“Grammo is good for sneaky muffins, yep.” He gave her an affectionate little shake. “Hey, are you gonna be a good angel for Mama while Daddy, Papa, and I are away?”
“What’s away?”
“It means we won’t see each other for a little while.”
She frowned and squinched her eyes, like she was trying to imagine literally not seeing him. “I like to see you.”
“I like to see you, too. We’ll be back quick as we can.”
“Okay. I want a muffin.” She squirmed to get down.
Laughing, Duncan put her down, and she scampered off. So much for sentimental farewells.
Kelsey stood there, holding Ethan and looking decidedly drippy. She and Dex must have finished their goodbyes.
“Hey, sis.”
“Be careful, okay? And ...” She turned to watch Dex for a moment, but instead of finishing that thought, she shook her head. “Just be careful.”
“Always.” He set his hand on her shoulder. “Hey. He’ll be careful, too. We all want to get back whole, but nobody wants it more than him.”
“He’s stressed. Just ... look out for him. Okay?”
The idea of Duncan looking out for Dex, who had to be the toughest motherfucker in the club, seemed sort of ridiculous. But the man did have some pretty hardcore mental health issues. Was that what she meant?
“Something goin’ on with him?”
“No. Not really. But he’s stressed. This whole thing has him on edge. So ... just keep an eye out. If you think he’s acting off, call me?”
“Okay.” It would be seriously not okay if their SAA lost his marbles on this run. Duncan hoped Kelsey was just being her usual overprotective self.
“Thanks.” She stepped in for a one-armed hug. Duncan folded her and Ethan in both of his.
“LET’S RIDE, BROTHERS!” Eight roared, and Duncan stepped back.
It was time to ride to Eureka, California and patch over The Nameless MC. A new Bulls charter. By any means necessary.
~oOo~
Typically when Eight Ball and his bad leg were on a run to Nevada, the crew had to stop for the night twice before they reached Laughlin. Sometimes, in the winter, they had to stop three times. But on this trip, Laughlin was only the midpoint, so Eight was driving the van part of the way. And they’d caught a break with some false-spring temperatures, which promised to follow them all the way west. They were stopping only once before Laughlin—in Tucumcari, New Mexico.
Tucumcari was a tiny town that had a reputation for quirk and kitsch, and its citizens leaned all the way in on that. The motel Fitz had booked for the club—they took almost the whole thing over—was a neon-festooned time machine to about 1960.
It wasn’t the first time the club had stopped here on a run, and each time Duncan pulled in to the motel lot, he wanted a chance to wander this weird little town. But they only ever had time for food, drink, and sleep. Moreover, whoever was in charge of any run crew always wanted everybody to stick close together. Today, they’d arrived before sunset, so Duncan might have tried to make a case for a couple hours of free time, but everybody was uptight on this run. If he even raised the notion of time off, Eight would probably rip his head off for acting like he was on vacation or some shit.
Someday, though, Duncan would get a chance to find all the quirky nooks and crannies of Tucumcari.
One town highlight the club never missed, however, was dinner at Watson’s Barbecue. Goddamn, that place was good. The restaurant was part of a big ranch-supply store that had a gift shop as well. After supper, while several of the other guys befouled the restrooms, Duncan wandered around the shop, killing time. The ranch supply stuff made him think of Phoebe.
That wasn’t true. He’d been thinking of her about eighty percent of the time since he’d left her bed. Probably the way he’d left had burned that bridge, but even so, the same question spun around every thought of her, the same question that had locked him up right before he left her: Did he want more with her? Would he want to try to have a relationship with her?
It seemed insane to consider that question about a girl he’d met mere days ago. What kind of simp started tearing down everything he’d thought his life would be after sleeping with a chick twice? They hadn’t even been on anything like a date. He’d done her a couple good turns, she’d fed him a couple meals, and they’d fucked a couple times. That was a rickety-ass foundation to start something that would change his life.
Or maybe the simp part was thinking moving forward with her automatically meant changing his life forever. Most guys would start something just because they liked a girl and wanted to keep hanging out, and figure out the life-changing stuff later. That was the normal, sensible approach—in fact, it was how Duncan’s two semi-serious things had started.
But those had both ended with tears and recriminations, and he hated being the guy who’d made a woman cry.
Plus, Phoebe just hit different. Maybe it was because of what had happened to her in Afghanistan, maybe it was he’d seen her valiantly standing strong against her own troubles while she took care of others. Whatever it was, the thought of making her cry was too much to deal with.
“Since when do you give a shit about horses?” his father said at his side.
Confused, Duncan turned to him. “Huh?”
Dad nodded at the item in Duncan’s hand: a little wooden box-like thing that might have been a very small wall hanging? Painted black, it said in white capital letters All You Need is Love ... AND A HORSE.
He hadn’t realized he’d picked the thing up, hadn’t even been really looking at it. He set it back on the shelf. “I don’t, I guess. Just wandering around.”
“The girl with the truck rescues horses,” Dad observed unnecessarily. “I guess she gives a shit about them, then. What’s her name again?”
“Phoebe. Yeah, she does. But I wasn’t looking to buy her anything. We’re not a thing. I’m just killing time.”
Dad smirked at him. “Okay. Well, time to mount up. We’re headed to that bar across from the motel.”
Great. Sitting around drinking and bullshitting. For something new and different.
Sometimes the Bulls were boring as fuck.
~oOo~
After a few hours drinking and bullshitting in some dark hole of a Tucumcari cowboy bar, Duncan was stretched out on a double bed, watching a two-year-old MMA bout on one of ESPN’s spinoff channels. His father sat on a plastic lawn chair outside the door, on the phone with Mom.
Duncan and his father were bunking together on this run. He didn’t mind it; they got along great most of the time. That hadn’t always been the case—for a few years, they could barely be in the same room together for more than ten minutes.
But they’d stopped getting in each other’s grille once Dad had finally let up and cleared the way for Duncan to wear the Bull. Their relationship was a lot more like club brothers these days than like father and son.
That was a relief, as far as Duncan was concerned. Dad’s version of fatherhood was pretty heavy-handed. He wasn’t a tyrant, and he’d never hit any of his kids as punishment or in anger, but he was a control freak. They’d fought a lot through Duncan’s teens and almost constantly while he was prospecting. Their spars in those days had not exactly been familial.