Cash looked offended. “Know it?” He pointed at his stomach. “My daughter has brought me a banana split three times this past week.”
I laughed and snapped my fingers at him. “Your daughter has blonde hair, and always gets a banana split and a two-scoop of cookie dough. I did wonder how she ate both of those without getting a stomachache.”
Cash rubbed his stomach. “That banana split has my name all over it.” He winked. “Hell, I could go for one right now.”
I looked at Rome. “Not as bad as Rome. Five days in a row, he’s ordering a double chocolate fudge.”
Rome held up his hand. “The shit is good, brother. She knows what she is doing.”
A warm feeling spread through me.
Rome looked smug, as if my successful business reflected well on him. I liked how he was proud of me.
We moved deeper into the clubhouse, and Rome introduced me to a handful of people.
Mack.
Trigger.
Lucky.
I immediately forgot half their names because there were so many people and everyone seemed to know Rome. Like, really know him. They hugged him, gave him shit, asked him where he’d been, and through all of it, he never let go of my hand.
I appreciated that more than I expected.
Because even though he was with me, I still felt a little like an afterthought. Not because Rome made me feel that way, just this was his world, and I was trying to catch up.
Another guy walked over who was tall with a dark beard, and patch on his cut that said Vice President.
“Rome.”
“Skid.”
They did one of those guy handshakes that somehow involved slapping palms and punching shoulders.
Skid looked at me. “You’re Josie.”
I blinked. “How do you know my name?”
Rome groaned.
Skid grinned. “Cash has a bigger mouth than his appetite for banana splits.”
“You got this asshole eating ice cream every day,” Skid teased.
My mouth dropped open.
Rome pointed at him. “Cash needs to learn when to shut his mouth.”
I laughed and bumped into Rome. “You’re going to get a reputation.”
Rome muttered something under his breath, but leaned in to press a kiss to the side of my head. “I accept that.” He threw a wink at me, and my heart did a flip.
The two of them started talking about a tattoo Skid wanted. A memorial piece for his dad with a cross and an eagle.
I let the conversation fade into the background, and instead, I looked around. The clubhouse was exactly what I’d imagined. If Sons of Anarchy had been filmed by people who liked grime more than glamour. Pool tables filled one side of the room and a huge bar stretched along the back wall.
The dance floor was crowded while music blasted from speakers mounted in the corners. Beer bottles clinked as people shouted over one another.
