Chapter 9
Nine
Stud
The cabin was quiet in the way only deep woods could be—no hum of distant roads, no neighbors, no anything except the slow creak of timbers settling and the whisper of wind dragging itself across the eaves.
I have been away less than twenty-four hours, but the stillness has already worked its way under my skin, loosening knots I didn’t realize I’d been carrying.
I stretch out on the worn sofa, boots crossed at the ankles on the coffee table, the woodstove clicking softly beside me as it breathes its way through the last split logs I fed it.
Warmth pooled into the room; it soaked into my bones.
Much better than last night’s chaos. Much better than witnessing Holley—cold, scared, clearly running on fumes—trying to pretend she was fine.
Damn woman. Stronger than she knew and more fragile than she ever let herself appear.
I rub a hand over my jaw, staring through the big picture window at the tree line. Snow flurries began to drift like lazy feathers, the kind that didn’t really accumulate but sure as hell made you want to cook something hearty.
Fucking snow. I’m from Ohio, the white shit isn’t something I’m new to, but it isn’t the best thing to ride a motorcycle in. Especially since I’m in the mountains in a town I don’t actually know my way around. So much for the damn weather predictions.
Can I manage? Sure.
I’m just at an age where I don’t care to. I begin to mentally prepare for a trip to the grocery store. Maybe I’ll make chili for dinner or pork chops. My stomach seems to wake up at the thought of a solid meal.
One thing about me, I am not afraid to cook. In fact, it relaxes me.
My phone buzzes on the coffee table.
I don’t have to look to know who it is. Only one person calls me this early.
I answer on the second ring. “Morning, Honey,” I answer, letting my head fall back against the cushion.
“Well, good morning to you too,” she drawls in that Carolina twang she has despite my military career making her move all over the country until we finally settled in Haywood’s Landing, North Carolina before I retired and moved us to Salemburg. “You sound half asleep.”
“I was relaxing.”
My daughter lets out a sarcastic laugh. “You don’t relax, Pops.”
“I’m trying something new.”
She laughs loud enough to get the attention of anyone within a hundred feet. “Oh hush. I’m just checkin’ in. Wanted to make sure you got settled.”
Settled. Right. I thought of Holley, shivering by her damn car because life had apparently kicked her from three directions at once.
Of pulling her into me last night, cold, stiff, startled, and realizing I didn’t want to let go of her.
And then kissing her like I owned her mouth, like it was the most natural solution in the world.
My chest tightens at the memory. “Cabin’s good,” I share. “Quiet.”
“You need quiet. After everything you’ve been through, you need space to breathe.” She pauses. “And don’t argue with me, Pops.”
“I wasn’t arguing.”
“You were thinking about arguing.”
Fair enough. As my daughter, my oldest child she knows me better than I know myself some days.
She sighs softly, a shift from playful to the tender tone she uses only for those she loved. “I ordered groceries for you. Should be delivered in the next hour. Try to rest, Pops. You’re not getting’ any younger. You hear me?”
“Yeah,” I remark running my hand over my chin. “I’m not a spring chicken anymore. Noted. As for groceries, you didn’t need to do that.”
“I know,” she answers. “And yet I did. Funny how that works. I checked the weather there and also Bub told me you took your bike. Snow, motorcycles, and a mountain aren’t a good combination.
I ordered the groceries to simplify things.
And you prefer to cook over eating out, Pops. Tell me I’m wrong.”
A reluctant smile tugs at my mouth by her challenge. “Thank you, Honey. How is Boots?”
“Bub is fine.” Bub is her baby brother, my youngest kid, my only son, Anthony Brocato Jr is finding his path in life.
He’s young. Not exactly planned for Tammy Sue and I since Honey was already twelve when the two pink lines popped up.
Now my son joined me in the Hellions MC.
His road name is Boots, but to his sister he will always be Bub.
“Make sure he’s getting up for work. You know sometimes he forgets to turn his alarm backing on.”
“Mm-hmm. I got Bub handled. I need you to have a vacation where you turn off the thoughts of home. You better eat real meals and not that protein-bar crap. And don’t forget your vitamins. And—”
“Honey.” Her name comes out on an exasperated sigh.
“What?”
“I’m fine.”
“You’re alive, Pops. You’re all me and Bub got left. I need you to take care of yourself. Mom would want you to take care of yourself.”
