Total pages in book: 68
Estimated words: 68716 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 344(@200wpm)___ 275(@250wpm)___ 229(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 68716 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 344(@200wpm)___ 275(@250wpm)___ 229(@300wpm)
“Business still alive, Stud?” he asks, smirking, like this is a friendly reunion.
“Alive enough,” I respond, tossing the rag onto the tool cart. “What the hell do you want?”
“Good to see you too, old man.” He wanders farther in, fingers trailing along the fender of the Camaro. I fight the urge to smack his hand away. “Heard you got that ’69 Chevelle in, thought I’d—”
“Try again.” I cut him off, folding my arms over my chest. “You didn’t drag your ass down here to talk about a Chevelle.”
He shrugs, gaze skittering toward the office door. “Heard Honey was here.”
Of course he did. The whole damn town knows Honey’s here most days. She runs the shop all day, then heads over to the school to pick up Bray and Key, wrangling kids and chaos like she was born for it.
My grandbabies.
My chest tightens just thinking about them. Brayden with his dark curls. Keyleigh with her serious little eyes and the way she clings to me like I’m the safest place on earth. Much like her mother did when she was little.
Smoke’s eyes flick back to me, reading every twitch on my face because he’s learned to watch me like that. To measure just how far he can push.
“I wanna talk to her,” he shares. “That a crime now?”
“I don’t know,” I reply, voice flat. “Depends on if you’re planning to stick around for more than five minutes.”
His jaw ticks. “Come on, man. Don’t start.”
“I didn’t start.” I step closer, letting him feel the full weight of my gaze. “You did. Every time you walked out on her. Every time you walked out on those kids.”
He flinches, barely, then lifts his chin. “I always come back.”
“Yeah,” I mutter softly. “That’s the problem. Maybe one day your ass can learn to stay away.”
I picture Honey on my back porch last week, arms wrapped around herself, staring out into the darkness. Her voice had been quiet, careful, like she was afraid of setting me off. I’m not used to my daughter being afraid of anything.
“I think he means it this time, Pops,” she’d said. “He’s really trying. He went to meetings, he’s been showing up for the kids—like the old Darrel is back.”
I’d grunted, noncommittal. Because I’ve heard these same lines before. And before that. And before that.
Maybe that makes me jaded. Maybe that makes me an asshole. Or maybe it just makes me old enough to know better.
“He’s Bray and Key’s dad,” she’d added, a little desperate. “They love him. Don’t you remember what it was like, not having your dad around?”
That had shut me up, because yeah, I remember. I remember all too clearly.
Now, standing here in my shop, with Smoke fidgeting in front of me, I remember something else: the look on Bray’s face when he took his backpack and sat on the front steps to wait for a dad who never showed.
“I came back that time,” Smoke mutters now, like he can hear my thoughts. “I was just late. It’s been fucking years ago, Stud, when you gonna let the past rest. They are my kids.”
“That time, you were two damn days late,” I snap. “You didn’t call, you didn’t text, she cried herself to sleep on my couch for her kids. My grandson wet the bed for the first time in six months because he thought you were gone again. They keep growing up right in front of me, not fucking you. Years I watch them love you and lose you over and over. So forgive me, Smoke, if I’m not lining up to hand you a Daddy of the Year trophy.”
He glances away, jaw tight. “I’m trying, Stud.”
I could believe that, maybe, if I hadn’t heard it before. If I hadn’t seen the cycle up close: the apologies, the promises, the good weeks, and then the slow slide back into old habits.
I rub my temple, feeling the beginnings of a headache. “Honey’s in the office,” I say finally. “You can talk to her there. But I swear to God, if you—”
The office door swings open, I catch it out of the garage bay door window.
Honey steps out, tucking a strand of loose brown hair behind her ear, a pen stuck in the messy bun on top of her head. She’s in jeans and one of my old T-shirts, the shop logo faded from a thousand washes. There’s a smear of ink on her cheek. She’s beautiful and tired and too damn good for this mess.
She spots Smoke and stops, one hand braced on the doorframe. Her eyes go big, then soften in a way that makes my teeth grind. “Hey,” she says, voice small and hopeful.
Smoke straightens, his whole posture changing. “Damn, girl,” he remarks, eyes skimming over her in a way that makes my blood pressure spike. “You look good. Real good.”