Page 9 of Gage

Preacher picked up the phone. “Deacon's checking the Mora outfit now. Until we know more, nothing changes. I suggest that you stay inside the gates unless Gage says otherwise.”

“Got it.”

Gage met my eyes. I finished the coffee and set the mug on the table. Smoke left with Preacher. Gage waited until the door shut before standing.

“You eat anything?”

I stared at him. “My father just informed me my forced marriage is still on schedule, but you are worried about breakfast.”

“Yeah. You still need food.”

The answer was so irritatingly practical that I laughed. It came out thinner than I wanted, but it was real. “Do all emotional crises get breakfast here?”

“Depends. Prospect made eggs, so this one might get worse.” He walked toward the door and held it open without telling me to follow. I did anyway.

The eggs were edible. Gage watched me take three bites before he stopped paying attention to the plate, which told me the food had never been the point. When the garage noise rose again, we moved to a table in the empty back corner, far enough from the bar that nobody had to pretend not to hear us.

“You said you stayed out of his life for years?” he asked while turning his mug on the table absentmindedly.

“I did. My father paid for part of college, and I paid back every dollar once I could. After that, I took a job in medical billing, rented an apartment and kept my conversations with him short enough that he couldn't mistake them for invitations.” I turned my own mug between my palms. “I thought he’d accepted that. What he actually did was leave me alone until he needed to use me.”

“You ever work for him?”

“No. I met men he worked with when I was young because they came to the house. I learned when to leave a room and which questions not to ask. That's the full extent of my criminal education. It doesn’t mean I wasn’t listening to what was going on around me though.”

Gage accepted the answer without softening the question. “Why medical billing?”

“Because I needed rent, a clinic hired me and I turned out to be good at it. Not everything has a dramatic origin.”

“Ordinary isn't an insult.”

“I know. I worked hard for my ordinary life.”

His thumb ran once over a deep scratch in the tabletop. “I used to collect for men who thought every person in a man's life belonged to his debt. One guy ran. They sent me to his house and told me to put enough fear into his wife and kid that he'd come back.”

I waited, but Gage's face gave me no invitation to make what came next easier for him.

“What did you do?”

“Walked.”

“From the house?”

“From all of it. Told them to find somebody else. I’m not a good man, but I’m not that man.” He glanced toward the main room where one of the brothers crossed behind the bar. “Ended up here.”

There had to be blood and consequences inside that distance, but he didn't offer a cleaner version of himself for me to approve. He gave me the line and trusted me to understand why my father's arrangement had found it.

“Is that why you believe me now?”

“I believe you didn't come here on your father’s orders.” Gage sat back, leaving the rest of the question unanswered.

I traced the rim of my mug. “You leave yourself plenty of room in that sentence.”

“Need some. Always.”

Yesterday, I’d have heard the qualification and nothing else. Today I knew where some of it came from.

“And the kiss?” I asked.