The air in my lungs gets tight. She doesn’t say things like this often. It hurts her as much as it hurts me to bring up her mom.
“I know,” I reply quietly. “And I appreciate it.”
“That’s all I want to hear. Now go on, let me get back to my morning. I got a Nomad needing shocks.”
“Of course you got a good hot rod in when I’m away.”
“Rest up, I got a full rebuild of that eighty-four Chevy Camaro in the back. They want a full resto-mod. I’m saving that one for you.”
“That a threat?”
“It’s a fact. You are the Camaro master.”
I chuckle. “Love you, Honey.”
“Love you too, Pops. And be nice to people up there. Not everyone appreciates your ‘I’m fine, leave me alone’ face.”
I groan. She swears I have resting dickhead face. “That’s just my face.”
“Well fix it.” She hangs up before I can respond.
I shake my head but still a smile plays on my lips.
Around noon, a knock sounds at the door.
When I open it, a stack of grocery bags sat on the top step.
No delivery driver waiting, just a truck rolling down the long gravel drive toward the main road.
I don’t know how people do this grocery delivery stuff.
Sure it’s convenient but what if your order is messed up?
I carry the bags inside, the familiar weight of good food grounding me. Honey didn’t buy cheap nonsense. She cooks the way her grandmother did—rich, hearty, and enough to feed a town. This means she completely overordered for my groceries.
I unpack everything onto the counter: fresh vegetables, spices, thick-cut pork chops, potatoes, real butter, chicken stock, tea bags and sugar, fresh herbs, even a small container of bakery cookies because she swears sugar keeps my attitude in check.
I snort at it but I’m not going to argue her point.
I’m also going to eat every single one of them even if I need to do push-ups for an hour to keep my Marine physique.
Pork chops sound damn good and I smile that my daughter knows me well enough to order them how I like it. Comfort food. Warm, savory, the kind of dinner a man cooks when he doesn’t want to feel empty.
My thumb hovers over my phone. Fuck it. I send the text to Holley inviting her for dinner. If she comes, fine, if she doesn’t, I’ll have leftovers tomorrow.
By five, the cabin smells like rosemary, garlic, and searing meat. I brined the pork, then pan-sear them before finishing them low and slow with fresh herbs. The oven hums, releasing little puffs of scent every time I check the potatoes. The skillet gravy simmered on the stove, thick and bubbling.
I pour myself a glass of cold water, lean against the counter, and try not to keep staring at the clock. I don’t particularly care to watch television but maybe I should try to catch up on some shows or something while I’m here.
When was the last time I wasn’t working?
I can’t remember a time when I checked out like this.
The quiet is nice, but I don’t know what to do with myself.
Even though I’ve given control of the shop to Honey, I still go to work every day even if it’s to work on my racecar or one of my own project hot rods.
I wonder absently if Holley will come. Back home, it’s easy I have a system.
The women involved know the deal. If it’s their day, their number I’ll hit them up with a call or text.
Depending on what I have going on, I’ll cook for them, we fuck, if they want to sleep over fine, if not, go home.
I don’t care. The only thing is once they leave, they aren’t to come back until I call and ask for them.
Don’t pop by. Don’t ask me about the other cars in my driveway unless you can handle the answer to the question.
I don’t lie to any of them. They know up front they aren’t the only one.
There isn’t some hierarchy. None of them mean more than the others.
It’s not that I’m heartless. I like the women for different reasons.
They each bring something different to the table and fill a void in my life.
So they are special in their own ways. I just refuse to be tied to one woman again.
I wasn’t a saint as a husband. But somehow the thought of being with one woman and building something more than this system feels like a betrayal to Tammy.
No one will ever understand the way things were with us. From Kindergarten I knew she was my friend, then as teenagers, she was more than my friend, she gave me the gift of her firsts.
And in the end she gave me the gift of her lasts.
I won’t diminish those gifts for anything.
I can’t bring her back. If I could have taken the cancer on to let her live and get to watch her kids grow up and have kids of their own, I would have.
We were far from perfect, but I’ll be damned if she didn’t fit like a perfect piece to the puzzle of my heart and head.
She got me without question even when she didn’t like me.
And yes, we had times like that too. The days were the hate ran deeper than the love. But you can’t have a love as many years as we did without having the hard stuff. The hard days were the worst. I played my part in that and I’ll forever live with those regrets too.