Epilogue
We were finally going to spend time with my family.
To most people, getting introduced to the family after just a couple of weeks might seem sudden.
But I was not most people. My family was important to me.
If you wanted me, you had to get on with them too—case closed.
It was something Tig simply understood without having to ask, without me having to drop some subtle (or not too subtle) hints.
Actually, he was more pushy about getting together with them than I was.
It was sweet. He wanted to make a good impression.
And it was Sunday.
Sunday meant dinners at my mother’s.
It was tradition.
Enzo even trekked in from the city for it.
I had maybe brought a total of two men to my mother’s table in the past. To me, that was the epitome of seriousness.
My mother’s table was sacred. It was for loved ones—family and very close friends.
It was not a place you brought someone you were just sleeping with or someone you were uncertain about.
Me bringing Tig was my way of telling my family that I was sure about him, that I was making plans with him, that he was someone I wanted them to care about as well.
“Kenz,” Tig said, his voice patient but frustrated at the same time.
He had been sitting on the edge of the bed, fully dressed, for the better part of twenty minutes while I kept fiddling around with my outfit.
“Hey, no bitching. You knew I was high maintenance when you signed up for me.”
“Can’t disagree with that, honey, but this is your family. I don’t think they give a fuck what you’re wearing.”
“It’s a delicate balance of wardrobe,” I insisted, slipping into wedges instead of stilettos. “I want to look my usual amazing self, but I am going to be running around cooking, so I need to be comfortable. And if Alex is helping in the kitchen, in clothing that is not ultra-flammable.”
Tig laughed at that; it was common knowledge that Alex had no culinary skills whatsoever. Neither did Paine’s girl, Elsie. But they would congregate in the kitchen anyway while the men grunted at each other. And if they were going to be in the kitchen, I was going to put them to work.
“You could wear one of those sack dresses and still be hot. You’re good. Let’s get going.”
“You’re just worried they will be mad at you if we’re late,” I accused as I slipped into a looser skirt.
“Don’t worry. They have known me long enough to know I am always to blame for showing up fashionably late.
This,” I said, gesturing toward my outfit—flowing purple skirt, wedges, and white crop top, “takes time.”
“And you have had…” he said, looking toward the clock, “an hour and fifteen minutes.”
“I still think maybe…” I started, turning back to his closet that had more of my clothes than his own already.
But then his arms folded across my middle, pulling me back into his solid chest. “You look beautiful. And if you don’t spritz on some perfume and get your ass moving toward the door, I am going to throw you over my shoulder and carry you to the fucking car.”
Because he couldn’t see, my lips curved up until my cheeks hurt, liking that more than I could explain.
I was actually done.
But I was never one to back down first.
“Just let me change my ear…”
The rest of my sentence got cut off when I was turned, lifted, and hauled up over his shoulder. My air whooshed out of me at the impact, and as soon as I got it back, I let out a long, appreciative laugh.
Tig wasn’t one for empty threats, that was for damn sure.
One of his huge arms crossed firmly across the middle of my thighs, anchoring me to him as he started moving. He paused at his dresser. I couldn’t tell why at first until I smelled my perfume.
“Did you just spray my back?” I laughed, trying to push myself up slightly.
“Yup,” he agreed, grabbing my clutch off the bed, and walking out of the bedroom.
He didn’t put me down either; he carried me all the way to the car, waving a hand at a couple of the people walking down the street who either laughed or whistled at the spectacle.
“We’re still five minutes late,” I said as I settled into my seat.
“I’ll bet five minutes is a record with you,” he said, giving me a smirk as he slammed my door.
He wasn’t wrong. It was usually a good fifteen minutes. That being said, they had long since started lying to me about the actual time they wanted me there, so I was actually never technically late.
We pulled up to my mother’s townhouse all of three minutes later. It was one in a somewhat new complex of all identical houses with perfect, minuscule lawns, and all kinds of rules for what decorations you were allowed to have.
My mother, a long-time apartment dweller, wasn’t comfortable with the idea of living in a single-family house. She said it made her nervous that no one would hear her if she screamed.
The townhouse was the solution to that. And Paine had been happy with it because her next-door neighbor was a guy named Cash who was the vice president of a local MC, someone whom Paine respected and trusted.
