Page 87 of Monstrous Serpent

Garrett refills his cup, then puts the pot down. “Surprised you agreed to meet.”

“Have my reasons.”

The day after my brother showed up, I checked campus for his truck. There was no sign of it. Or him. Later that night I rode through town, even hit the hotels near the airport. Came up empty again.

So, I reached out.

Garrett responded he’d be in New York for the week and was staying at a hotel thirty minutes away. I wasn’t letting him move around unchecked, so I borrowed Rua’s Jeep a few times to keep track of him.

My brother mostly stayed at the hotel, leaving only to grab food. Except for the one day he took the train into the city. He also texted me daily. Mostly small talk. I ignored him. Until the reminder I had set for my uncle's parole hearing came through.

It’s a year away.

The trial didn’t go the way it should have. The defense attorney tore apart everything Atlas and I said, and my uncle ended up with a reduced sentence. The fuck needs to rot in prison, and since my brother wasn’t there the first time, he might be useful in keeping the bastard behind bars. So, when Garrett asked me to meet him for lunch, I agreed.

My brother looks at my helmet. “What are you riding?”

“Kawasaki ZX-14R.”

He whistles low. “That's a lot of bike. You running premium?”

“Yeah.”

“Good. Those inline-fours run hot if you cheap out on fuel.” He adds creamer and two packets of sugar to his coffee. “Watch the front sprocket. Teeth start hooking, replace them. Don't wait. They wear faster than people think.”

I grunt.

He lifts the mug, takes a sip, then sets it down. “You plan on talking?”

My eyes meet his as I set my glass down.

Garrett just shakes his head, signals for the waitress, then reaches for his hat. “Forgiving me is your choice, but I’m not gonna sit here and let you grill me, Hunt.”

“Stay.”

“Hunter—”

“So, you’re a mechanic.” It was on the card he gave me.

Garrett settles back into the booth, tapping the handle of the mug. “Yeah. Pays decent and I like working with my hands.”

I hum in agreement. Working on my bike some days is almost therapeutic—when Atlas isn’t there. He can’t stand silence and needs to fill it with his voice. Even talks over the fucking music.

My molars grind. Hated lying to Atlas about where I was going today. But he wouldn’t understand. Even if it was to help us both.

The door chimes, and Garrett looks over my shoulder. I twist, gaze locking on an elderly couple walking in.

My brother huffs. “Old habits, eh?”

I grunt, scanning the rest of the diner again before turning back to face my brother. I grab the menu and flip through, finding what I want just as the waitress approaches.

She refills my water, then pulls out a pen and pad. “So, what can I get you two?”

“Western omelet. Hash browns. Rye toast.” Garrett hands her his menu.

“Scrambled eggs. Hash browns. Four strips of bacon. Same toast.”

Garrett taps the edge of the table as she walks away, the corner of his mouth lifting. “Breakfast for lunch. Just like old times.”