Chapter Nine #2
The sight does something to me I’m not prepared for. Derby on his knees in the living room, still in his cut, still smelling like wind, bourbon and motorcycle, adjusting blankets and pillows under the serious supervision of my five-year-old.
His big hands look ridiculous handling dinosaur sheets.
His tattoos move under his sleeves. Of the ones I can see, there’s an engine, a skull of the King’s logo, a snake wrapped around a buck.
Manly tattoos. Outlaw spelled out down his forearm in bold old letters.
His face is stern, as if fort engineering is a sacred responsibility. But my eyes are on his rear end.
Not bad at all.
August kneels beside him, giving instructions.
“No, Blue Rex goes on top.”
“If Blue Rex goes on top before the roof is stable, he dies in a preventable accident.”
“He’s a dinosaur. He’s already dead.”
Derby pauses.
Then looks at me. “He’s got me there.”
I laugh.
I can’t help it.
The sound comes out lighter than I feel.
Sophie hears it and turns toward the kitchen, but not before I see her smile.
Lottie’s voice comes from the kitchen. “We heard Cornbread called her Panty Lady in front of God and customers.”
I freeze.
Derby’s head snaps up. “I’m killing him.”
Brittany appears beside Lottie, holding a dish towel. “Cornbread already called. Said Amelia took it like a champ and that Derby looked like a dog somebody told to share his bone.”
Derby rises halfway. “He said what?”
Lottie leans around the doorway. “Also said y’all danced.”
I want the floor to open.
Derby points at both women. “Out.”
“We were already leaving,” Lottie says, absolutely lying.
Brittany grins at me. “You look pretty, honey.”
I blink.
It’s so simple. So casual. So free of measurement or accusation that I don’t know how to answer.
“Thank you,” I say quietly.
Lottie’s expression softens, but she ruins it on purpose by adding, “That lipstick is powerful. Derby came back looking confused in his pants.”
Derby stands fully. “Didn’t take y’all for ones to be catching print.”
I sputter a laugh at his call back.
He’s not having it. “Out. Both of you. Before I commit deep fried crimes in front of the child.”
August looks up from the fort. “What’s confused in his pants?”
I make a strangled sound.
August heard every word. “I want to catch a Prince. Blue Rex does, too.”
Sophie grabs Lottie by the arm. “And that is our cue.”
Brittany cackles. “Bye, August. Your snacks are in the pantry.”
“Bye,” August says, then looks at Derby. “What’s pants confusion?”
“Taxes,” Derby says.
I stare at him.
He shrugs. “First thing I thought of.”
“Is taxes bad?” August asks.
“Yes,” Derby and Sophie say together.
That distracts him long enough for Sophie, Lottie, and Brittany to gather their things. Sophie stops beside me on her way out. Her eyes search my face.
“You okay?” she asks softly.
I nod.
She doesn’t believe me, but she lets it stand.
“Call if you need anything. I mean anything. Since we’re leaving you with Mr. Funny Pants.”
“I will.”
“Derby knows the number too.”
Derby mutters from the floor, “Derby knows many numbers. And that yours is about to be up.”
Sophie ignores him. “Legend has men posted down the road. Not close enough to bother you. Close enough to help.”
I nod again.
The idea should make me feel trapped. It doesn’t. Maybe because she tells me. Maybe because the men are outside, not in my face. Maybe because Derby’s house has a front door and a back door and a truck being fixed in the driveway.
Or maybe because I’m too tired to fight every kind of help at once.
Sophie hugs August goodbye. He allows it because she promised pancakes in the morning if he behaves. Then she looks at Derby.
“Be decent.”
He frowns. “I’m always decent.”
Every woman in the room looks at him.
He rolls his eyes. “Fine. Decent adjacent.”
“That may be the best we get,” Sophie says.
Then they are gone.
The door closes.
The silence that follows is strange.
Not empty.
Not peaceful exactly.
Just smaller.
For the first time since I got to Hell, Kentucky, there is no room full of bikers around me. No Sophie at my side. No women fussing in the kitchen. No Legend asking questions. No Whiskey digging up danger. No Royal haunting corners. No Cornbread yelling across a bar.
Just me.
Derby.
August.
And a crooked blanket fort in the living room of a biker’s house that now smells like fried chicken, laundry soap, motor oil, and cereal.
I don’t know what to do with that.
August does.
“Come in the fort,” he says.
Derby looks at the opening. “I ain’t fitting in that.”
“You can try.”
“I know my limits.”
“You’re scared.”
Derby looks offended. “Of a fort?”
“Of getting stuck.”
“That’s a reasonable damn concern.”
August turns to me. “Mama fits.”
“I’m not crawling into a fort in these jeans.”
August sighs. “Nobody wants fun.”
Derby looks at me. “He gets that from you?”
“I used to be fun.”
The words leave my mouth before I can soften them.
Derby hears the used to.
His eyes come to mine.
