Page 113 of Peaches & Pistols

I laugh. One of those rare laughs that starts at the bottom of my toes—laughs that light her sky, and thereby, mine.

“Mia, honey. I meant to tell you right away but got caught up kicking his slimy ass out of town. I don’t give a damn about that piece of shit’s reputation aside from how to destroy it. I wrote an anonymous email detailing how he’s a narcissistic, physical-verbal-emotional-and sexual abuser who has no ethics or morality. I sent it to every family member, work associate, superior, colleague, and investor I could find linked to him or who were considering doing business with him.”

Mia’s smiling like a jackal. Now it’s her turn to burst out laughing.

“You did not! That’s the best thing I’ve ever heard. That’ll hurt him more than his messed-up hand tenfold.”

I shrug because it wasn’t a big deal. Maybe to some, but not for me, because protecting my family is as natural as breathing.

My beautiful fiancée turns around and wraps her arms around my waist, nestling her cheek on my chest. Our skin’s still warm from the shower, and I hum, relaxed.

When we got home, I insisted Mia take a shower, but she insisted I take a shower because I was covered in blood and sawdust. Neither of us would back down, so we showered together. Nothing sexual about it, just tenderly washing the past from our skin.

I dressed in a pair of boxer briefs and slipped one of my T-shirts over her head.

I lead Mia to bed and go through my nightly security check of the apartment before turning off the lights and joining her beneath the covers. The only light filtering in is from the nearly full moon in the cloudless night sky.

We lay facing each other, more settled than we’ve been since she arrived in Swiftwater—and for me, than I’ve been my entire life.

“I can’t believe he’s gone. It’s really over. I’m finally free, Greyson.” Happy tears collect in the corner of Mia’s blue eyes and drip down her nose.

“Believe it, honey. You and Everly never have to worry about your past ever again. No more looking over your shoulder or having one foot out the door ready to bolt.”

I press her hand to my heart. “This is your home.”

Far past exhausted, it’s time we go to sleep, but she still has something on her mind.

“So, when are we getting married?” she asks.

With no hesitation, I ask, “Is two months enough time to plan the wedding of your dreams? Should be enough time for my channels to get the paperwork finalized.”

“I'd marry you tomorrow on the sidewalk if I could.”

Me too, honey. Me too.

“Thanks for meeting with me.”

“Yea, man. No problem,” Connor says, looking over his shoulder for the second time since he sat down.

“What’s wrong with you?” I cross my arms and lean back in a booth tucked away in a corner of The Flying Pig.

It’s not my table per se, but I’ve done enough business with Frank and Lou Ann over the years that if they see me coming, they try to secure the booth for me. It’s tucked around an odd corner by the kitchen, so our presence is visually obscured and audibly masked.

“You’d tell me if you were gonna off me or something, right? You wouldn’t just”—Connor motions slitting his throat —“without a heads-up…right?”

“What in the Sam-hell are you on about?” I already don’t want to be here asking for his advice, but I don’t have a better alternative.

“So, I’m not in trouble?” Connor asks.

“For god’s sake, no, you’re not in fucking trouble. You’re, what, twenty-seven years old? Grow some balls, kid.”

“Alright, alright. What can I, uh, do for you Greyson?” Connor asks, sitting taller.

“Hot plate.” Lou Ann slides our plates onto the table with no further pageantry. Two ice waters are clunked onto the edge of the table, sloshing over the rims, and she storms off to terrorize her other patrons.

Connor and I look from the indiscernible slop on our plates to each other.

“I have no clue. I ordered two daily specials to keep it simple.” I shrug one shoulder.