48. Paxton
48
PAXTON
T he wind is cool against my bare chest as I drive Tatum home. Call me a sucker, but I didn’t think to pack a second shirt on the off-chance I ripped my first one apart. Even so, I’m grateful for it. The contrast of cool air to my heated skin and my heavy thoughts as Tatum clings to me on the back of my bike. The feel of her pressed against me is the only thing keeping me from spiraling. From tossing her over my shoulder and dragging her back to my place without giving a shit about her boundaries or her needs.
Maybe that’s the problem. Because I do care. Even if it kills me. Even if my boundaries and needs don’t align with hers. Like right now. She’ll always come first. Always.
We take the long way home, but even then, there’s only so much procrastinating I can do before I reach Tatum’s street. After we pull up to the curb, I cut the engine, climbing off my bike and slipping off my helmet. Reaching for Tate, I undo the strap beneath her chin, then set her helmet on the grass as she sits motionless. Numb. Staring into the distance. A shell of a person. Seems her afterglow has worn off since we left, and now she’s so lost in her head, she can’t even look at me. I hate that I’m the one to do this to her. To push her into this state, even if it’s irrational on her part and accidental on mine. It doesn’t matter, and sure as shit doesn’t dissipate the fog she’s lost in.
“Hey,” I murmur.
Her eyes cut to mine and she forces a smile. “Hey.”
I want to ask if she’s all right, but I’m not stupid. Of course, she isn’t all right. She’s still shaken. Scared. Of her feelings for me and what they could mean if she decides to accept them instead of pushing me away.
Please don’t push me away.
Threading my fingers through her hair, I kiss her forehead and breathe in her scent, letting the sharp citrus smell ground me. “We’re gonna be okay.”
Her head bobs in a jerky, mechanical nod. “I should go inside.”
“Let me walk you up.” Offering my hand, I help her off my bike, and we take the stairs to the second floor without a word. When we reach her welcome mat, I ask, “Is Rory home?”
Forehead wrinkling, she glances at front door. “I don’t, uh, I don’t know.”
“I’m not gonna leave you here alone.”
“I’ll be okay, Pax.” But instead of reaching for the handle like I expect, she moves closer, pressing her cold fingertips to my bare stomach. My abs clench on reflex, and her lips curve up before she brushes her hand along a bruised rib and a hiss of pain slips past my gritted teeth.
Her smile falls, and she starts to pull her hands away. “Shit, I’m sorry?—”
I snatch her wrist, preventing her from pulling away entirely. “You’re good, Birthday Girl.”
“I don’t wanna hurt you,” she whispers.
Then invite me inside , I want to push, but I bite my tongue, forcing the words to stay locked up tight even if it kills me.
“Not gonna hurt me,” I murmur. Bringing her hand to my mouth, I kiss her knuckles and let her go. “I love you.”
Something flashes in her eyes before she looks down at my bare chest, unable to hold my gaze. “Thanks for inviting me tonight.”
I scoff. “Don’t mention it. And I mean that literally,” I add, tossing her own words back at her from when I found her letters to Archer not so long ago. I wonder if she’ll write about tonight. If she’ll tell him what she’s too scared to tell me. The thought leaves me hollow.
Balancing on her tiptoes, Tatum skates her lips across my cheek. “Goodnight, Pax.”
As she moves to step away, I grab her wrist again, keeping her close. “We’re not done,” I warn. “I’m letting you walk in this apartment without me because I know you need a minute to get your head on straight, but this is not me letting you go, and this sure as shit isn’t me giving you up. We clear?”
Her eyes turn glassy as she nods again. “Yeah.” She swallows. “Yeah, I just need a minute.”
“Tate.”
Weakly, she tugs out of my grasp and unlocks her front door, killing me more and more with every passing second.
“Tate,” I beg.
“We’ll be okay,” she promises, then disappears inside, closing the door behind her with a quiet click.
Scrubbing my hand over my face, I stare at Tatum’s front door for a solid minute before forcing myself to walk away. She’ll be okay. We’ll be okay. She said it herself, and even if she hadn’t, I’d still fucking know it, despite tonight being a bitch. Why? Because Tatum’s it for me. I know it, and deep down, I think she knows it, too. That’s why she’s scared.
As I make my way back to my bike, my phone rings. My heart pounds faster, and I pull it out, hoping to see Tatum’s name, but only Dodger’s shines back at me.
Why’s he calling me?
I could send it to voicemail. I probably should, considering where my head is. Instead, I answer it. “Hey, what do you need?”
“Hello to you, too,” Dodger returns. “I’m calling to check in. How’d the fight go?”
I dig my fingers into my sore neck as I replay the night, unsure what to say. “I won,” I admit.
“Congrats. I knew you would.”
“Yeah, thanks.”
“So, if you won, why do you sound like shit?” he pushes.
I pinch the bridge of my nose and exhale. “I took Tate to the fight, and?—”
“You what?” he shouts.
Pulling my cell away from my ear, I look at the screen, then slowly bring it back to my ear. “I said, I took Tate to the fight, and?—”
“Why the fuck would you do that?”
