Page 87 of Thick

I pulled a Tate, and shrugged. “I tell him everything.”

Tate took a drink of his coffee and then set his cup aside. “Well. I was riding down the street, and I saw people marching halfway up the block. When I realized what they were protesting, I joined in. Someone handed me a sign, and I marched right along with them for a few blocks. A couple kids got in an argument with some people on the street, and the next thing you know, bottles and rocks started being thrown. Windows got broken, and few fires were lit, and then the cops showed up. I deserved to be arrested. Hell, we all did. My tattoos and kutte made me a target, so I was charged with inciting a riot. They were talking about giving me the RICO act for being in a gang and starting a riot, so my public defender suggested a plea deal. The sentence was to be probation. I swallowed my pride, realized the risk I was taking in being part of the MC, and plead guilty. When it came time to sentence me, the judge wasn’t thinking probation would teach me anything. So, he sent me to prison.”

“That’s a damned shame. That case made me mad enough to throw a rock or two. By the grace of God, I didn’t. Let me ask you something. What race were the majority of the people in the march?”

“Black.”

“Not many whites?”

“I think I was the only one.”

“White biker with tattoos normally doesn’t fit in with a big group of blacks. Did it bother you that they were black?”

Tate shook his head. “I’m colorblind.”

My father’s eyes thinned a little. “Your actually colorblind, or your color blind?”

“Both,” Tate said.

My father nodded and reached for his cup. “You’re a good man, Tate.”

I reached under the table and squeezed my father’s left hand.

His eyes shot to me. “What? He’s an outlaw biker who has a penchant for big-dicked men, he’s been to prison three times, is covered in tattoos, has pieces of pipe in his earlobes, and he encourages blacks to throw rocks. What’s not to like?”

I chuckled. I’d received my answer.

And, my father’s blessing.

Chapter Thirty

Tate

I poured a few inches of ice into the bottom of saddle bag, tied the top of the plastic grocery bag tight, and dropped it on top of the ice. After pouring the remaining ice over it, I tossed the empty ice bag inside and closed the lid.

Fifteen minutes of hard riding later, and I was at Bobbi’s apartment complex. I parked the bike at the street, got my groceries, and sauntered toward her building.

After going up one flight of steps, I walked down the landing to apartment 203. With a grocery bag dangling from my left hand, I rapped the knuckles of my right against the door.

It swung open.

Andy’s eyes went wide at the sight of me. “Tate. What a surprise,” he said, meaning every word of it.

The look on his face warned me that he had no intention of inviting me in. I didn’t want to cause him any more grief than I already had, so I made my purpose clear.

I hoisted the bag in front of me. “I’ve got Halo Top and some peaches. I thought we’d celebrate Bobbi getting her cookbook published. Want to join us?”

“Let me grab the brown sugar,” he said excitedly. “I’ll be right back.”

“I’ve got it in the bag.”

“What about the fat free Cool-Whip?”

“Got it.”

He stepped onto the landing, and then reached for the door handle, using his shirt as a makeshift glove.

“I’m so proud of her,” he said. “She did that on her own, you know.”