Rubi pulled a what-the-fuck face.
I shifted Hope to my other shoulder. “Can’t blame her. Being married to me was a trip.”
“You a wild one, Lockie?”
“Stupid more like.”
“How old were you?”
“Nineteen. I knocked her up and her dad went kind of crazy. Then we lost the baby at five months.” I pointed to a tiny, blown-out angel tattoo on my wrist. “But we were all in by then, and we had Willow when I was twenty-three.”
Rubi dropped his elbows on the bar, listening. And he was easy to talk to, but his blond hair was too long and too straight. His skin too inked and his shoulders too broad.
Too much Rubi and not enough Nash, and I didn’t feel like purging my soul to him.
Willow saved me again.
A message buzzed through.
Then a photo.
I snatched my phone up and opened it to a snap of my baby girl’s widest smile.
Willow:DAD!!!! I passed!
Fuckin’ hell. I felt a thousand years old as I messaged her back with damp eyes.
Rubi peered over my shoulder. “She passed?”
“Yeah.”
“Doing okay with that? Or do you need a rum?”
“I’m literally holding a baby.”
Rubi laughed. “Trust me, I know.”
He took Hope from me and wandered off to find Juana. I stayed put, doing mental arithmetic of the legit income I had thanks to the fresh start the Rebel Kings had given me. Most of it went to paying off debts that weren’t mine, but I had a few grand... three, four, maybe. Not enough to buy a decent motor and cover the astronomical cost of insuring a new driver.
An envelope sailed over my head and landed on the bar. It hit the old wood with a thwack, my name scrawled on the wrinkled brown paper in the chaotic handwriting I knew to be Nash’s.
Then I felt him. That heat at the base of my spine. The warmth in my chest that scared me so much more than wanting to bang his pretty brains out did.
He appeared beside me like a phantom hug, a tired grin lighting his face. “Don’t start.”
“About what?”
Nash jerked his head at the envelope. “It’s a council thing. When our kids hit the road, the club makes a contribution to their first hog.”
“I’ve been on the council six fuckin’ seconds and my daughter isn’t getting a damn hog.”
Nash pressed a finger to my lips. “If that’s your best effort at not starting, you can have this conversation with Cam.”
I glared, mutiny rising to eclipse the effect his casual touch had on me. “I don’t need handouts.”
“It’s not a handout, it’s tradition. You just happen to be the first one in a while with kids that age. Last magic envelope we gave out was for Cracker’s grandson, and that was years ago.”
Nash wasn’t a liar, but I was a proud fool, and the fat package on the bar made me feel three feet tall.
