“Then we’re two birds of the same feather,” he jests. “Crazy is okay.” He gives me a pleading stare. “Please?”
I know I’m going to regret this, but when a man who just got out of prison after eight years asks you to take a shot with him, it’s hard to say no. So I plaster a smile on my face, nod in agreement, and raise my shot glass. “To freedom.”
“To freedom,” Connor repeats with a nod, and we tap our shots together before downing them. He immediately takes the lime and sucks it.
“Straight up, no lime. You’re a badass,” he laughs when he sees I’ve left my lime untouched.
“What can I say?” I shrug. “What’s the second shot for?”
Connor’s smile fades as he stares down at the shot in his hand. “It’s for Blake.” Lifting his shot glass, he says, “To you, Blake. The best man I’ve ever known.”
Tears sting my eyes as I lift my glass. “To Blake,” I manage though my words are strained, my voice hoarse with emotion. After we drink our shots of tequila, Connor smiles.
“I heard it was a nice funeral,” he murmurs, staring at his empty shot glass.
“It was,” I agree.
“I wanted to be there, but I wouldn’t have gotten released to go. Even if I had, it would’ve cost Grams thousands to get me there, and I would’ve been in a pink jumpsuit and cuffs with guards on either side of me. That would’ve only made things more difficult for everyone. Blake deserved a dignified funeral. Not one with his loser cousin drawing everyone’s attention.”
I swallow hard, trying to push down the thought of a man like Connor—so big and tough—wearing a pink jumpsuit. Shaking my head, I clear that thought. “He would’ve understood, Connor. He spoke of you all the time. You were his hero.”
“Some hero,” he grumbles as he wipes a palm down his face, his eyes laced with sadness.
Redhead returns and takes our order, and Connor and I fall into conversation. He tells me stories about growing up with Blake, the crazy things they used to do. Many of the stories are ones I’d heard from Blake, but I listen intently, enjoying Connor’s version of the events.
When our food is delivered, as Connor cuts into his country fried steak, he asks, “Tell me how you met Blake.”
I chuckle. “He didn’t tell you?”
“Not in detail. No.”
My eyes flit to my hand holding my beer bottle. The way Blake and I met wasn’t exactly your classic romance story. “I was a waitress. At Hooters,” I admit, trying to fight the heat crawling up my neck.
Connor almost spits his food out. His eyes travel down to my chest, before nodding. “You’ve got the body for it,” he adds, and my eyes widen. What an honest thing to say to your deceased cousin’s wife.
“Uh . . .” I struggle to move on. If Connor notices my shock, he doesn’t let on as he goes back to cutting his food. “It was his birthday. His friends brought him in for dinner. Drinks. He flirted with me but didn’t hit on me. His friends did. Big time.”
Connor chuckles softly. “So how is it you ended up going on a date with him?”
“They all left, and an hour later he returned. Alone.” I can’t help the smile that tilts my lips as I remember Blake with his easy smile and shaggy hair. “By that time, we were really busy, and all of my tables were full. He waited an hour and a half to be seated at my table.”
Connor grins widely. “That’s my boy,” he laughs.
“When I asked him what I could get him, he told me my phone number.”
“Confident bastard,” Connor chuckles.
“I told him no, but he stayed the remainder of the night and every time I came to his table he’d ask again, but in the end he left that night without my number.”
“Playing hard to get?” Connor questions before sipping his beer.
“No,” I answer honestly. “Do you know how many guys asked for my number during my shifts?”
“I bet,” he somewhat snorts a laugh through his nose.