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Mags chuckles, not missing a beat, “Bet it looked good on you, too.”
“Ugh, it did, Mags.”
“So, is this a walk down memory lane, or is there more to it?” she asks, always the insightful one.
“Nico’s the Mustang,” I tell her again.
“Because he makes you want to ride him hard and often?”
Yeah, there is that. Not quite what I meant, though. “He’s a criminal. He’s supposed to be off-limits for me. I was never going to do this again.”
“You never did it to begin with,” Mags points out. “You and Rafe never crossed that line. You didn’t return his feelings.”
“True,” I agree.
“And now you’re afraid that… what? He’s going to brainwash you, have you doing his dirty work, and then make you his fall girl?”
“Of course not,” I laugh at how ridiculous the notion sounds. If only it were that simple. “Mags, I’m afraid of not being able to stop.” It feels good to finally admit it.
“And you worry he might end up dead like Rafe or AWOL like your mother?” She probes, her voice gentler now.
Or he doesn’t feel the same way I’m starting to feel about him. “That about sums it up,” I say as I push off from the desk and spin around again. The movement makes me long for simpler times, when the clubhouse was like a castle, and all the men in it were my knights in shining armor—shining leather.
“Sure, it’s possible those things could happen,” Mags says, her voice even softer. “But so also could car accidents, heart attacks, robberies, and cancer. There’s no limit to the horrible shit that can sneak up on you and steal away the people you care about, Sparrow.”
“I know,” I sigh. But that doesn’t mean I have to help disaster out by painting a bullseye on my back.”
“Is it that serious between you two?” she asks.
I open my mouth to say no, but the word gets stuck, which is ridiculous. We’ve only known each other for weeks, not months or years, and in that time, he’s contemplated killing me, threatened the people I care about, and broken into my place of business.
“I have no clue. I just know I don’t have to pretend with him. He likes me to be… me.”
He likes my hair. And my tattoo. And my home. And the unusual funeral rituals. And even Mud Night.
“Then I suggest you get out of that pig-headed brain of yours and ride him hard and often until you see where this leads,” Mags blurts.
“I’m not pig-headed,” I object.
She laughs. “Your daddy might have named you Sparrow, but you’re the most headstrong, stubborn, obstinate little bird I’ve ever met.”
“Headstrong, stubborn, and obstinate all mean the same thing, Mags.”
“The point required emphasis.”
She might not be entirely wrong.
“But Mags, aren’t you the least bit worried I might end up at the bottom of the Atlantic with a pair of concrete shoes?”
Mags laughs harder. “Your daddy, Cade, Rafe, and I taught you well. So, I pity any man who tries to cross you.”
I smile—I can’t help it. That was one of the perks of growing up with total bad-asses.
Before I can say more, there’s a knock at the waiting room door.
“I’ve got to go,” I tell Mags, “But… thanks.”
She doesn’t always say what I want to hear, but I can always count on Mags for honesty. She doesn't tiptoe around the truth—just one of the things that makes her totally awesome.
