But his girl was sleepy.
“Go to sleep, baby,” he murmured, tucking her closer.
“Okay,” she replied.
He felt her relax against him, her breath evening out, andthat content sensation had started invading his chest, when she called,“Dutch?”
“Notgoin’ anywhere, Georgie.”
“Thank you for picking me up at the airport.”
He shoved his face in her curls.
So it was there he said, “You’re welcome, gorgeous.”
On that, she fell asleep.
Which tripped the switch that sat deep inside the man whowas Dutch Black that he could do the same.
So he did.
Epilogue
Camellia
Dutch
“So what’d you decide?”
Dutch asked this question sitting on his ass on afolded-over throw, one of two Georgie had put in his truck for this purpose.Athrow that was covering a layer of snow.
And he asked it with his eyes aimed at the weathered bottleof tequila that lay at the base of his father’s gravestone.
That bottle was mostly full, and it had been there foryears.
Dutch had no idea how it lasted that long without beingnabbed by some vagrant or asshole kid.
Maybe it was the ghost of his dad that protected it, seeingas his mom put it there.
Maybe it was just obvious this was a biker’s grave, it hadthe Chaos insignia etched into it, and the specter of their Club protected it.
Whatever reason, it hadn’t moved for six years.
“Stanford,” Carlyle said, sitting on a throw at his side.“It’s closer to home than Massachusetts.”
Dutch got that.
And Stanford was far from a bad choice.
“You come here a lot?”Carlyle asked.
“No.But often enough he knows I haven’t forgotten him,”Dutch answered.
Carlyle didn’t say anything.
Dutch didn’t fill the silence.
They both stared at the black marble tombstone.
