21. Trick
21
TRICK
“You’re brooding again, Sam,” I say, throwing myself onto his couch with enough force to make the cushions protest. I kick my boots up on the coffee table—just to annoy him—and lace my fingers behind my head.
Sam doesn’t even flinch. He’s standing by the window, staring out at the driveway like he’s expecting some divine sign to show up and give him all the answers. His arms are crossed tight, his shoulders stiff as a board, and if I didn’t know him as well as I do, I’d say he looks angry.
But I know better. He’s not angry. He’s lost.
“I don’t brood,” he finally says, his tone clipped.
“Sure. And I’m the Pope.”
He shoots me a glare over his shoulder, but it doesn’t have much heat. He’s too distracted, too wrapped up in his own head, and I know I’ve got my work cut out for me tonight. He grunts, saying flatly, “Didn’t know I was talking to the Pope. I woulda made myself all pretty for you.”
“Since when do you make jokes? That’s my job.”
He rolls his eyes and turns back to the window. “You could be doing your actual job instead of being here and annoying me.”
“Where’s the fun in that?”
“Getting paid, rookie.”
“Did you just pull rank on me?”
He huffs and smirks. “Hardly.”
We both know he’d never do that. Just like we both know things haven’t been right among us ever since he decided to make us all be the good guys and steer clear of Marie. But she’s been doing her own steering clear, so we haven’t needed to do much of anything on that matter, except not go to the library to bother her.
It’s been hell, and I’m over it. Enough dancing around this. “You’re thinking about her.”
Sam stiffens, and for a second, he doesn’t say anything. Then he sighs, dragging a hand down his face. “Of course I’m thinking about her.”
“Because you care,” I say, sitting up and resting my elbows on my knees. “And because you care, you’re making this a lot harder than it needs to be.”
He frowns, his jaw tightening. “It’s not that simple, Trick.”
“It is,” I insist, leaning forward. “You’re just making it complicated because you’re overthinking everything like you always do.”
For a long time, I envied Sam’s brain. He’s always planning ten steps ahead, always quick to action. The man’s SAT scores got him scholarships to every Ivy League school in the country, not that he told us himself. His aunt opened her home to us for Christmas one year and spent the whole time bragging on her nephew.
Well, at least, that’s what they called each other. Later on, we found out they weren’t blood related at all—she was the woman who took him in when he was a homeless kid. He was living in a cardboard box in the alleyway near her apartment in New Orleans. It took her some time to coax him inside, but apparently, bribing him with beignets got him to come in. She swore that worked on all her kids, each of them orphans off the street. He was the youngest of four boys she had rescued.
These days, I see his overthinking and planning for what it is. He’s still that same kid on the street, looking for every possible way for things to get worse so he can protect himself. It’s been thirty years since then, but I think that kind of thing never really goes away.
“Look,” I say, turning my attention back to Sam. “I get it. You’re thinking about that little girl who used to ride her bike down our street. The one who crashed into the mailbox and cried until we gave her a lollipop and a hug. But that’s not who Marie is anymore.”
Sam’s lips twitch, like he’s trying not to smile. “She was six. And you didn’t give her a lollipop. You gave her a beer.”
“It cheered her up, didn’t it?”
He shakes his head, this time unable to hold back his smile. “If I hadn’t come along and traded her that beer for a snack cake, what do you think Preacher would have done?”
“Doesn’t matter now, does it? What’s done is done. In every aspect?—”
He sighs. “Back to this?”
“It’s been two decades since her bike accident, Sam. She’s a woman now. A smart, funny, kind woman who knows what she wants. And she chose us.”
His frown deepens. “She’s Preacher’s daughter.”
“Yeah, but she’s not a child,” I fire back. “She’s not some delicate little flower we’re going to crush if we so much as look at her the wrong way. She’s a grown woman, and we have to respect her and her choices.”
Sam doesn’t say anything, but the conflict is plain in his eyes. He wants to believe me, I can tell. But he’s stuck in his head, worrying about all the what-ifs. He asks, “No joke? No funny comment? You must be serious.”
