Chapter 5 Jagger
JAGGER
Sweat clings to my skin as I jog around the gate. When the motorcycle comes into view, I stop short. It isn’t Hawke’s. No, this one belongs to my uncle.
My. Fucking. Uncle.
My dad hates my uncle’s bike. Says it corrupts with the family name.
I told him Judge’s contribution to the family name sailed as soon as he started the band, IndieCent Vows with his friends.
Now, he’s a tatted drummer with a shaved head, more groupies than any single person would know what to do with, and about as many family secrets as the rest of us Harden brothers.
To be honest, I really don’t mind the guy.
In another life, part of me thinks we could’ve even been friends.
Until a few months ago, I even considered him someone I could reach out to for advice without judgment.
Then, my dad called, and he came running like a pathetic little puppy.
Whatever respect I had for the bastard swirled down the drain.
The question is, why is he here now?
Molars grinding, I slow to a walk, stretching my arms over my head. The steady thump-thump of feet on pavement confirms what I already know. My best friend’s right behind me. Roman’s heels dig into the ground when he notices it, too. The bike.
“What is it this time?” he grunts.
I shake my head, not bothering to answer.
“Want me to wait outside?” he questions.
Another shake of my head before I think better of it.
If there’s one thing I’ve learned from my familial ties, it’s that family business is family business.
Despite looking at Roman like he’s one of my brothers, I doubt my uncle will share the same sentiment, and I sure as hell know my father doesn’t.
Sensing my indecision, Roman takes a step back. “I’m gonna run a couple more miles. I’ll be back in thirty. If his bike’s still parked out front, I’ll head home, and you can give me a call whenever you’re finished.”
“Thanks, man,” I mutter.
“No worries.”
His retreating footsteps tug at my concentration, but I don’t bother watching him jog away.
If I hadn’t left my phone inside, I have no doubt I would’ve been given a heads-up from Hawke or Ford.
Instead, I feel blindsided. Maybe I shouldn’t.
I know why he’s here. Why he’s been here.
In Harden Heights. Despite his life as a famous musician.
My dad called in a favor, and here he is to do his big brother’s bidding.
You’d think they shared the same relationship as the one I do with my brothers, but it couldn’t be further from the truth.
Yeah. Judge hates my dad almost as much as we do.
The reminder only slightly lessens the sting of his presence.
Because even though he hates my dad, he still plays by his big brother’s rules, feeding my father’s narcissism and belief that it’s his way or the highway, while kicking dirt on the path we’re trying to pave in the process.
Because if my dad’s baby brother will play by his rules, why won’t his precious sons?
Fucking coward.
I push open the front door, finding my uncle at the unlit fireplace in a black T-shirt and jeans.
Bastard must have a key. Scrubbing his hand over his bald head, he picks up a gold picture frame and examines the image.
It’s my mom. Her arms are wrapped around our family dog’s neck, and she’s grinning from ear to ear.
The floor creaks as I take a step closer. Judge sets the picture frame back in its place.
“I forget how much your little sister looks like your mom,” he says.
“The spitting image,” I confirm, not bothering to look at the photo in question.
I don’t need to. Light brown hair. Light hazel eyes that are usually greener than they are brown.
A smattering of freckles along the bridge of her nose.
Yeah, Cobie looks just like Mom. Part of me thinks it’s why she was sent to boarding school.
So my dad wouldn’t have to look her in the eye and see his biggest regret.
Or maybe not. Who the hell knows what goes through my father’s mind.
I gave up trying to guess a long time ago.
My uncle glances at me. “You boys got your dad’s genes.”
“The good, the bad, and the ugly,” I confirm.
His mouth lifts slightly. “And mine. Some could say you look like me.”
I run my hand over my thick head of hair, giving his freshly shaved scalp a sharp look. “You sure about that?”
“You mean this?” He points to his head. “This is a choice.”
“Sure it is.” The corner of my mouth lifts before I fold my arms. “You here to talk genetics or…?”
Sobering, Judge gives me a look that would make my dad proud. Hell, it’s more fatherly than I’d even thought possible from the rock star himself. “I heard there’s a fight tonight.”
A fight? That’s what he’s here to discuss? He’s a persistent bastard, I’ll give him that much. Keeping my expression locked tight, I say, “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“Sure, you don’t.”
“Need anything else before you leave?” I step aside, giving my uncle plenty of room to approach the front door.
He doesn’t even bother looking at the exit. “Your father’s coming back.”
My gut folds in on itself, but I cover it with a laugh. “Not pulling your weight, Judge?”
“Guess not. He wants to have dinner.”
“Dinner?” I bite back my scoff. “Like, what? Some happy family?”
“Something like that.”
“Sorry, I’m busy.”
“Didn’t give you a date yet.”
“I’ll still be busy.”
“Not an option.”
I roll my shoulders. Of course, it isn’t. “And when should we expect this…dinner?”
“Relax, you’ve got a couple months, but I figured you’d want the time to mentally prep.”
Perfect.
“Anything else?” I demand.
“Might wanna pass the invitation along to Ford and Hawke. I have a feeling they saw my bike and decided to lie low until I leave.”
“Nah, you’re their favorite person,” I quip.
“Mm-hmm,” he grunts. “Make sure you tell them. Your father wants them there as well.”
“Wouldn’t expect anything less. Any other…” I scratch my jaw. “Guests I should expect?”
“Depends on how many donors there are.”
My brows pinch.
“It’s a banquet,” he clarifies. “Some charity bullshit your dad agreed to.”
At least we agree on something. It’s bullshit.
His persona. His charity. Like the man has a single selfless bone in his body. My ass. He’s probably hosting it as a tax shelter front. Wouldn’t surprise me.
“And why do I have to attend?” I ask.
“Because you’re a Harden.”
He says it as if it’s supposed to mean something to me. As if it’s supposed to make me care.
“Are you saying I shouldn’t become a rock star to get out of shit like this?” I volley.
His chuckle is low and throaty. “If it worked, do you really think I’d be here?”
The man’s got a point.
And since we’re on the subject… “Why are you here?” I ask.
It’s the closest we’ve come to an actual conversation. Usually, I steer clear, but I can’t help it. Why bring up the fight if he has no intention of putting any real effort into stopping it? Not that he necessarily could, but still. It doesn’t make sense.
“Why am I here, huh?” Judge’s gaze cuts to mine and he almost looks…sorry? “Excellent question, Jag. Excellent fucking question.” Moving closer, he pats my shoulder. “Good luck with the fight tonight.”
I hold his stare and tilt my head. “What fight?”
His mouth lifts. “And you say you don’t have my genes. Smartass.” His heavy hand lands on my shoulder one more time. “Tell your brothers I say hello.”
Then, he walks away.