Hellion (Southern Rebels MC)

“You make it sound like you abandoned me instead of changing my tire and giving me your address.”

“And you came.”

“My mom taught me there are two things in life you can trust completely,” she said, her fingers tracing the scratches in the Formica top. I rotated my wrist, my palm up, wanting to know and a faint smile graced her lips. “My gut and a .38 special.”

Her answer startled a laugh out of me. “Smart woman.”

“She was,” Cadence agreed. “My gut says you’re trustworthy. The .38 special says I can protect myself.”

“I can respect that,” I murmured, my admiration for her only going up.

She tapped my palm, “And you? You grew up here.”

“You don’t know?” I pretended shock and she frowned at me. “I figured you’d tell me.”

“Clearly, your roots are here.”

“They are,” I confirmed. “They go generations deep,” I said, then clarified, “On my mom’s side.”

“She’s still alive?”

“Yep, she lives in town. In the house I grew up in.”

“That must be nice,” Cadence said, her tone wistful.

“Everyone knows you.” I sighed, leaning on my elbows, our foreheads almost brushing. “That can be good….and bad. They have expectations.”

“You seem like a guy who exceeds expectations,” she murmured, gazing up at me through long lashes. “At least Candy thinks so,” she added, amusement twinkling in her eyes.

“And what do you think?”

“The verdict is still out.”

“BACON.”

We both jumped as Nico flapped his wings, one beady eye fixed on my plate where a lone piece of bacon remained. Cadence covered her mouth, muffling a chuckle, and I pushed the plate toward Nico. “Have at it, buddy.”

She pulled back, and not ready to let the moment go, I asked, “Siblings? Dad?”

She shook her head. “No siblings.” She skipped over the dad question, turning it around on me. “You?”

“No siblings. My dad died when I was three,” I shared, not missing her reticence in talking about her life. “My mom never remarried, said he was the love of her life.”

Her mouth pulled to the side, and I sensed she was debating her next question. “He died in an armed robbery?”

“Wow, they really did cover my entire life,” I mused and she gave a guilty nod. “He did,” I confirmed, meeting her eyes. “Did they also mention he was the armed robber?”

Her eyes widened in surprise before she shook her head.

“Yeah, that part of the story gets glossed over,” I muttered, knowing it had been my grandfather’s doing. “My mom adored him, but he was,” I paused, not really sure how to describe him.

“A criminal?” She suggested helpfully, and a chuckle escaped me.

“He definitely was,” I agreed. “My grandfather called him a snake oil salesman. A charming ne’er-do-well. But he was a terrible criminal.”

“I can see you inherited some of his finer traits,” Cadence commented, tongue in cheek and I tilted my head in acknowledgement.

“He was a rich kid who got disinherited after knocking my mom up. He could have abandoned her and kept his inheritance, but he loved her.”

“Sounds like he had at least one redeeming quality.”

“My mom thought so.” I exhaled. “She never really got over him.”

“At least she had you.”

“Sometimes I wish I would have known him, been able to see what my Mom saw in him instead of just the rumors,” I admitted, staring at the table. Cadence’s hand brushed mine, grabbing my attention faster than a shotgun blast.

“I grew up without a dad, but I didn’t miss him.” Her mouth twisted ruefully. “I didn’t even think to miss him. You can't miss what you don’t have and my mom never talked about him.” She eyed me. “I guess it’s not really the same.”

“Maybe your way is easier.”

Her expression became contemplative. “Maybe.” She rubbed the back of her neck. “I’m sure she had her reasons. Maybe he was a bad guy, an outlaw.”

I snorted, thinking of Clutch and most of the Rebels. “Not all outlaws are bad.”

“Neither are all armed robbers,” she rejoined, arching an eyebrow.

“Touché.” I noticed the thermos Leroy had sent me home with sitting on the counter. “Coffee? Or is it too late?”

“It is never too late,” she declared before pointing to it. “You swear you had nothing to do with making it?”

“Scout’s honor,” I swore, snagging the thermos and two mugs. “This is actually good.”

She laughed, watching me fill the mugs. “I should thank you for thinking of me this morning.”

“But,” I drawled when she paused. “Please don’t think of you again?”

“Something like that.” She chuckled, accepting the mug of steaming coffee. She took a hesitant sip, clearly not trusting my taste buds, and I just waited. A stunned look crossed her face and she inhaled deeply before taking another longer sip.

“Well?” I prodded, unable to wait any longer.

“It’s,” she paused, shaking her head. “It tastes like my mom’s,” she murmured thickly and I was surprised to see her eyes glisten. “I never could make it like she did.” She closed her eyes and brought the mug to her lips, savoring the next swallow. “It’s strange the things you miss.”