“I am, and stop delaying the topic. Preacher knows she’s grown up,” I say, lowering my voice. “Everyone does. That’s why he’s so paranoid about her safety. Especially after what happened with the mugging. He’s scared because he knows he can’t protect her from everything. And you’re doing the same damn thing he is, Sam. You’re trying to protect her from something that isn’t even a threat. None of us can—or should—protect her from her own decisions.”
“She’s his daughter,” Sam says again, like that’s the end of the conversation.
“Not his property,” I shoot back. “She made her choice, and she made it loud and clear. Are you really going to sit here and act like she didn’t know what she was doing? You’re looking at this all wrong.”
His brow furrows. “Am I?”
“Yes. Marie isn’t some innocent girl. She lived in Boston. She’s seen the world outside this little town. She lost her mom. She went to college. She has a ton of life experience. So are you gonna tell me you think she doesn’t know what she’s doing? That she hasn’t thought this through?”
Sam hesitates like he doesn’t want to say what’s on his mind. “I don’t know what she’s thought about. Or why she wanted…what she wanted.”
“Well, she’s been reading about this kind of thing for years, so it’s not like she’s completely new to something like this.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Her books,” I say, grinning. “Every time I go to the library, she’s got one of those dirty romance novels in her hand. The ones with a group of shirtless dudes on the cover and titles like Forbidden Desires or Three’s a Crowd, But I Like It. ”
“Thinking of asking for a book recommendation?” he teases.
“You think I don’t notice what my crush is reading when I’m flirting with her at the checkout desk? Wake up, genius. Books like that are a window into their fantasies.”
Sam blinks, his frown softening. “You’re sure those are dirty books?”
“Downright nasty, if the reviews are to be believed. Group stuff, kinky stuff, you name it. Cat Blackstone must be her favorite. She’s got a stack of them behind the desk. She’s into it, man. Like, really into it.”
He grabs his phone, scrolling. A moment later he mutters, “I’ll be damned. Those are filthy books.”
I chuckle. “Told you. Our girl isn’t just a shy, sweet librarian. She has an inner wild side, and it’s our job to respect every part of her.” I pause at that, considering the options. “Or disrespect every part of her, that’s her choice. I’m down for whatever kinky shit she wants to try.”
Sam leans back in his chair, his arms crossed over his chest as he processes what I’m saying. I can tell he’s starting to come around, but there’s still a flicker of doubt in his eyes. “I just don’t want to screw this up,” he says quietly. “For her. For us. For Preacher. I meant what I said about the town too. She could lose her job—the job she loves—over something like us.”
“Not legally.”
He shoots me a “get serious” look. “Because the polyamorous are a protected class in this country? Come on.”
He has a point, and I don’t want to admit it. “Okay, fine. But we can work out the money stuff?—”
“Just not the career satisfaction stuff.”
I huff. “Yeah, but still. She knows better than we do what kind of expectations there are for women here, and she still wanted us. That has to count for something.”
He nods, thinking. “Fair enough. But screwing up her life?—”
“You won’t,” I say firmly. “None of us will. But if we keep treating this like it’s something we have to feel guilty about, we’re going to mess it up before it even has a chance to go anywhere. She chose us, Sam. Now, we need to choose her.”
His jaw is tight, his shoulders tense. But after a long moment, he sighs, rubbing a hand over his face. “Fine. I’ll think about it.”
I grin, leaning back again. “That’s all I’m asking, boss. Just think about it.”
As Sam gets up to refill his coffee, I wonder what Hugo would say if he saw Sam now. We talked last night about this—him talking to Preacher to feel him out, and me talking to Sam on our behalf. He’d probably congratulate me, if he were here. It takes a lot to get through Sam’s thick skull. Too much overthinking means you gotta weasel your way in there to make him change his mind.
Inside, my chest feels lighter than it has in weeks. As much as I love messing with Sam, this isn’t just about teasing him or getting my way. This is about Marie. And I’m not about to let her slip through our fingers without a fight.