For a second, the whole house changes around us again. The fort, the groceries, the jokes, the teasing women, all of it falls away, and there is the alley again. Him asking if it’s pretend. Me saying I don’t know. Him stopping.
My face heats.
I look away first.
August has no use for adult tension. He crawls into the fort and makes roaring noises.
Derby clears his throat. “Kid eat?”
“Yes,” I say. “But he’ll pretend he hasn’t if food appears.”
“Good. I’m hungry.”
“You just had bourbon.”
“I had one sweet drink and emotional harassment.”
“You also had fries.”
“That was garnish.”
“You ate half a basket.”
“Still garnish.”
I follow him into the kitchen because I don’t know where else to go.
The kitchen is cleaner than it was this afternoon, which means Sophie threatened someone.
The groceries have been unpacked. The fridge has actual food now.
Eggs, milk, sliced turkey, cheese, apples, yogurt, a covered plate of chicken strips, and a bowl of something wrapped in foil with a note on top.
Derby opens the note and reads it with a scowl.
“What does it say?” I ask.
“Lottie says to heat the green beans and not be a feral bachelor.”
“Good advice.”
“I knew those women were trouble.”
He opens cabinets until he finds a skillet, then pulls bread, cheese, turkey, and butter from the fridge.
“What are you making?” I ask.
“Late-night snack.”
“That looks like grilled cheese.”
“It’s grilled cheese with meat. That makes it a melt.”
“It makes it a sandwich with ambition.”
He pauses, then points the butter knife at me. “That was good.”
“I told you I used to have a mouth.”
His eyes drop to my mouth.
Just for a second.
Long enough that the air changes.
Then he looks back at the bread like it has become deeply interesting. “Yeah. I remember.”
My stomach flips.
I hate my stomach.
I also don’t.
August comes running in with Blue Rex. “Food?”
Derby looks down at him. “You got a sixth sense?”
“I smelled cheese.”
“Respect.”
“Can Blue Rex have some?”
“No.”
“Why?”
“Because he’s extinct.”
August thinks about that. “That’s sad.”
Derby mutters, “Everything is sad to this kid.”
“He’s five,” I say.
“Five is dramatic.”
“Bikers are dramatic. You named your motorcycle Widowmaker.”
“I told you, Oaks named her.”
“You kept it.”
“Because it’s accurate.”
“Dramatic,” I repeat.
August climbs onto a kitchen chair and watches Derby cook like it’s a cooking show with more tattoos.
Derby isn’t good at cooking. That becomes obvious immediately.
He burns the first piece of bread, curses under his breath, remembers August is there, then says, “Darn,” with such pain in his voice that I have to turn toward the sink to hide my smile.
August whispers, “You can say damn. I know it.”
“No, he can’t,” I say.
Derby scrapes the burnt piece into the trash. “The censorship in this house is oppressive.”
“It’s my child.”
“It’s my burnt bread.”
“You’ll survive.”
“Will I?”
I lean against the counter, watching him assemble another sandwich with grim determination. “Do you want help?”
“No.”
The second slice burns.
I lift an eyebrow.
He points the spatula at me. “Stove’s aggressive.”
“Of course.”
“The heat distribution has a personal grudge against me.”
“Obviously.”
August giggles.
Derby finally lowers the heat and manages three sandwiches that are uneven, too buttery, and cut with a knife that mashes the bread flat on one side. He plates them like he has done something heroic.
“Dinner,” he says.
“It’s almost ten,” I say.
“Late dinner.”
“It’s a snack.”
“Don’t diminish my labor.”
August grabs a sandwich triangle and takes a bite. Cheese stretches from his mouth to the plate. His eyes widen.
“Good?” I ask.
He nods, chewing.
Derby looks too pleased.
I take a bite of mine.
It isn’t bad.
Too greasy. A little burnt around the edges. But warm. Salty. Made by someone who did not have to make it.
My throat tightens.
I swallow and set the sandwich down.
Derby notices immediately. “What?”
“Nothing.”
“That word is getting abused today.”
“I’m fine.”
He gives me a look.
The same one he gave me on the road. The one that says he doesn’t believe me but isn’t going to peel the answer out by force.
I hate that too.
Love it, maybe.
No.
Not that.
Absolutely not that.
“I feel bad,” I admit.
“About my sandwich? Little harsh, but fair.”
“No.” I look at the plate. “About all of this. The food. The house. The clothes. The women buying things. You sleeping on the couch. Everyone rearranging their lives because I showed up with trouble.”
Derby leans back against the counter.
August keeps eating, blessedly distracted by cheese and dinosaur commentary.
“You fed him plenty by yourself, didn’t you?” Derby asks.
I frown. “What?”
“Before us. Before this. You fed him, dressed him, kept him alive, got him here.”
“Yes.”
“Then stop apologizing because somebody else gave him a sandwich.”
The words hit harder than they should.
My eyes sting.