Relieved Rock and I are alone, I turn to him. “Can we talk?”
The whole way here, I thought about what I wanted to say. Maybe visiting another club isn’t the most ideal spot to air out these old skeletons, but here we are.
“Yeah. Let’s go outside.” Rock jerks his head toward the front door.
I squint at the sunlight and slip on my shades. Our boots crunch over the pavement as I follow him to the side of the clubhouse. Several small brick buildings dot the property way back by the tree line. I make out a few Devil Demons standing guard in front of one. That can’t be good.
Rock stops at a picnic table. I climb on top of it and sit my ass down, resting my feet on the bench. Rock tests the bench before stepping up and sitting next to me.
“Where you been?” he asks.
“Canada.”
He stares at me but I don’t offer up any details. “Find what you needed?”
“No.”
“Charlotte’s worried about you.”
I run my hand over the back of my neck, forcing myself not to tell him to stay out of my business. “I talked to her.”
“Murphy’s worried about you.”
“Talked to him too.”
“You didn’t answer my texts or calls.”
This dad shit’s gettin’ old real quick. “I’m here, aren’t I?”
Several emotions seem to flicker over his face. Annoyance—I’m used to that one. Frustration—seen that one before too. Sympathy—that’s a new one, and I’m not a fan.
“I’m worried about you,” he says.
“What are we supposed to do, Rock?” What the hell does he expect from me? How does this change our relationship going forward? First we were hangaround and mentor. Then brothers. Treasurer and president. Now father and son? “Am I supposed to call you Dad?”
“If you want to, yes.” He elbows me in the ribs. “Shit, you and Murphy have been doing it for years anyway.”
How the hell am I ever going to share this with Murphy? The one person I’ve never kept secrets from. “Yeah.”
We sit there, staring at the ground until I can’t stand another second of the silence. “Shit, just when I think I can’t hate my mother any more, something else happens.”
“She’s…something.”
My stomach churns thinking about my mother and Rock. It’s too gross and wrong to contemplate. At least in my early memories, before things turned to shit, my parents had seemed to care about each other. “Did you love her?”
What a stupid question to ask him.
Rock doesn’t call me out. No, his eyes bug, like he’s trying to digest the question without choking.
“Never mind. You were a fucking kid.” I slide my gaze toward him again. “Did you like her at least?”
He blows out a relieved breath, like this question isn’t as tricky. “Yeah. I liked her a lot. Looked forward to her coming over. Before we got involved, I mean.”
Involved. That has to be the most delicate term I’ve ever heard Rock use for fucking.
“My father fell apart after my mom died,” he continues. “He earned the money, and she took care of me. That was their arrangement. So, he didn’t know what the fuck to do without her. I missed her so much. Cried a lot. He really had no patience for that.”
“Jesus, Rock.” The flowers he leaves on his mother’s grave for her birthday every year make so much sense now. My grandmother.