50. Paxton
50
PAXTON
C hecking my phone for the hundredth time since I dropped Tatum off two days ago, I send another text.
Me
Missing you.
I don’t wait to see her response, knowing she won’t reply until she’s ready. But I can’t help myself. It’s taken everything inside of me to keep from barging to her place and beating down the door until she talks to me. Lets me in.
I hold onto the words she spoke before she left, “We’ll be okay,” as I tuck my phone into my saddle bag on my bike and head inside the gate.
You’d think I’d be used to it by now. The barbed wire. The chain link. The buzzing of doors and tedious forms. Once I’ve jumped through the prison’s hoops, a guard leads me to the same room, the same seat, the same phone, and I rest my elbows on the counter, waiting for Rafe to appear.
I’ve debated on whether or not it’s a good idea to come here and air out Roman’s dirty laundry, but after Dodger’s words of caution and Roman’s flippant response to Rudy’s death, I couldn’t stay away.
Rafe appears a few minutes later, saying something to the guard before he collapses in the seat across from mine like this is just another day in the life of an inmate. Now that I think about it, I guess it is.
I pick up the phone, and Rafe does the same.
“Hey, man,” he says.
“Hey.”
His brows crease. “What’s wrong?”
I should’ve known he’d call me out as soon as he saw me. Might as well get it over with. “Did you ever hear about Rudy?” I ask. “The guy I replaced in IndieCent Vows?”
“The guitarist?” His forehead wrinkles. “Yeah? What about him?”
“Did you know he was Judge’s friend?” I prod.
Recognition hits his gaze, and he gives me a slow nod. “Yeah, man. I heard. Tough break.”
My eyes cut to the guard as I confirm our conversation is still relatively private. Somewhat satisfied, I dip closer to the glass, dropping my voice low. “You think it was an accident?”
“I think it’s none of my business.” Tilting his head, he shifts the phone to his other ear. “I think it’s none of your business, either.”
“And what about Roman?” I ask. “You think it’s any of his business?”
Tongue in cheek, Rafe stares at me but doesn’t answer, proving he’s more in the loop with whatever Roman’s involved in than I initially assumed. The thought doesn’t make me feel any better.
“You’re not worried?” I push.
“About Rudy?” Rafe shakes his head. “Pax, it was years ago.”
“So?”
“So, it was years ago,” he repeats, emphasizing the timeline as if it makes any of this better. “Besides, the same players aren’t around anymore, Roman’s a big boy, and he isn’t stupid. So, no. I’m not worried.”
“Rafe, he’s your brother,” I grit out.
Rafe’s jaw tics the same way it did when we were kids and I pushed him too far. Apparently, I’m doing the same thing now, but I don’t know how to stop. How to drop it. How to let this go.
“No offense, Pax, but it’s been a while since you’ve been to town,” he reminds me. “There’s more at play than you know, and like I already said, Roman isn’t stupid. He’s got this.”
“So, you’re okay with it?” I push.
“As much as I can be, yeah.” He rests his elbows on the table, watching me. “You can breathe, man. I’m keeping an eye on things.”
Keeping an eye on things? The bastard can’t be serious.
“How?” I demand. “Maybe you’ve forgotten, but you’re behind bars.”
“And maybe you’ve forgotten how well I make friends,” he argues. “You really think I’d let Rome do something stupid?” A soft chuckle echoes from the phone. “Come on, man. Have a little faith. He’s good. I promise.”
I want to believe him. I do. It’s not like I haven’t been to my fair share of fight nights, and they’ve never been a problem. Not once. But I know Dodge, and he’s never had an issue crossing the line into illegal territory. If he’s spooked, he has a good reason to be. Doesn’t he?
“You sure you’re good?” I ask.
Rafe pauses, drawing his lips into his mouth before sobering even more. “Listen, I appreciate you and your bandmates lookin’ out for Rome and the rest of the guys, but you can’t come in at half-time and expect to know the plays, let alone participate in the game or understand shit. They have it under control.”
“Maybe they do, but I can’t just sit back?—”
“Yes, you can.”
