“You gonna tell us what that was about?” Ronnie asks, all their eyes on me.
“Fuck both of them for running their mouths about Lexi when she’s not even here to defend herself.” My breaths come heavier, thinking about how much worse it would’ve been if anyone had said that shit to her face. The creature inside me rattles his cage at the thought.
“Not that part,” Weston says, pulling me back to the men around me.
“The pen?” Ronnie asks.
“Oh.” I tilt my head from side to side, tongue sucking on my teeth. “That.”
“Yeah, that.” Weston echoes, voice steelier than I’ve heard it.
“Tell us that was the factory you used to work at?” Ronnie prompts hopefully.
“Not quite. Part of this whole grant thing I did with Aurora to get settled in town… A background check was part of that. I’m assuming my past came up in that.” My eyes are on Wyatt’s, and a single nod confirms he knows more than he’s let on to the others.
My lungs fill with the evening air, somehow balmy and mountain fresh all at once, giving me the push to rip this Band-Aid off. It’s not like I hide my history from others, but it’s not easy for people who didn’t grow up in the life to understand. I learned that real quick when I got straight.
“Right. I did some time.” Might as well just get it out there.
Ronnie’s eyes roam my frame, for once I’m not in a chef jacket and pants. The cloth drawstring shorts don’t quite hit my knees and with the oversized tee draped over my torso plenty ofmy ink is on display. My thigh tats make a rare appearance, and more of my arm and neck pieces are visible than usual too.
That also goes for my scars.
“I never would’ve guessed,” Ronnie says, his gaze still locked on the letters across my knuckles where they grip the water bottle.
“Jesus, Ronnie,” Wyatt mutters, but Weston and I laugh, my bark parting the night air around us and launching clear across the parking lot. Some of the people still meandering down Main look our way but pay no real attention and keep walking.
“What? Am I supposed to say he isn’t scary as all get out? If he knocked on my door I’d join his gang real fuckin’ fast. You’re lying if you say you wouldn’t.”
Wyatt shakes his head at his best friend and busies his mouth with another sip of water rather than bothering to respond.
“I wasn’t a gangbanger.”
Ronnie leans closer, almost whispering. “I’m not super up to date on the etiquette about ex-con criteria, forgive me if I have to ask Emily Post what I’m supposed to say in this situation. Am I allowed to ask?”
A chuckle puffs out of my lips and I shake my head. This guy would get himself shot in the wrong place at the wrong time.
“I wouldn’t recommend asking too many questions of most guys who have my past.” I gesture to myself. “But I’ve got nothing to hide.”
“Oh, hell yeah,” Ronnie says, settling in, tucking his legs under him on the tailgate and patting the empty space next to him for Wyatt or Weston to join him. Wyatt strolls over and leans back against it, legs outstretched, arms crossed over his chest. “Tell us everything, bud.”
“I was raised in a different lifestyle,” I say simply.
“You make it sound like you were vegan or your parents didn’t believe in baths or something.” Ronnie makes himself laugh.
“Sure, something like that. If baths were the legal code. In my case, let’s say it was more like we lived outside the laws civilians liked to follow. The norm for the men in my family, going back a couple generations.”
This is the point in the story where the rich white women in New York would grip their purses a little tighter, regret shining in their eyes for asking about my past, already planning their exit route. They might like the look of a guy who’s lived a rough life, but the reality was always too much for them.
Luckily, these guys seem to have some grit, so I keep going.
“Thought I’d be on a different path for my life,” I confess. “Following my pops’ footsteps. Started out with smaller stuff as a teen, learning the ropes with small shit. I was just an associate at that point. Had me doing errands like running packages, shit like that.” I blow out a big breath, some of the memories coming back with the story I rarely share. Shrugging my shoulders, I finish it. “Ended up getting put away for trafficking charges before I could climb the ranks.”
Ronnie huffs out a big breath, blowing his cheeks out. “Fuck, man.”
“Yeah. I was seventeen when I got locked up, but they tried me as an adult. Did four years and seven months upstate. Got kitchen duty while I was there, gave me a passion for feeding people and making ’em smile instead of cower in fear. Then my pops got taken from me while I was gone. My mom shortly after. I didn’t want any part of the life after that.”
“Wait,” Ronnie says.
