Inside the house, all is silent. The front room is empty, as it usually is. There’s no television in there, so we have little reason to spend time in that room. Still, the light is on. Bypassing the main hallway, I walk the perimeter rooms, starting with the kitchen. The light is on in here, too, as well as the family room before me. The kitchen is a large, open space that oversees the family room. When my mother moved in about twelve years ago, she told me to expect a lot of home-cooked meals because a kitchen like this deserves to be used. I don’t eat here much, but she and Chey make doing dinner together a regular thing. Still, despite the open space, I can’t see a single person. Reaching into the back of my jeans, I pull out my .45 and hold it down at my side.
With my eyes wide open, I walk slowly and cautiously through the dining room and into the family room. Still nothing. Movement catches my eye from the back porch. I raise my gun up and creep toward the sliding glass door. Just as I reach the glass, I lower my gun and blow out a frustrated breath.
On the back porch, leaning over, with their arms resting on the railing, are Jeremy and Cheyenne. They’re facing one another, and she’s smiling. Wide. She’s giving him the same smile she gives me when she tries to convince me she’s going to bring her grades up in time for the end of the term. It’s the same smile she gives her grandma when she makes Chey’s favorite dessert. Now I raise my gun for a whole different reason. I don’t care if she is seventeen. Jeremy Whelan does not deserve her smiles, and he certainly doesn’t deserve the giggle she’s giving him. He’s not patched yet. I could shoot him, and my brothers couldn’t say much about it. Except for Duke. He’d catch hell from Jeremy’s older sister—Duke’s woman, Nic. But she’s not my bitch, so it’s not my problem. I could shoot him.
In the reflection of the glass, I can see my mother standing several feet behind me. She places her hands on her hips and says, “Oh, for heaven’s sake. They’re just talking. Put down the damn gun.”
I turn around slowly, put my gun in the waistband of my jeans, and roll my shoulders to release some of the built-up tension. She’s been giving me crap about letting Chey date for years. It’s not that I won’t let her date. She’s more than welcome to date. She just chooses not to more often than not. I guess she doesn’t like to go through the hassle of trying to ditch my tail and failing anyway. I’ll give her credit for trying, though. She’s definitely getting better at that.
“You hear about today?” I ask her.
“You’ll find him,” she says. And that’s my mother. She doesn’t answer questions if she’s certain you already have the answer. “I want to know why he targeted my granddaughter.”
“You and me both. Ryan’s working a lead right now. We got eyes and ears in town working in our favor. We’re gonna find him, Ma.”
She sighs heavily, and it’s one of those rare times that her age shows. Her mouth turns down, smile lines become more apparent, and crow’s feet spread outward as she narrows her eyes. Her dark brown hair has fewer grays in it than mine does—thanks to Violet at the salon she goes to with Ruby every six weeks. She’s not intimidating in size like Elle is, but when she gets going there’s no stopping her. Disapproval from Lisa Grady is almost worse than being on the business end of an enemy’s gun. The woman should have been born Catholic the way she throws around guilt trips like they’re fucking antacids. And I can tell, just by that single sigh, that she’s about to deliver up a doozy.
“What’s going on?” she asks. “I know Ruby’s daughter is here, and I know why. Don’t pull my leg with vague answers. Just tell me how bad it is.”
“A fucking mobster showed up at your granddaughter’s school today. How bad do you think it is, Ma?” I snap and instantly regret it. She has every right to her concern, and here I am being a dick about it.
“We’ve been over this, son. You pull that macho crap with everybody else, but need I remind you that I am your mother? I choose to be here for Cheyenne. I don’t have to be. Now, start talking.”
Ball buster. She’s a fucking ballbuster, but I’d be lost without her. Layla hasn’t spent more than a night under this roof in the last five years and no more than a few months in the last ten. Always in and out of rehab and then out drifting. I’d be fucked if my mom wasn’t here to do all the domestic shit with Chey. A guy like me has to go when he needs to and not worry about finding a babysitter.