Total pages in book: 72
Estimated words: 74501 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 373(@200wpm)___ 298(@250wpm)___ 248(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 74501 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 373(@200wpm)___ 298(@250wpm)___ 248(@300wpm)
“Yeah,” he grunted.
“He saw it and he was upset that the patch was damaged. She checked it out and assured him it’d be okay. It was worse on the leather, but he buffed it out so it didn’t look that bad and you can barely notice it, unless you’re looking.”
He’d noticed it.
But he’d been looking.
He didn’t think to ask about it.
But Georgiana Traylor, Ace Reporter did.
And now he knew.
Now he knew.
He wore that cut every day, he wore his father every day, and now he knew what made part of that cut.
“Jag got his bike,” he shared, his voice strange, hollow, far away.
“Yeah?” she asked, shifting closer, probably because of his voice.
“We had to pick between us, who got his cut, who got his bike. We couldn’t. Hound helped us. We both wanted the cut.”
“I can see that.”
“But then, before Ma handed them over, she kissed Dad’s bike with red lipstick. She told us she’d said goodbye and we could come get our dad’s stuff. We went right over. We both saw that mark, like, at the exact same time. Like it spoke to us. I don’t think either of us said anything for about five minutes. We didn’t move. We couldn’t tear our eyes off that kiss. Once we pulled our shit together, I swear to fuck, Jag protected that mark with everything that was him until he could get it sealed under a clearcoat. And when I got the cut, I felt kinda guilty I got it, since I knew Jag wanted it, and I had more of Dad than he did, even if it wasn’t a lot. But when Ma did what she did, I wanted the bike because, with her mark on it, it was both of them. You know?”
She nodded. “Yeah. I know.”
“I couldn’t say anything. Talk about a switch. The decision had been made. But he’s my little brother. He barely remembers him. I do. I have that. He doesn’t. I feel that for him because Dad was such a Dad. I remember he’d make us peanut butter and chocolate chip pancakes every Sunday. I remember how long his legs seemed, like they went on for miles, when he lay in bed beside me, reading me a book before I went to sleep. I remember how he’d stare at Ma’s legs when she walked around the kitchen in shorts with this smile on his mouth I didn’t get, because I was a little kid, but it made me feel safe and it made me know how much he loved her. I have all that. Jag doesn’t. And I feel that. I feel it. So I couldn’t say anything.”
“Yeah, honey,” she said softly. “I totally get that.”
“It’s weird, a five-year-old remembering all that.”
“Very fortunately, not many five-year-olds lose their dad at that age. But grief seals memories hermetically, I suspect, even for five-year-olds.”
Dutch didn’t suspect shit.
He knew she was right.
“She talked about him to you?” he asked.
Her expression grew concerned. “She doesn’t with you?”
“We avoid it. Losing him broke her. Bad.”
“You need to talk to her about him, honey. You need it. And she needs to give him to you.”
“Yeah,” he muttered.
She smiled, small and sweet, pushed up to kiss him under his jaw, then she whispered, “I’ll order Chinese. What do you like?”
“Sesame chicken. Orange chicken. Kung pao chicken. Cashew chicken.”
“So something chicken.”
“And egg rolls and pot stickers. Fried, not steamed.”
She smiled again and then…
Fuck…
She kissed his Chaos patch where the scratch was.
Then she turned and walked out, scooping up Murtagh along the way.
He wasn’t thinking clearly, but still, he could swear that cat was looking over her shoulder at Dutch, his eyes screaming, “You! Come get me!”
So he was sorta smiling when he shrugged off his cut.
But he wasn’t smiling when he ran the pad of his thumb over that scratch.
Now, in his way, he had them both too.
“Hope I did you proud today, Dad,” he whispered.
Then he cleared his throat.
Turned.
And shouted into the living room. “If you pay for that on your credit card, no sex tomorrow night either!”
To which he got, “Dutch!”
So he entered his living room grinning.
Chapter Twelve
Cerebral and Long-Lasting
Dutch
Dutch did a double take when Georgie walked into his kitchen the next morning.
And that wasn’t about the fact he left her in his bed and told her to keep her ass there, he was going to bring the coffee.
It was about the fact she was wearing glasses.
“You wear glasses?” he asked.
“Normally, I wear contacts.” She fit herself front-to-front to his frame, arms curved around his waist, looked up at him and murmured, “We’re having a lazy day so I’m not going to bother with them until you take me out to wine and dine me tonight, even though I’m oh-so-totally a sure thing.”
He grinned down at her and slid a hand along her jaw into her hair.