He knew he would look out for our mom. Even though she would bristle at the idea that anyone needed to look out for her at all.
It wasn’t a huge place, though it was by leaps and bounds larger than all our cramped childhood apartments. On Sunday dinners, it was positively cramped, especially as our little circle kept widening, opening its arms to welcome new people.
There were times when it was just Mom, me, my aunts, Grandma, Reese, Paine, and Enzo. Then, later, as Paine got tight with them, Breaker and Shooter would join. When Breaker and Shooter got themselves women—Alex and Amelia—we set places for them as well.
Eventually, we would outgrow her place. When everyone started having kids.
But we all figured that by then, someone else would have a big enough place to host everyone comfortably.
Even if all we did was go into Paine’s old apartment behind his tattoo shop, convert it into one giant dining space, since he lived with Elsie in a mini-mansion townhouse that I was pretty sure cost half a million dollars.
“Kenz,” Tig’s voice pulled me out of my thoughts, making me jump, and realize that not only had he gotten out without me realizing, but he had opened my door as well.
“Sorry, zoned out,” I said, taking his hand and letting him help me down.
We walked toward the driveway where Breaker and Alex were standing. Breaker was almost as tall as Tig, but blond-haired and bearded with light eyes. His arm was around Alex’s lower back. “Alex has requested I replace her in the kitchen this week,” he said when we approached.
I laughed at that. “And steal the opportunity for me to bitch at her about her cooking skills?” I asked, sounding mock-offended. “I think not.”
“Sorry, doll, I tried,” he told her, giving her a squeeze.
“Someday,” Alex said, shaking her head, “you are going to need computer work done, and I am going to be right there to pick at you about all the things you don’t know how to do.”
“Sounds like a good time. Oh, hey, Els,” I called as she walked up, impeccably dressed in dusty pink linen pants and a rose-patterned shirt that should have looked too old for her but didn’t.
A big part of that might have had to do with the fact that she was out-of-this-world pretty with her blonde hair, perfect style, soft features, and large light eyes.
She and my tattooed brother looked odd together but were one of my favorite couples ever. They were explosive together.
“Why can’t we make this thing a potluck?” Elsie said as she stopped beside us.
“So you store-bought something and then put it on one of your platters and called it your own?” I asked, grinning.
“Well, of course,” she agreed with a smile as Paine came up behind her. “Where’s Shoot and Amy? We parked behind them.”
Then, as if he were summoned, Shooter, AKA Johnnie, walked out the front door and made his way down the stairs.
So maybe I had a crush on Shoot back when I was younger and didn’t have brotherly feelings for him.
He was good-looking in a very 1950s greaser way with his pushed-back hair, thin and sharp face, tight pants, and confident swagger.
He perpetually wore creepers that somehow did not offend my very particular style standard.
Though most of that might have had to do with the fact that once he opened his mouth, you didn’t give a good goddamn what he had on his feet.
Shooter dripped charm off his tongue in a way I had never seen before and was sure I would never see again.
He was a ladies man to the core for most of his life.
Not a womanizer, not a player, not some scumbag who wanted to fuck you over.
He was a ladies’ man. He just plain loved women.
And they loved him back, no matter how short a time they got with him.
He had found and settled down with Amelia before Paine and Elsie got together, breaking a million hearts up and down the East Coast as well as in Alabama, where he was originally from, leaving him with just the barest of accents that made him all the more charming.
As soon as he was within a few feet, he stopped and threw his arms wide. “Angels…” he invited.
And, well, when Johnnie Walker Allen opened his arms and beckoned you, it didn’t matter if you saw him as a brother or not; you flew at him.
So I did.
As did Elsie and Alex, all four of us in a giant Johnnie sandwich, loving every second of it.
“Where’s Amy?” Elsie asked when we all broke apart to be claimed back by our own men, who were in no way bothered by our open affection for their friend.
He rocked back on his heels, tucking his hands into his back pockets. “Well, she made us come about half an hour early so she could get things started. You know… because…”
“Kenzi is a ruthless culinary dictator, and it would make everything easier if they all got things started without her?” Alex supplied, giving me a smile.