Chapter 50 Jagger #2
“That all, huh?” He gives my split knuckles grasping my coffee a pointed look, but I don’t bother slipping my hands under the table.
It’s no use. He’s already seen them. And even if he hadn’t, he knows I like to train.
He knows the only thing grounding me half the time is being in a gym. “Can I ask you something?” he says.
“What?”
“You still planning on working for him?”
Him? Which him? I tilt my head, unwilling to confirm or deny who he’s referring to.
Realizing there’s more than one option, he clarifies, “Your father. Are you still planning to work for him at Mercer after graduation?”
It’s a good question. One my father’s been dying to get out of me for months despite Donahue’s letter of recommendation.
Then again, we both know it isn’t a commitment.
Not really. I could still pull out. Still decline Mercer Consulting’s official offer letter if they decide to send one my way.
Which they won’t. Not until they’re confident I’ll accept.
Heaven forbid it gets out that I have the audacity to turn down a once in a lifetime opportunity like this.
I press my lips into a thin line, debating whether or not to give him an answer when I don’t know who it’s really coming from. “Are you asking, or is Titas?”
The truth must sting because he rubs at the edge of his jaw. His focus falls to the table separating us. “This stays between you and me. Promise.”
A few weeks ago, I would’ve asked him to swear it in writing, but I don’t know.
Maybe it’s the possibility of shit blowing up in my face this weekend.
Maybe it’s the messiness of the situation altogether, and I’ve realized things aren’t always quite as black and white as we’d like them to be.
But for some reason, the smart-ass comment falls flat on my tongue, and I tell him the truth. “I guess it depends,” I admit.
“On?”
“On whether or not we’d kill each other.”
He chuckles softly. “Yeah, I get that. Still surprised you’re considering it, though.”
“Why?” I ask.
“Honestly?” He leans back in the booth, watching me. “Because if that’s the case, why mess with Gus at all?”
My eyes widen. “Are you serious?”
“Yeah, I know your dad…tightened the reins and shit, okay?” he concedes, referring to our frozen trust funds. “All I’m saying is…you could’ve called me. I would’ve given you the money—”
“We don’t want your money, Judge.” The words leave a bitter taste in my mouth, or maybe it’s my uncle’s assumption in the first place. I know my dad loves telling people what spoiled brats we are, but the fact my uncle bought it? Not gonna lie, it kind of burns.
Instead of backtracking like I expect, Judge growls, “So, you don’t want my money, just Gus’s, right?”
And here we are again. Round and round, we go.
I scrub my hand over my face. “We’re not taking money from Gus,” I mutter.
“What?”
“We didn’t take any of his money,” I repeat. “The guy’s a loan shark. You really think we’re that stupid?”
His jaw locks, but he stays quiet.
Resting my elbows on the table separating us, I clarify, “We’re paying him to use his grounds.
He’s nothing but a shady landlord, all right, Unc?
And we wouldn’t have had to start paying him if your brother hadn’t been throwing a fit every time we threw a party or decided to have some fun throughout our college experience. ”
“Fun,” he mutters. “That’s it?”
“I mean, we learned from the best,” I quip. “I think you forget we started hosting these parties because we grew up watching you do it before you up and disappeared out of nowhere.”
He doesn’t deny it. The way he left us. Left town. Left everything.
“Do you have an exit strategy?” he questions.
“Did you have an exit strategy?” I toss back at him.
“My best friend dying in my arms kind of forced it.”
And here we go again. Right back at square one. I’d find it humorous if I wasn’t so tired of the same old song and dance. “What happened with Gus?” I demand. “I know he’s a bad guy. I know you’re on his shit list and can’t go into Drift territory—”
“How did you—”
“Why do you think we host so many events over there?”
I don’t miss the glint of amusement in his dark eyes. “Touche. Maybe you do know more than we give you credit for.”
We. As in, my father and him. The Freudian slip threatens to raise the walls back into place, but I fight to keep them where they are, even if it’s only for a few more minutes.
“You’re right. We don’t get enough credit,” I tell him. “And we’re tired of trying to prove it.”
He stays quiet and takes another drink of coffee, so I do the same, ignoring the way he sizes me up from across the booth.
“So what do you want me to do, Jag?” he finally asks. “Because you’re tired of trying to prove that you know what you’re doing, and I’m tired of trying to keep you in line when I know you’re going to do whatever you want, even if it puts you in the ground.”
Here we go again.
“We’re not stupid—”
“I didn’t think I was stupid, either, Jagger.
Neither did Rudy. And no matter how many times your father warned me to stay away from Gus, to stop partying, and to stop borrowing money to get our band some traction when my parents refused to help, we didn’t listen.
I didn’t listen.” He exhales, blowing into his cup, though I doubt it’s scalding anymore.
Nah, the man’s using it as a cover. A way to steal a few seconds and choose his words carefully, though I have no idea what they’ll be.
“I’m not going to ask you to stop doing what you’re doing,” he decides.
“It hasn’t gotten me anywhere. So, now? Now, all I’m gonna do is be here for you.
All right? I’m here for you. And when you want to get out, you let me know.
I’ll have your back. And unlike your father’s, my loyalty won’t come with strings attached.
” Standing, he shifts his hot coffee into one hand, then claps my shoulder with his opposite. “Tell your brothers I said hi, yeah?”
I look at where he’s touching me. The same scars I carry are tattooed along his knuckles, hidden beneath years of black ink.
Maybe we aren’t so different after all. The realization doesn’t hit like a truck.
It’s slower. Quieter. Like a feather, almost. Tickling the back of my mind, but with an insistence that feels impossible to ignore.
With a slow nod, I shrug off his hand and push to my feet, pulling him into a hug. “Thanks, Uncle Judge.”
And fuck, I really mean it.