Wasp
IWAS DONE chasing after Carly. For three months, I’d been trying to get her number and all she ever gave me was grief. I’d put more work into reaching out to that sexy little bartender than I’d put into any woman. Ever. I’d even attempted to give her my phone number. What the fuck had I been thinking? I didn’t give my number away to broads, they gave me theirs. And I always blocked my number before calling them.
But I’d left that napkin with my digits on the break room table of the Copper Penny, where anyone could find it, hoping she’d pick it up.
What the fuck was my malfunction? Carly had made it abundantly clear she didn’t want shit to do with me. So, why the fuck was I lying in bed, staring at my ceiling at six a.m. on Father’s Day, worrying about her kid and unable to get her fine ass off my mind?
It was that goddamn look she gave me when she’d let down her guard in the break room. So fucking vulnerable, so wounded, I wanted to wrap my arms around her and protect her from whatever demons were chasing her. Then I got her to laugh, and that beautiful, rich sound had awoken something deep within me.
When was the last time she laughed?
Was it before she and Trent tangled with this mysterious “bad man” who made Carly clam up and made Trent want to protect her? Who the fuck was the bad man? How much danger were they in from him?
I’d tried to get information out of Flint, but the bar manager wouldn’t tell me shit, insisting that Carly’s personal life was none of my business. But, he did look a little worried when I told him she might be in trouble, so hopefully the hardass would do some digging and get back to me.
If he would just give me her birthdate and social security number, I could have Tap do a full background check on her. Maybe then I could get some goddamn sleep.
I was done chasing her, but that didn’t stop me from wanting to keep her and Trent safe.
Holy fuck, I needed to get her off my mind.
No such luck. Giving up on the idea of sleeping in on my day off, I grabbed my tablet and checked my newsfeed to see what new bike customizations were coming down the lines, trying to divert my thoughts. After reading the depressing news on new tariffs and the possibility of Harley Davidson having to move its manufacturing overseas, I decided I’d had about enough of that shit and dragged my ass out of bed.
When Link had first offered me the job of managing Formation Auto Shop, I made plans to stay in Seattle for a while and put down roots. Using some of Gramps’ inheritance, I purchased a little thirteen-hundred square foot, three-bedroom, two-bath home in Tukwila. Fifteen minutes south of Seattle, my place was right off I5, with wood and tile downstairs, carpet upstairs, a garage big enough to park my Jeep and bike in, and a small backyard with enough room for a bar-b-que. It wasn’t perfect, but the price was right, and it was mine.
The kitchen was too damn small for a table—I didn’t own one anyway—so I poured myself a cup of coffee, took it to the little bar separating kitchen from living room, and glanced at the clock. It was after seven, which put Minnesota time past nine. Knowing my dad would be home from his Sunday morning golf game, I bit the bullet and made my obligatory call.
“Andrew,” he said by way of greeting, sounding happy and relaxed. His golf foursome must have done well. “It’s good to hear from you.”
“Hey Dad, happy Father’s Day. Did you get the bar-b-que set I sent?”
“Sure did. It’s a nice one, too. Good quality. Sturdy utensils. Not like that cheap set your mom picked up on sale last year. The brush on that one fell off not even a month after I got it. They just don’t make things like they used to. This one looks like it will hold up, though. Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.”
Dad and I were about as different as two people could be. He wasn’t interested in bikes or the club, and I wasn’t interested in banking or golf, which meant we didn’t have much to talk about. Our conversation quickly went from his awkward rambling about bar-b-que sets to uncomfortable silence as I tried to think about other viable topics.
“You do any fishing lately?”
“Yep. Your brothers took me out on Pelican Lake yesterday. Duane brought his boat and we caught our limit of northern pike, crappie, and bluegill. Your mom’s frying them up for dinner tonight. Speaking of your mom, she wants to talk to you.”
I loved my mother, but she was a talker who used guilt and obligation like she’d invented them. I had no intention of spending my entire day on the phone, being made to feel bad about shit I had no desire to change. “Wait, I gotta—”
“Hello Andrew,” Mom said, cutting off my objection. “Are you ready to come home yet?”
Damn.
This was how she had begun every single conversation we’d had since I’d joined the Navy right out of high school. After my time in the service, I was supposed to go home, but with Gramps dead, going home meant facing his house and shop and deciding what to do with them. Did I sell them? Did I move in and live next door to my parents for the rest of my life?
Fresh off the boat, I was looking for any excuse not to go home when a friend invited me to check out his hometown in Washington. It seemed as good a place as any to hang my hat for a while, so I camped out on his sofa and started searching for a job. Link had a help wanted ad in the Times, seeking a mechanic who knew how to repair and customize Harleys. I made the call and as soon as Link explained the purpose of the Dead Presidents, I knew I’d found what I was looking for. Seattle was home now, and I couldn’t think of a single reason to return to my small hometown of Virginia, Minnesota.
“Hi, Mom. Nope. I’m still good. I like the Pacific Northwest. It fits me.”
She let out a sigh. “A mother can dream.”
“I’ve got a great job and a purpose here. This is where I’m supposed to be.” Something inside me was still hoping she’d understand, that she’d see I was where I needed to be.
She clicked her tongue but didn’t argue. Thank God for small favors. “I’m surprised to hear from you. You haven’t called since Mother’s Day, so I figured you must have lost our phone numbers.”
