Oh, I’ve been waiting for this. “Sweetheart, you might as well get ready to tuck and roll. This car won’t even be stopping in front of your parents’ house. And I sure as shit won’t be getting out of it. I’ll do a lap or two while you say your goodbyes and then I’ll come collect you guys.”
I expect Sloane to make some sort of objection to this refusal to meet her parents, but she doesn’t. I don’t want to even turn and look at her just in case she’s giving me the death look, but I can’t fucking help myself. I want to see that cute-ass scowl. When I dart a quick glance at her out of the corner of my eye, the scowl’s not there, though. She’s not even fazed. She’s just staring out of the window, watching middle-aged, average-paycheck America pass her by.
She’s not fazed. If she’s not fazed, then she has to be fucking relieved. It’s better for her if her parents don’t ever meet me; I know that. They’re probably just waiting for the day that she calls to tell them she’s marrying some fucking reliable plastic surgeon or something. Someone who works with her at the hospital—where is she ever gonna meet anyone else, given her schedule?—and in their mind that will be for the best. He’d understand her priorities. Share them. Know that she won’t be available twenty-four seven to go out to dinner or cook and clean. But Sloane’s parents, they’re church people. They probably will expect that life for her at some point. They’ll want her to be the stay-at-home mom. They’ll expect her to give up her career to sit on her ass, getting fat while she looks after her two point five kids.
I doubt very much that that’s on Sloane’s agenda, but she might not want to have that fight with them just yet. And showing up with me on her arm would definitely cause a fight. I’m not the guy to give her the two point five kids. I’m not the guy to make her stay home and cook my meals. I’m the kind of guy to make her get tattoos and waste all of her money bailing my useless ass out of jail every weekend. Or that’s how they would see me. I’m sure that’s how the rest of the world sees me, too. Good thing I don’t give a fuck what the world thinks. But Sloane’s parents…why the fuck do I feel like shit right now? Two seconds ago I was laughing at the thought of meeting them.
I shouldn’t care. I really shouldn’t give a fuck about them. Sloane doesn’t ever seem to feel the need to conform to her parents’ will; it’s unlikely she would avoid me at their request. But still…her not fighting me on this feels…it feels fucking shitty.
“Are you grinding your teeth?”
Sloane’s noticed me grinding my teeth. Perfect. “No.”
“Yes, you are.”
“Just get ready. This is their neighborhood, right?” I draw my brows together, making a point of focusing on the cookie-cutter streets in front of me—looks like the place is inhabited by dentists and fucking accountants.
“Next on the right,” Sloane instructs me. She doesn’t hide the curious tone of her voice at all. In fact, I’m pretty sure she knows why I was trying to mill my teeth into dust just now. We find her folks’ place and I do as I said I would—I barely stop to let her out of the car. The tires squeal as I tear off down the street, and I’m sure I’ve left an inch of rubber tread back on the asphalt.
Fucking stupid bastard. Fucking stupid motherfucking bastard. I call myself a combination of these words for thirty seconds, only stopping when my phone rings. It’s Michael.
“Hey.”
“Hey, boss. Take it from the sharp exit that you need a moment. Anything you want me to be doing?”
“Yeah, actually. Rick Lamfetti. Julio’s boys beat him up pretty bad. I stowed him in Anaheim. Track him down, see if he’s still alive?” I have reasonable hope to believe Rick’s alive. Reasonable enough to waste Michael’s morning trying to hunt the fucker down. From Julio’s comments back at the compound, the guy told him everything—about Sloane, Alexis, my ruck with Charlie. And from the pictures Julio shared with us, it looked as though they roughed him up a hell of a lot more than Michael, but still. They undoubtedly knew putting the hurt on Michael wouldn’t have done them any good, so they saved their energy. Rick probably squealed after the first hit. And the information that people like Rick impart after the first hit is never the truth. It’s the thing they say in order to make whoever it is with the heavy fists stop causing them pain—generally a half-truth, in some weak but typically useless attempt to maintain their loyalty.