“Dodge, calm down,” I order.
“I thought you said you were trying to take care of her, not feed her to the fucking sharks.”
“What’s your problem?” I snap. “I’m not in the mood to be yelled at, all right?”
“Why’d you bring Tatum to the fight?” he demands.
“Because she wanted to come?” I offer, well-aware the invitation was my first mistake of the evening, though I’m too bitter to rehash it with Dodge, considering he clearly feels like being an asshole tonight.
“I don’t give a shit if she wanted to come,” he argues, proving my assessment is on point. “These events are dangerous. You know that. How could you be so fucking careless?”
I grind my teeth, bend down, pick Tatum’s helmet up, and place it in the saddlebag, so I can get out of here as soon as I’m finished with this conversation. “What’s going on?” I push. “What aren’t you saying?”
Silence.
I shift my cell to my opposite ear, trying to read between the lines no matter how little information he’s giving me right now. “Dodge, it was one fight with a bunch of college students and locals.”
“Yeah, locals from The Drift,” he reminds me.
This again? Pretty sure if I had the power to crawl through the phone and shove him, I’d do it. “You forget I’m one of them,” I growl.
“Nah. If I’d forgotten, I wouldn’t have let you fight at all.”
“Let me?” I scoff.
“You know what I mean.” His silence blares through the phone, leaving me uneasy. “Listen, it isn’t only the locals I’m worried about.”
“What are you saying?”
“If it was only locals, do you really think Judge would be here?” Dodge demands. “That I would be here?”
“What are you saying?” I repeat. “Stop talking in riddles, and tell me what the fuck is going on.”
“You really wanna know how Rudy died?” Dodger seethes. “He died because Judge messed with the wrong people at one of these fucked-up gatherings. They lost a shit-ton of money, thought Judge played them, and killed his best friend for it, all right? That’s why Judge pulled the plug on these events. It’s why they should’ve stayed dead in the first place. You understand?”
I don’t. I don’t understand at all. What the hell is Dodger talking about? Leaning against my bike, I point out, “Rudy died from a drug overdose.”
“Did he?” Dodger challenges.
And fuck me, I don’t know. I don’t know how he died. I don’t know anything. Not anymore. Not after the inflection in Dodger’s voice, hinting otherwise. Why would they lie?
Dropping my head toward the night sky, I ask, “Why are you telling me this now?”
“Because I need you to understand. And I need you and Tatum to be safe.”
I look up at Tatum’s building, catching her silhouette in the window. “We’re safe.”
“Good.” He pauses. “‘Cause I’m pretty sure you don’t wanna get caught up in this.”
He’s right. I don’t. Not before I answered this call, and sure as hell not after. “I gotta go.”
“Me, too. We’ll talk later, yeah?”
“Yeah.” My hands shake as I hang up the phone, dialing Roman.
He answers on the third ring.
“Hey, man,” Roman greets me. “I was gonna call you in the morning.”
“Oh?”
“Yeah, you did good tonight.”
I did good tonight? That’s what he wants to talk about? Considering the bombshell Dodger threw at me on top of Tatum’s meltdown, my fight is the last thing on my mind. Hell, if it wasn’t for the stitch in my side and my swollen lip, I’d say it happened a week ago. Funny. How time moves so slowly yet so fuckin’ fast sometimes.
“Any chance you want in on another one?” Roman continues. “Ford wants to set up a drag race, then Hawke has a few ideas we’re gonna feel out, but I’m thinking a couple months from now, we’ll do the same thing as tonight. You in?”
“I, uh,” I hesitate. “Nah, man. Tate didn’t take it so well.”
“Yeah, I noticed. She was losing her shit while you were in the ring. She okay?”
I glance at her building again, unsure how to answer. “Just dropped her off so she can get some rest.”
“I get it,” Roman mutters. “No worries, man. Seriously. Gotta keep your woman happy, right?”
“Yeah,” I murmur. “Happy and safe.” I pause, replaying my conversation with Dodger. I want to ask if Roman knows the shit he’s really meddling in, but I also know the guy. If I don’t play my cards right, he’ll hang up and stonewall me until he winds up in a casket or next to his brother in a jail cell. “Listen, I need to ask you something.”
“Yeah, for sure. What’s up?”
“Have you talked with Judge to hear him out?” I question. “What he has to say? Why he thinks this shit is a bad idea?”
“Are you asking if we know about Rudy?” Roman challenges.
My lungs stall as I realize how easily Roman connected the dots, though it doesn’t make me any less uneasy. “You know about Rudy?”
“We all know about Rudy,” Roman replies. “And Judge is a good guy, all right? But he should stick with what he knows best, which is music, and let us continue doing what we do best, which is making money and giving the people what they want. And what they wanted tonight was you. Fuck, man. You delivered. Congrats again. If Tate ever decides she has the stomach for this, give me a call. I’ll get you set up. If not, no worries. You fucking killed it, which means we all fucking killed it. Stay safe, all right?”
The call goes dead, and I tap the edge of my cell against my chin, knowing I just took ten steps backward with the guy, though I have no idea what to do about it.
Fucking perfect.