He didn’t have a chance to say anything, she stepped aside.
“Get in here,” she ordered, waving her hand at him and moving inside. “If I knew you were coming, I’d have made cookies. Since I didn’t, you get Chips Ahoy or Oreos. I think I also have some Nilla Wafers.”
Fuck, but it felt good to know some things didn’t change.
“May have escaped you, darlin’, but I’m not eight anymore,” he muttered, coming in behind her and closing the door.
She whirled on him. “I’m not either. I still like my cookies.”
He stared at her.
She rolled her eyes again and flounced through the small living room to an even smaller kitchen.
Joker followed, not liking what he saw. Not that it was a pit, just that it was small. She’d filled it with stuff that was familiar to him, made it hers. But it wasn’t like the house she’d lived in that just was her, becoming that after she’d spent decades of her life living in it.
And there was no flag outside the door.
“Where’s the flag?” he asked carefully as he hit the kitchen.
“We have a clubhouse where all of us in God’s waiting room go to experience such thrills as bingo and movie night, with every movie they show being PG. I told them about the flag. They let me fly it out there,” she answered, grabbing all three brands of cookies, dumping them on the counter, and shuffling to the fridge to get out the goddamned milk.
He nearly smiled because the last glass of milk Joker drank, she’d poured it.
“Good you still got it in your sights,” he told her and she looked to him after pulling down a glass.
“Never let it out of my sight, sweetheart.”
Joker fought back swallowing against the lump suddenly clogging his throat.
She poured him milk.
After she did that, she slid it along with the cookies toward where he was leaning a hip against her counter. “Where you been?”
“Here and there,” he answered, reaching for an Oreo. He gave her his eyes. “Home now.”
“Good, Carson,” she said softy.
“Not Carson. Known as Joker, Mrs. Heely. Left my father’s son behind.”
She nodded, surprising him with her easy acceptance of that, her eyes moving to his cut before lifting again to his, “Found a home.”
“Yeah, and brothers.”
“Hear some of those motorcycle boys can raise Cain,” she noted. “Hear some of them take care of their own.”
“I got both.”
She grinned. “Reckon that’s good.”
“It is,” he assured her.
“Missed you,” she whispered, blindsiding him. The look on her face, her tone, the suddenness of it, taking it in, his insides shredded. “Worried for you, bad. Missed you, worse. Thought about you every day and—”
He shut her up by shoving the Oreo in his mouth and pulling her in his arms.
She wrapped hers around his middle and pushed her face in his chest. She was tough, though, and he wasn’t surprised when she got a lock on it and didn’t lose control in about the time it took him to chew and swallow the cookie.
But when she tipped her head back, she said, “God took my boy. Then He gave me you.”
That was when his insides started bleeding.
He stared down at her wrinkled face. A face he remembered from since he could remember. Her hazel eyes bright with wet.
He had no clue.
Fuck.
No clue.
But he should have had one. She’d given him a million of them.
His voice was gruff when he began, “Mrs. Heely—”
She shook her head. “We won’t go on about that. You’re here. You’re healthy. You’re strong. You’ve found where you fit. I’m happy. If you needed to leave to find that, then it’s good. But this time, for this old woman, would you stay around awhile?”
Joker gave her a squeeze and it again came out gruff when he said, “Not goin’ anywhere.”
She pulled her arms from around him to rest her hands on his chest.
For his part, Joker did not let go.
“Good,” she whispered before she slapped him twice on the chest with both hands and pulled out of his hold. “Now, eat your cookies and tell me everything. And don’t leave anything out, even if it’s juicy. I’ve been telling the folk around here about you for a year. We all need to get caught up, and we’re sick and tired of PG.”
“You do know I’m not tellin’ you shit that’s juicy,” Joker replied.
She tossed him a look. “I’m older than you, you’ll hardly shock me.”
“Wanna bet?” he asked.
“Try me,” she shot back.
And that was when it happened.
Joker’s lips twitched.
It wasn’t big on the outside.
But it still was huge.
*
Joker pulled into the parking lot and saw immediately that Carissa’s Tercel was one of the best cars there.
He stopped, idled and looked around.
Four stories. L-shaped. All brick. All flat. Outside walkways made of cement. Ugly iron banisters. Same for the stairs, a set at the front, a set in the bend of the L. Not one thing there to make it look anything other than what it was. Cheap apartments for those unlucky enough to have to live there.
And he saw a few of those unlucky enough to have to live there.
A man and a woman hanging out on the walkway by the railing, second floor up. The man was smoking, the woman looking like she was giving him shit, the man looking like he was about two seconds away from doing whatever he felt he had to do to make her stop.
An old lady on the bottom floor, head tipped back, housecoat on, feet in slippers, watching them, probably so she could share what she saw wide. But she was doing it in a way that Joker knew she’d seen it before. From the couple. From others. And she’d seen a fuckuva lot more.
A couple of kids hanging around the cars, looking like they were up to nothing, but whatever that nothing was, was no good.
Joker looked to the third floor, scanned, and saw the numbers he was searching for, the middle one hanging upside down.
Apartment 323.
Carissa’s place.
He felt his mouth get tight as he pulled his phone out of his pocket.
His thumb moved over the display and he put it to his ear.
“Brother,” Tack answered.
“Where are you?”
“It’s Sunday. Where would I be?”