I memorize every detail. Not because I’m planning to ambush her, but because knowing her routine gives me a sense of whether she’s functioning.
Whether she’s okay.
“Thanks, Ghost.”
He nods, already turning back to his screens. “Don’t fuck this up, Nitro. If she’s as decent as you think she is, she deserves better than a mountain of a man scaring her at a coffee shop.”
“I hear you.” I walk out and head straight for my bike. I need to clear my head, let the road sort through everything Ghost just told me. The wind in my face, the freedom of speed, it’s the only thing besides music that centers me.
With Ghost’s information burning in my brain, I slide onto my Harley, start my engine, and point my ride toward the one place that always gives me clarity.
Sunset Manor.
Besides my brothers, there is one person in this world I rely on for everything.
Who taught me to be the man I am.
Who raised me to be the man I am.
The one person I would burn down the world for and make sure she was the only thing left standing in it.
My grandmother.
Queenie.
Her real name is Clara, but everyone calls her Queenie. I’m not really sure when or how it started, but it was back when I was a kid. All the neighborhood kids called her that. Even my parents, my father, her son, used it. At some point, it stopped being a nickname and became her name—her moniker, worn like a crown.
The parking lot is mostly empty when I arrive. I sign in at the front desk, and Paige gives me a warm smile. “She’s upstairs in her room, honey. Been asking about you.”
Guilt twists in my gut. I haven’t visited in almost a week.
I take the stairs two at a time. Queenie’s door is open. She’s in her favorite armchair, watching a cooking show with the volume too loud. But the moment she sees me, her face transforms. “There’s my boy!” She reaches out her arms.
I cross the room and bend down so she can wrap her thin arms around my neck. She smells like lavender and peppermint.
Like home.
“Hey, Queenie,” I murmur. “Sorry I haven’t been by.”
“Psh.” She waves a hand dismissively as I pull up the ottoman. “You’re here now. That’s what matters.”
I take her hands in mine. They’re small, almost fragile-looking, but I know better than to mistake that for weakness. These hands worked three jobs to raise me after my parents died. Those jobs helped pay for music lessons, for school, for food on the table when grief swallowed everything else. They carried me until my trust fund unlocked at twenty-one. Until then, she kept my parents’ business afloat with sheerdetermination and sleepless nights, holding the line until I was old enough to take it over myself.
None of us ever imagined I’d need that money before I turned twenty-one. No one planned for me to be running my parents’ company at eighteen or for them to be gone so suddenly. There were no contingencies for this version of reality.
Guess they should have added an indemnity clause to their wills.
Hindsight is a vicious bitch.
“So,” she says, studying me with sharp eyes. “What’s got you all twisted up?”
I should have known I couldn’t hide anything from her. “What makes you think I’m twisted up?”
“Because I know you, Damon Blackwell. You only show up in the middle of the week when something’s bothering you. So spill it, kid.”
“I met someone,” I blurt out.
Queenie’s eyes sharpen immediately, that mischievous spark alive and well. “Oh? Tell me everything, my boy. Don’t sit there like a mute monk.”
