Total pages in book: 135
Estimated words: 137310 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 687(@200wpm)___ 549(@250wpm)___ 458(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 137310 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 687(@200wpm)___ 549(@250wpm)___ 458(@300wpm)
“I’d already been to London,” I shared. “Dad took me when I was, I don’t know, I think thirteen. We also took a cruise down the Rhine when I was fifteen. It started in Amsterdam and went through Germany, Belgium and Switzerland. And for my sweet sixteen, he gave me an Italy trip. Rome, Milan, Florence. Seeing the architecture, going to the museums was why I decided to do what I do for a living.”
“What was your favorite place?”
“Probably Florence, for the art. But Switzerland is crazy gorgeous, so there for the landscape. Lucerne seriously is downright magical.”
“Would you go back, or would you want to try something new?”
“Both. Though, the new stuff first.” I took a beat then asked, “Would you go?”
“Fuck yeah,” he said. “Hire a bike, ride through Europe. Reckon that would be the shit.”
I relaxed.
Because yes.
That would be the shit.
“Did you have fun with your dad on those trips?” he queried.
I thought about it, then it was me shifting in my seat.
“Yeah,” I said, realizing I’d been so busy holding my grudge, I’d forgotten something important. “He’s a different man away from the office, and he loves to travel. His family wasn’t destitute, but they didn’t have a lot, and he’d always wanted to go places and see things. I mean, part of it was Dad being Dad. He wanted me to experience stuff that wasn’t my every day, so there was a lot of urging to try foods I wasn’t sure I wanted to try, and no matter how much I loved it, he could spend years in museums, and as a kid, that got tired. But he says a mind narrows when a person narrows their world. Like they don’t travel. They don’t try different foods. They don’t expose themselves to different things, like music or theater or whatever. We used to have this—”
I stopped speaking abruptly because I forgot about this too.
And I’d loved doing it with my dad.
Hugger held his hand my way, palm up.
I placed mine in it.
Once he’d curled his fingers around and rested it on his (very hard, though I’d discovered that already with all our snuggling) thigh, he asked gently, “You used to have this what?”
“Monthly movie night,” I croaked out, then cleared the sudden emotion that clogged my throat. “It was sacrosanct. Even if he had a big case happening, he carved out two hours to watch a movie with me. One month was his choice, and I had to watch whatever it was. One month it was mine, and same. We did that for as long as I can remember. Even before he and Mom divorced. And that was the last thing we did together, the night before we moved me to school. It was our thing.”
“He pick good movies?”
“It’s how I know about Monty Python. So, yeah.”
His fingers closed tighter around mine. “Baby, people fall out. We’re headed to dinner with him. All isn’t lost.”
I hadn’t told him about my mom’s texts, or my conversation with Big Petey, and I hadn’t had the time to dive into some of the weirdness I was feeling around that.
I didn’t have the time now, because Hugger was turning right on Tatum, so we were maybe five minutes from Dad’s place.
But I had to focus on the present because he was right.
All wasn’t lost.
Man, I really hoped my dad wasn’t a dick to Hugger.
Though, since we had this getting-to-know-time, I wanted to go over one more thing.
“So, I saw it in the documentary, that insignia tattooed on your back. That’s Chaos, right?” I asked.
“Yup. Chaos’s mark. All the guys got ’em.”
Ah.
“And the one under your shoulder at the front?” I continued.
“Chaos history. A lesson. All the brothers have it too. You saw the story in that doc, though Rebel kept some stuff that’s personal to us, like that tat, just for us. What it means is, we lost Black, Dutch and Jag’s dad, we almost lost Cherry, or Tyra, but Tack calls her Red, and this happened when the men were messed up in seriously stupid shit. But it isn’t play stupid games, win stupid prizes. It’s, be stupid and do stupid shit, lose what matters.”
That tat was a scale, with one side saying Black with a grim reaper type figure floating above it, and the other side saying Red with blood dripping off it.
It was way cool, but a little scary.
Now I understood why.
“No other tats for you?” I asked.
Since I’d seen most of his body, but not all of it, I was just checking.
“I’m not a tat guy. Wouldn’t have these if it wasn’t for the brotherhood. I don’t mind it, but I don’t have a hankering to get more.” He glanced at me. “You got any?”
“Nope.”
“Not a tat gal?” he queried.
“Tattoos are art, like yours are, so I like them. I just guess I never had a hankering for one either. Though, if I do, I won’t hesitate.”