17. Paxton
17
PAXTON
L ifting my hand, I rap my knuckles against the heavy oak door and wait. Footsteps echo on the opposite side before Dodger appears and nods his head in greeting. “Hey, man. Come on in.”
He opens the door the rest of the way, holding it for me as I step over the threshold and into the foyer. It’s nice. Screams money, too. Vaulted ceiling. Spiral staircase. Tall windows like the place I’ve been staying. It’s a family home, or so I’ve heard. Been passed down for generations. I tuck my hands into my front pockets and scan what I can see of the large house since it’s my first time being at Judge’s. Dodger’s basement has the studio, so there’s never a need to meet at Judge’s when we’re all in town, or at least it’s what they tell me. Personally, I think it’s because Titas, Judge’s brother, is too much of a tight-ass to let someone from The Drift into his personal space, but what do I know? Yeah, this isn’t Judge’s place, even if his name is next to his brother’s on the deed. It solely belongs to Titas Harden through and through, like everything else in this town.
As I walk through the foyer, Dodger closes the door behind us, motioning to an office on the right. Black marble. Chrome accents. Monochromatic artwork. The place feels as cold as Judge’s heart.
Not surprised.
Leaning against the glass desk in the middle of the room, Dodger asks, “So, what’s up?”
I look around the foyer, finding it empty except for us. “Where’s Tuke?”
“Last I checked, still in the Cayman islands, smoking enough pot for all of us.”
“Sounds like Tuke,” I laugh. “And Judge?”
Dodger peers around me. “He’s?—”
Judge walks into the room as if on cue. He looks as put together as always, but after sharing a bus and more late nights on tour than I can count, it’s easy to see past the facade. Bags under his eyes. His shirt untucked. That’s it. Two minor details, but it’s enough. The guy’s being drug through the wringer.
“Take a seat, Pax,” Dodger suggests.
I sit on the black leather couch along the side of the wall beneath the window overlooking the quiet winding road while Judge takes his place behind the desk and Dodge leans against the edge of it.
Eyeing both of them, I note, “This feels…official.”
“You said you wanted to talk shop,” Dodger reminds me. “Figured this was the best place for it.”
He’s not wrong. Since IndieCent Vows’ hiatus announcement, the paparazzi have been dying to be the first to find the why behind our decision. Then again, so have I.
“How are you liking the new place?” Dodger asks.
“It’s all right.” I hesitate. “Different.”
“Than the tour bus or The Drift?” Judge chimes in.
“Both,” I answer with a dry laugh. Pretty sure our tour bus could’ve fit in the new kitchen, and The Drift? It’s something else entirely.
Twisting in his office chair toward the window, Judge takes in the main road outside. “You’ll get used to it.”
I doubt it, but I don’t bother arguing.
“So how are the nephews?” I ask.
“Pains in my ass, like always,” Judge grunts.
“Any reason why your brother couldn’t be the one to whip them into shape instead of shitting on our tour?”
“We wanted a break anyway,” Dodger says, as if he needs to remind me that I’ve been feeling burnt out for years. Although, if I’m being honest, sitting on my ass in a mansion on the beach isn’t exactly all it’s cracked up to be, either.
I nod slowly. “It doesn’t explain why Titas couldn’t come here himself.”
Crossing one ankle over the other with his hands in his pockets like we’re talking about the weather or some shit, Dodger defends, “He’s busy.”
Sure, he is.
Instead of pushing a moot point, I cut to the chase, asking, “Can you at least tell me if the band is finished or not? I’m going out of my mind here.”
“Then maybe you need to find a hobby,” Dodger suggests dryly.
I smirk back at him. “I could always ask Judge’s nephews if they have any suggestions.”
The amused curve of Dodger’s mouth falls. “Not funny.”
My smirk grows. “Too soon?”
With a twitch beneath his right eye, Judge rests his elbows on the desk separating us, and I prepare myself for a brotherly lecture. Because that’s what he is. That’s what they both are. Brothers. Touring the world for years together will do that to you. Place a familial spin on a business relationship while giving everyone in the makeshift family front-row seats to the good, the bad, and the ugly. Usually, it’s not a problem. Usually, we’re making fun of each other or sharing inside jokes. Then there are times like this. When everyone’s on edge, and the lines most people would respect with colleagues is long gone, leaving a shit-ton of room for overstepping bounds.
“Look, I know you don’t want to hear this, but it’s the same shit as before,” Judge informs me. “The band is important, yes. But you’ve already made plenty of money, and family comes first.”
I bite my tongue to keep from pointing out that when it comes to Judge’s family, money and familial ties are a blurred line at best.
“Any idea when you’ll have an update or a plan or…something?” I prod.
Judge sighs. “Not at this moment, no.”
“And what do you know?”
His eyes narrow, proving I hit a nerve, though I’m too annoyed to give a shit. “I know you have more than enough money to be spending your time doing whatever you want instead of wasting ours by calling a meeting we’ve explicitly told you we’re not ready to have,” Judge replies.
Asshole.
My fingers dig into the arm of the leather couch. “You know, I ran into Roman the other day.”
“And?” Dodger asks.
“And we talked,” I offer.
“About what?” Judge pushes.
“About the fact that both of us are far from The Drift nowadays.”
“Anything else?” Dodger prods.
I could tell him no. I could lie and not mention Roman’s invitation to fight. But even though my bandmates don’t always deserve it, I know where my loyalties lie. “Asked if I could still fight,” I add.
Dodge exchanges a curious look with Judge, proving the information holds the weight I assumed it would.
“Did he, now?” Dodger mutters.
“Yeah.” I scratch my temple. “The question is, why would he do that?”
“Don’t play stupid,” Dodger demands. “We all know we’re here because they’ve been dabbling in some shady shit.”
Stretching my legs out in front of me, I say, “Exactly. And if I can piece together why we’re here, Roman can, too.” My attention cuts to Judge. “And so can your nephews.”
Like a vault, Judge gives nothing away as he agrees, “I’m sure they can.”
“So why be subtle?” I ask.
“Because they’re slippery little fuckers,” he admits grudgingly. “And even if they don’t want to acknowledge it when it’s inconvenient for them, those boys carry the family name. They’re expected to uphold a set of standards most don’t understand. Especially Roman. If they did, we wouldn’t be here. We’d be on tour, and there would be no need for you to find a new hobby, so if you feel like reminding Roman of this, be my guest.”
Well, would you look at that? Seems the guy can string together more than two sentences after all. I hold his stare from across the office, fighting the urge to be an asshole, when it’s clear he wants to claim the title after a speech like that.
“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 underground activities 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. Annoyed I’m playing 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.
“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.”