19. Paxton
19
PAXTON
T he sun is gone, having dipped below the horizon while I was at Judge’s. I consider stopping by my old gym to see if I can sign up for some training but decide against it. For now. Even if I am desperate to clear my head. My headlights cut through the darkness as I drive home. Noticing the lights slipping through the curtains, I frown. The maid must’ve forgotten to turn them off when she left. I pull up the winding path leading to the garage, but my brows pull down. There’s a car out front. Sleek. Black. Toyota Supra with a straight six engine.
Only one guy I know owns this car.
What is Roman doing here?
I park in the garage, climb out of my car, and head inside. Tossing my keys onto the kitchen counter, I catch Roman by the unlit fireplace. “Hey, man.”
“Hey. I like the place. It’s nice.”
“It belongs to Judge’s family,” I explain. “What are you doing here?”
“Checking in.” With his feet propped on the coffee table, he thumbs through a worn copy of one of my books. It’s The Count of Monte Cristo .
“Where’d you get that?” I demand, surprising us both with my possessiveness over a book. It’s probably because I just saw Tatum, and the wound is still fresh, but it’s not like I actually care.
Right?
Roman closes the book, drops his feet to the floor, and sets it on the coffee table. “Your maid was reading it.”
My brows dip. “What?”
“I said, your maid was reading it. Up in your music room,” he clarifies.
“What was my maid doing reading on the job?”
Cupping the back of his head, he leans back on the leather couch. “No idea. She’s cute, though. Pretty sure I woke her up from a nap.” He chuckles softly. “You might wanna check the tape to see if she touched anything else.”
Frustration flares inside of me, but I try to keep it in check, scratching my temple with my forefinger. “She was…sleeping?”
“Like a hot, black-haired Goldilocks,” he confirms.
What the hell?
I unlock my phone and pull up the footage from earlier today, scrolling through the past few hours until a clear shot comes into view. When I see her, my stomach bottoms out, and I rest my ass against the kitchen counter to keep from falling.
There she is. Tatum Taylor. Curled up on the window seat in my music room like a fucking ghost.
“See?” Roman prods from the couch. “Cute, right?”
My attention shifts to him as I try piecing together why the bane of my existence was in my house earlier today. “What’d she say to you?”
“Only that she was the maid.”
The maid?
Visiting, my ass.
I’m gonna kill her.
“Does she know this isn’t your place?” I ask.
“No idea. It was my first time meeting her. Why?”
I consider my options and what I should or shouldn’t divulge. Roman might be the closest thing I have to family, but even then, things with Tate have never been black and white. After the bonfire? They’re grayer than ever.
“There a problem, Pax?” he questions.
Yeah. Yeah, there is.
My teeth grind, and I answer, “I know her.”
“Well, yeah. She’s your cleaning?—”
“I mean from outside of her profession.”
A divot forms between his brows. “So?”
So, the little brat lied to me. Twice. No, three times. Four? Fuck, at this point, I’ve lost count.
I’m an idiot. She lives here. Works here. And she honestly thought I’d let her get away with lying to my face after giving me a blow job and a fake number? Yeah, don’t think I haven’t already tried contacting her after our little rendezvous on the beach.
Not a chance.
Rubbing my jaw, I tuck my phone back in my pocket, stride toward him, sit on the opposite couch, and rest my elbows on my knees. “I’m gonna need you to do me a favor.”
“I got you,” he offers without any hesitation. “What do you need?”
“If you see her, call me. And I mean immediately. Do not let her out of your sight. We clear?”
“Sure thing.”
“Thanks, man. I owe you.”
“Two times,” he clarifies.
My brows pull. “What do you mean?”
“Aren’t you gonna ask why I’m here?”
Suspicion winds its way up my spine, and I ask, “Why are you here?”
Setting his feet back on the coffee table, Roman hooks one ankle over the other, getting comfortable. “Jagger wants to see you fight.”
My eyes widen, but I stay quiet. Not gonna lie. When I last talked with Roman, I figured it was a moot conversation, especially considering my connection to Judge. There’s no way Jagger, Hawke, or Ford would want me anywhere near their extracurricular activities.
“What’s the catch, Rome?” I demand.
“No catch.”
“Don’t lie to me,” I warn.
“I’m not lying. Hell, I’m not even officially extending the offer… yet .”
“So, you might have an opening, but you’re not sure?”
“Depends on how well you show up in front of Jagger.” He shrugs. “My word only goes so far, and it’s been a few years since I’ve seen you brawl.”
Me and him both.
Officially, anyway.
Flexing my hands, I try to keep the influx of adrenaline from taking over my system at the opportunity Roman’s presenting me. What it means for my future in the band, and what it means for now. The rush from a good fight is something else. It’s addictive and more enticing than I care to admit. The only thing comparable is when I’m on stage, playing for thousands of people, and since that isn’t an option at the moment, the idea of opening the door for fighting to give me my fix is tempting. Maybe a little too tempting.
The thought niggles at the back of my mind as I turn back to Roman sitting on my couch. “I’m not interested in anything official. I only want to let off some steam.”
“So let it off.” He shrugs. “Come meet the guys. See what you think. See what they think. No commitment.”
No commitment. It shouldn’t surprise me that they want to see what I can do before they even consider giving me an opening. Not that I want one in the first place. The nephews are particular about who they invite to participate in their…activities. Whether they can keep their mouths shut. Whether or not they can bring in more bets. Whether or not they know how to put on a good show. Whether or not they can be trusted.
“What do you say?” Roman prods.
It’s a good question. One I should genuinely consider after my conversation earlier with what’s left of the band. When Roman mentioned a fight coming up at the bonfire, I wasn’t sure he’d be able to convince the nephews to let me in, assuming I was too close to the source of their family friction to be trusted. Or, maybe they’re more aware of IndieCent Vows’ inner workings—and the lopsided power dynamics—to know better.
“Does Judge know?” I ask.
“It won’t kill him,” he replies, proving he’s smarter than Judge gives him—or anyone else, for that matter—credit.
My mouth flickers with amusement. “That’s a diplomatic answer.”
“I learned from the best. So, are you in or not?”
“And it’s no commitment?” I push.
“Already said it wasn’t.”
“Then, why waste Jagger’s time?”
“Pretty sure Jagger will take any opportunity he can get to beat the shit out of someone.” He chuckles. “Even if it’s for free and without an audience.”
Apparently, it’s something we have in common.
Rolling my shoulders, I consider Roman’s proposition along with the band’s current situation. “Sure,” I decide. “Why not?”
“All right, I’ll let the guys know.” He rubs his hands together and stands.
“Don’t tell anyone,” I warn. “Even if Jagger decides to give me a spot, I’m not guaranteeing I’ll take it.”
“You change your mind?”
“I’m on the fence,” I return. “The band’s PR doesn’t like covering up my shit as much as they like covering up Dodger’s and Judge’s, and I’m not stupid enough to believe you won’t exploit the fact that I’m a rockstar to drum up bets. It’s too lucrative.”
“Hell yeah, it is,” he agrees without an ounce of shame. “But all right, man. We’ll play it by ear. Make sure everyone’s on the same page before we start putting out any feelers.”
“Thanks, man.”
“Anytime. I’ll send you the address,” he adds with a pointed look.
“I’ll be there.”