“Rafe—”
“Seriously, Pax.” With a smile, he scratches his jaw. “Fuck, man. Do you know how happy I am for you? Whatever guilt you hold for me being here. For your mom or your dad or Roman. Fuck that shit. We’re good, and we’re happy for you. But you gotta be happy for us, too, and let us do our own thing, even if you don’t agree with it.”
Count on Rafe to say it like it is. Maybe it’s the real reason why I’m here. Because I feel guilty. Because I want to keep them safe. Want to keep everyone safe. But it isn’t easy. Not when I don’t know what they’re up against.
“You want me to let it go,” I realize.
“Yeah. I do.”
“At what cost?”
“At the cost of Roman’s future,” he says as if it’s enough to justify his seemingly hands-off approach. “Rome’s making money. Having fun. And building a fucking empire. Who are you to judge how he makes it?”
Blindsided, I shift back in the shitty-ass chair, considering his words.
Who am I to judge how Roman builds his empire?
I’m his older brother’s best friend. But is it enough? It’s easy to talk shit and criticize a person’s decisions from the outside looking in, especially when you care about the person. And if anything happens to Roman, I’ll be gutted. But Rafe is right. I don’t know the full story, and if I’m being honest, I don’t need to know the full story. It doesn’t involve me, and the guys owe me nothing. But letting go? Giving in and taking a backseat so someone else can make their own decisions—good or bad—is scary as hell. The realization is a hard blow as I stare at my best friend across from me. He has more skin in the game than I’ll ever have, and if he supports Roman, if he accepts his brother’s decisions, then who am I to do any different?
“You promise he’s being safe?” I push.
He holds my stare, never flinching. “Safe as he can be.”
My knuckles crack as I squeeze the phone in my hand before forcing the tight muscles to loosen. “Fine,” I grunt. “I’ll let it go.”
“Good man.” Rafe grins. “Now, stop wasting time rehashing boring shit you have no control over. Tell me about your girl. How is she? Roman said she freaked the other night.”
“Yeah.” My shoulders slump in the uncomfortable chair. “She lost someone close to her a few years ago, and it messed with her.”
“Been there, am I right?” he jokes before sobering. “How are you handling it?”
“Me?”
“Yeah. It’s gotta be hard.”
I nod, surprised by how on-point his assumption is. It is hard. Seeing her spiral. Being given a front-row seat to her greatest fears without any power to scare them away. Not really. Because I can’t guarantee my safety anymore than I can guarantee the sun will rise in the morning.
All I know is, I miss her. I want her to be happy. I want to erase her fears and convince her it’s okay to be vulnerable. That she doesn’t need to waste time overthinking scary possibilities when we could be spending what time we have on this earth together .
But I can’t force her to make this decision, no matter how much I wish I could. It’s on her. All I can do is be patient and hope the pros of opening up and giving me a chance will be worth the potential cons of heartbreak.
So here I am. Twiddling my fucking thumbs and distracting myself with Roman’s empire-building tactics. Or at least, I was.
Now what?
“She’ll come around,” Rafe promises.
“I hope so.”
“She will,” he reiterates. “You’re a good guy, Pax. It’s why she’s scared. She doesn’t wanna lose you.”
My eyes narrow. “I know the feeling.”
With a low chuckle, he volleys, “Then you know she has no reason to worry.”
I scoff. “Whatever, asshole.”
“I’m just sayin’, man.” He lifts one hand in defense before adding, “But maybe wait ‘til I’m out so I can come to the wedding, yeah?”
I laugh a little harder. “Oh, so now we’re getting married?”
“You tellin’ me my little brother’s intel is off?” he challenges.
“Are you saying Roman’s spying on me for you?”
“Already told you, Pax,” Rafe reminds me. “I’m good at making friends, and I know what’s going on outside these bars. Maybe you should start trusting me.”
I roll my eyes. “Yeah, man. Whatever you say.”
“Glad you see it my way. Now about the wedding…” He cocks his brow and leans back in his chair, looking about as humble as Tom Brady during the Superbowl.
“Yeah, man,” I grumble, scratching the edge of my nose as I try to keep my amusement in check. “I think I can make that work.”