Page 143

My brother didn’t bring any women home, but that was more because he was still in love with his dead wife.

I’d just closed the cooler lid when I heard the new prospect.

Well, I didn’t know for sure if it was him, but the plain leather vest on the man’s back was a good indication he was the one my brother had been telling me about.

He’d been there for a while, but this was my first club party in well over six months.

He was a permanent fixture here, by now, and by the look of all the ladies crawling all over him, he was popular to boot.

Then he had to go and open that mouth, making shivers race down my spine with the deep, raspy cadence of it.

I immediately took my drink and headed the other way, not wanting to get caught up in the mess that was a prospect.

The Uncertain Saints didn’t let many people into their fold.

In fact, there were only six members total, throughout the entire club, and not one of them had the time or inclination to add more to their group.

I knew it had to be a special circumstance that made it possible for the men of the Uncertain Saints to even consider adding that man to the group.

Which meant he was fucked up.

And I didn’t do fucked up.

I had my own fucked up to deal with.

Kind of like quitting my job.

Two hours and four hard lemonades later, I was feeling quite nice.

I hadn’t thought about my job once, and I was having a great time watching the comings and goings.

“Why the long face?” The man I’d been studiously avoiding all night, Apple, asked.

I turned my face and shrugged. “Nothing.”

And at that point, there really was nothing wrong.

“You look like you’re about to kill someone,” the annoying man observed.

I shrugged, picking at the invisible lint on my shoulder before I picked up my spoon and shoveled another bite of the chicken spaghetti someone had made into my mouth.

It was pretty good, but it wasn’t like Papaw fixed it.

There was good, and then there was good. And this wasn’t it.

We sat next to each other in companionable silence as we both ate our food.

I glanced over at the man’s plate, and nearly laughed when I saw how much food was on it.

With the helping he’d gotten of the food mounded on the plate, I feared for the integrity of the Styrofoam that was straining to hold its form.

“What are you looking at?” He asked, not bothering to turn his face, instead he kept shoveling his food into his mouth, imitating a Hoover Vacuum

“I was just wondering if you left any for the rest of them,” I said absently, going back to my food.

“Everyone had already eaten,” he muttered. “Apparently, when you’re a prospect, you eat last.”

“Hmm,” I hummed. “Imagine that.”