. By the time I re-emerged from the back room where we were performing, Dodger was losing his mind about his little sister’s stalker cornering her outside his family’s tattoo shop. It was all my fault. All my fucking fault. And if Raine’s boyfriend hadn’t intervened, who knows what would’ve happened to her? The thought alone is enough to send a shiver down my spine, and I fold my arms, waiting for the feeling to dissipate despite knowing it never will. Not really.
The truly surprising part, though? Dodger isn’t using my fuck-up to rub my nose in shit. He’s using it to keep Birthday Girl from doing something stupid, and I can’t help but want to applaud the bastard for it.
Refusing to back down, Tatum replies, “Pretty sure I don’t have a scary ex–slash–stalker who’s looking for an opening to kidnap me, so…”
Damn.
It’s official. This girl must have balls of steel.
“I can give them a ride,” I offer.
Everyone’s attention slices to me.
“You have your bike,” Dodger reminds me.
Shit. I didn’t think about that.
“Uber, it is.” Tatum takes another step toward the exit, looking less than displeased. “Come on, Rore.”
“Tatum,” Rory starts.
“Not gonna let an Uber driver take you girls home,” Dodger says. “If you’re gonna be this stubborn, I’ll have Herb give you a ride back to your place after the meet and greet.”
Well, shit. Seems my buddy’s thought of everything.
Your move, Tatum.
Her lips gnash together. Well aware she’s been cornered, she places her hand on her stomach, her brow dipping. “You know, I’m actually not feeling well, so…”
Liar.
And the fact she’s using the same excuse she literally admitted to using with her parents? I cover my smirk with my hand, convinced the only thing that would make this interaction better is a bowl of popcorn.
“Why don’t you catch a ride with Pax, and I’ll hang out for the meet and greet?” Rory suggests from the couch. “Then Herb can give me a ride back to the hotel later?”
My eyes widen at the opportunity she’s gifted me. When they lock with Rory’s behind Tatum’s back, she winks at me, proving she knows it, too.
Well, would you look at that?
You might be my new favorite person, Baby.
“What about the fans?” Dodger demands.
“You were late on stage,” Tuke adds from the buffet, piling donuts and more beef jerky onto a plate like it’s his last meal. “You know what that means.” He stuffs an entire cream puff into his mouth, licking the powdered sugar off his thumb without bothering to hide his knowing grin.
Asshole.
Yeah, he knows the rules. We all know the rules. Whenever I’m late on stage, I’m the designated buffer during the meet and greets, since fans are known for using alcohol as liquid courage before meeting me and the rest of the band.
“Tell them I got food poisoning,” I suggest.
Tuke laughs and collapses onto the couch with his plate of junk food.
“Food poisoning?” Judge challenges.
I shrug. “Yeah, why not?”
“Man, something’s gotta be going around. Isn’t that right, Tate?” Tuke asks.
Tatum nods. “It’s a real shame, let me tell ya.”
“I think you guys will survive without me,” I say. “Now, if you’ll excuse us.” Grabbing Tatum’s hand, I tug her down the hall before Judge or Dodge has a chance to second guess the decision.
By some miracle, she follows without complaint, matching my pace as we race toward the exit and slip past a few more security guards. Maybe she’s even more desperate to get out of here than I initially pegged her for.
“Come on,” I urge.
She doesn’t say a word as we walk down the back hallway toward the same door I snuck her in earlier tonight. When I hold it open for her, she steps over the threshold, something swirling in her pretty eyes as she waits for me to guide her through the parking lot. The warm breeze ruffles her hair, giving me another whiff of her shampoo. Or maybe the scent is all Tatum. Not sure it matters. My mouth waters regardless.
Digging in my pocket, I find a cigarette and light it, letting the sweet nicotine fill my lungs to take the edge off the guilt I’ve been suffocating in since before the show. She peeks at the cigarette in my fingers. I offer it to her, but she only shakes her head and folds her arms.
When we reach my bike, I take one more drag, drop the cigarette, and put the bud out with the toe of my shoe before offering Tate my spare helmet.
She frowns. “You weren’t kidding about the bike?”
“Is it a problem?”
Her lips thin.
“You got a thing against bikes, Birthday Girl?”
Her attention cuts to mine. “Only the men who own them.”
“Damn.” I press my hand to my heart like it just took a knife to it, then grab a piece of peppermint gum from one of the saddle bags. Crinkling the wrapper in my palm, I shove the gum into my mouth, adding, “Two strikes to the ego in one night.”
