With a grin, Lexie points out, “You’re thinking about it, aren’t you?”
I give her the side-eye, refusing to let her see how tempted I really am. It’s not that she’ll use it against me, it’s just…karma hates me. As soon as I admit to myself—let alone anyone else—how much I want something, it’s usually snatched away from me. But going to a fight night? I mean, it can’t hurt. Can it?
“Vi?” she prods.
“I’m on the fence,” I mutter.
Her smile widens. It only solidifies the truth, no matter how much I want to deny it. “Yeah, we totally need to get you a new outfit for tonight.”
As a last ditch effort to hold my ground, I state, “I don’t have the money?—”
“Jagger gave you three hundred bucks, remember? Might as well use it.” She hooks her arm through mine. “Come on. I bet they have some good stuff in the back.”
5
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 isfamilybusiness. 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’sbeenhere. 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.
