McCoy (Golden Glades Henchmen MC 3)

I knew that any normal, rational person would likely raise a brow and roll their eyes at me. Because it was new. Because no one fell for someone that fast.

But normal people didn't live with their new love interest almost from the beginning. They didn't get that crash course in how you clicked—or didn't—with someone else. It would have normally taken me months to figure out the things I'd learned about McCoy in a matter of weeks.

I could tell you all his favorite foods, music, movies, and shows. I knew how he interacted with his friends, with their wives, and with the kids, as well as all the gathered animals around the house. I knew that he was a light sleeper and that he was one of those rare people who didn't just tell their dentists that they flossed twice a day, but actually did it. I'd seen him lend a hand without being asked, and double down on one of the younger guys when he thought they were being disrespectful. For goodness sakes, I knew that the man still bought into the idea of separating his whites and colors when he did laundry.

"What?" McCoy asked, making me realize I'd been smiling at my own thoughts.

"I was just remembering how horrified you'd been when I'd tossed all my clothes into one wash load," I told him. "Panties, bras, towels, and all."

"That's not how it is supposed to be done," he insisted, shaking his head, still not over the event.

McCoy had oddly particular, almost anal, methods of doing things at times. Like laundry. Like working out. Like keeping his room clean. Like making his bed.

Curious, I decided to finally ask about something I'd wondered about since the laundry day.

"Was it your mom who taught you to do laundry that way?"

"No. Barely remember my mom," he told me, making my heart ache for him, but realizing that losing his mother young might have explained why he wasn't as in touch with his feelings as those of us who had our moms for longer.

"I'm sorry."

"No, babe, she didn't die," he said, letting out a humorless laugh. "She walked out."

"That's almost... is it insensitive to say that that's almost worse?"

"No," he said, shrugging. "It is worse. At least if you lose your mom, you know she most likely didn't want to go. But knowing your ma just... didn't want anything to do with you, that shit doesn't feel great."

"Aww," I said, leaning in, wrapping my arms around him. "I'm sorry, McCoy."

"Really, it had less to do with me, honestly. My old man was a real dick. She got tired of it. She knew he'd never let her take me, so she did what she had to do not to be stuck and miserable for the rest of her life."

"But she left you with someone she herself couldn't stand to be with."

"Figure it was likely worse for her," he said.

"Still. I can't imagine walking away from your child."

"Don't know if I would want the weight of her unhappiness on my shoulders either."

"What about yours, though?" I pressed.

"My father was a hard man. Joined the military at seventeen with a note from his dick of a dad who didn't want to deal with him anymore. He was in that life for a long time. And he let it turn him cold. Then he knocked my ma up. Had to do the family shit that never really agreed with him. He took that frustration out on my ma. Then when she was gone, on me."

"How?"

"He was... he was particular."

"The laundry. Making your bed," I said, catching on.

"Yeah, that shit. And literally everything else about the house, about my clothes, about my grades and my friends. It was relentless."

"So you did what any normal kid does when they have too many rules," I guessed. "You acted out."

"Christ, I got my back whipped raw for it, but yeah. I met Huck and the guys back then. We started getting into trouble. Eventually, shit got... uncomfortable enough to just leave."

"How old were you?"

"I don't know? Sixteen, maybe a little bit before."

"You left home at fifteen? How?"

"Huck's family had a repair shop with a set of apartments overhead. No one even knew I was around."

"Have you seen him since?"

"Saw him a few times after. He told me I was a disgrace and all the typical shit. I heard he died about six years back."

"I'm sorry."

"Don't be. It wasn't really a loss."

"I mean I'm sorry you didn't get to have a happy childhood, and that you would rather be a runaway than stay home, and that your father couldn't see what a good man you've become. But I'm really glad you found your family here," I added, giving him a squeeze.

"It's good here," he said, pressing the side of his head to mine.