“Again, I think you can handle it.”
I snort. “You’re probably right. The question is, can you handle being on the back of my bike?”
Her lips purse. “I’m debating.”
“We could always go back inside.”
She grabs the helmet from me and slips it on her head, her expression twisting with annoyance. Her fingers fumble with the strap beneath her chin, and I swat them away.
“Here.” Slowly, I lift her chin. She follows my silent request, raising her head so I can see the strap underneath. When my fingers brush against her soft skin, her lips part, and my own lift with satisfaction, as I slide the buckle into place. “There. Much better.”
I put my helmet on, swing my leg over the seat, and wait for Tatum to join me.
She doesn’t.
Glancing at her, I tilt my head. “You coming or what?”
“Still debating.”
“It’s me or Dodge inside.” I shrug. “Your choice.”
Folding her arms, she points out, “You say it like you weren’t trying to get out of there, too.”
Damn, the girl got me.
“I was late,” I tell her.
“For what?”
“For the set. Which is your fault, by the way,” I add.
Arms folded, she pops out one hip. “So?”
“So, after one too many fuck ups, Dodger made a rule. If you’re late on stage, you’re in charge of handling the fans who’ve had too much to drink during the meet and greets.”
“Yeah, because that sounds like it’s such a chore for a guy like you,” she counters.
My mouth lifts. “Depends on the fan. Where’s your hotel?”
Pulling her phone out, she tells me the name, and I nod, familiar with the area. “Hop on.”
With a sigh, she climbs on the back, her arms hanging limply at her sides as if she doesn’t know what to do with them. I turn the ignition, and the bike rumbles to life beneath us. She fumbles for the handles beneath her ass, reminding me of an anxious baby bird or some shit.
Grateful she can’t read the amusement on my face, I ask, “You ever been on a bike?”
“No?”
“Is that a question?”
She smacks my shoulder. “No, I’ve never been on a bike.”
Called it.
“You’re gonna wanna hold on,” I tell her.
“I am holding on.”
I rev the engine, and the bike jerks forward.
“Shit!” Tatum slams into my back, her arms wrapping around my waist.
“Now you’re holding on,” I quip.
“Smartass.”
“Long way or short way to the hotel?”
“Short,” she yells over the rumbling engine.
“Your wish is my command.”
Turning onto the main highway, I start the short trip to her hotel. Minutes pass, and her muscles slowly loosen, the tension from when we first climbed on the bike morphing into an easy grip as we weave between cars.
“Woo-hoo!” she screams, though I doubt she knows I can hear her. I like it, though. The glimpse of the girl she seems to keep hidden when others are around. Or maybe it’s just me she’s hiding from. Nah, that’s not true. Seeing her with the rest of the guys is all the confirmation I need. This girl’s a vault, and I’ve always been a sucker for picking locks.
When we pull off the highway and stop at a light, she bends around me, yelling, “I changed my mind!”
I twist to look at her, my brows pinched in confusion.
“I want the long way,” she clarifies. “If the offer’s still on the table.”
Glancing at the red light, I check left and right, confirming the road is empty before twisting my wrist and cutting through the intersection.
Her surprised squeal of laughter seeps from her chest and into my back, bringing a smile of my own as we dart across the dark road. Then, we’re flying.
I’ve always loved my bike. Ever since the guys introduced me to motorcycles, I’ve been obsessed. The rumble of the engine between my thighs. The buzzing of the wind. The quiet in the chaos.
Tatum’s thighs squeeze the seat, her knees pressing against my outer legs before her hands disappear from my waist and she spreads her arms wide. My panic lasts less than a beat until I look over my shoulder, finding her head tilted toward the pitch black sky. The shield covers her expression, but I don’t need to see her face to know she’s smiling. I’d bet my life savings it’s a real one, too. Not the flirty facade she used on me to sneak into the venue earlier. Not the smartass one she wore as armor when she ran into Dodge and the rest of the band after the show. Nah. This one’s for her. And for some reason I can’t explain, my chest puffs up in pride. I put it there. That smile. Me.
Maybe I’m not a fuck up after all.
Scanning the winding road ahead of us, I slowly drift across the center line, treating the entire road as our playground because in a way, it is. It’s only me and her and the night sky. The gentle breeze. The sprawling pavement. I sway us from left to right like it’s a dance, and we’re the only two people in the world who matter.
And maybe, for this moment, we are.