Total pages in book: 81
Estimated words: 75833 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 379(@200wpm)___ 303(@250wpm)___ 253(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 75833 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 379(@200wpm)___ 303(@250wpm)___ 253(@300wpm)
“You told Tiny?” I asked.
“Not everything. Not like this.” She met my eyes. “I wanted to tell you why I didn’t light up when he asked about rings. I didn’t want to lie to you by staying quiet.”
I walked the two steps to her, took the glass from her hand, set it on the counter, and put my palms on the wood to either side of her thighs so the choice was in her hands, not mine. “Thank you,” I said. “For telling me straight.”
She nodded, the relief in it small and real.
“We’ll figure it,” I added. “If that bastard tries to breathe on her life again, we’ll be the wall. If there’s a paper needs burning, we’ll burn it. If a judge needs educating, we’ll educate him. You don’t have to carry this shit.”
Her shoulders lowered. I like that moment—when a person lets a piece of their load slide into a man’s hands and doesn’t grab to take it back.
“You sure?” she asked.
“About what part?” I cocked a brow.
“All of it.”
“Yeah.” I meant it. “Tiny’s my brother. She’s your blood. That makes it my business. And yours.” I poured olive oil into a pan, set the flame low, let the house take on the smell of garlic because it makes both our shoulders drop. “Doesn’t mean we storm anything tonight. Means we move smarter than they do.”
She reached out, hooked one finger in the belt loop of my jeans, and tugged me closer an inch like she didn’t even know she’d done it. “You always talk like that?” she asked. “Like a man who already figured out where the exits are.”
“Usually I’m already standing in one,” I said, and she smiled, a small flash that lived mostly in her eyes.
I cooked because I like what it does to a room. Steak seared in the pan while potatoes roasted in the oven with rosemary and salt, the kind of smell that makes a place feel owned. I handed her a cherry tomato halved with salt on it; she made a face at me for it, then popped it in her mouth and sucked air when it was hotter than she thought. We both laughed. Nothing fancy. Just a minute of being people.
We ate at the table by the window. The trees out there threw the last of the light back in at us, and the air had the first hint of cool it was going to give. She ate like someone who’d taught her body not to refuse good things. Every so often I’d cut a bite I wanted her to have and set it on her plate and pretend I didn’t watch her face after. Every so often she’d do the same back like she thought I wouldn’t notice. The idea that someone learns what you like and keeps it on a shelf in their head—that’s a thing a man doesn’t take lightly.
After, I washed up because I needed the minute of warm water and mindless tasks. She dried the dishes because she needs to be useful when her thoughts get big. We stacked plates, bumped shoulders once in the tiny triangle of kitchen between sink and stove, shared a quiet that had weight but not sharp edges.
On the couch, I sat and held out a hand. She came like she was already on the way and didn’t know it. Her legs tucked under, my arm went around, her head found the place on my chest it’s been claiming lately. The TV stayed off. The house made its small noises—the tick of cooling pipe, a distant shift in the attic, a moth knocking itself stupid against the porch light outside.
“Tiny asked you to go?” I said after a while, my mouth near her hair so I didn’t have to lift my voice.
“Yes.” The word warmed my shirt. “He said I have ‘the eye for it.’ I think he meant I won’t let him pick something ridiculous.”
I huffed. “He meant you know what Lyric’s hands would want to carry and what they shouldn’t have to.”
She turned her face so her cheekbone pressed my chest. “You think she’ll be okay?” The question had a lot of ghosts in it.
“Yeah.” I stroked a thumb up and down her arm. “Because she’s got a man who listens when she says no, and she’s got you, and she’s got me and mine. The Kings don’t let our family down. Ever. And because she wants it. That’s the part that matters the most.”
She breathed out a breath that let my lungs decide to do the same. “Okay.”
“Okay,” I said, and meant it for more than Lyric.
Her hand slid under my shirt and rested on my ribs like she needed proof of the mechanics. I didn’t make a noise about it, just let my body accept the fact of being looked after by fingers that were usually busy on towels and sheets and books with broken spines. Her touch was careful in the way a person is careful when they finally believe they won’t be punished for liking what they like.