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“And Fallon and Malcolm like cooking?” I asked.
“What? Fuck no. Nah. Malc’s girl, when he met her, worked at the diner. He and Fallon bought it and she does the bakery.”
“Ah, hence all the donuts,” I said, gesturing toward the box we’d already finished.
“She makes the best. But yeah, what do you like doing?”
“I… I don’t know,” I admitted, voice small, just a whisper of a sound, as the embarrassment flooded my system.
I mean, who the hell got to my age without knowing what they liked? Without at least having some hobbies?
“Shit happens,” Dezi said, shrugging. “Life happens. Gets in the way of shit like that,” he added, brushing away my insecurities. “Life is on pause right now,” he went on. “Seems like a good time to suss that shit out, yeah?”
“Has anyone ever told you that you’re very wise?” I asked, meaning it.
But when he glanced over at me, a giant smile was on his face, and a chuckle escaped him. “Nah, babe, can’t say anyone’s ever accused me of being that.”
“Well, I think you are. Maybe you just hide it from those people,” I suggested.
“Maybe it’s not something everyone needs to know about me, yeah?” he said. But it was also a question, like he was asking me not to share it with anyone else.
And, well, I was in no place to share anyone’s secrets, not when I was asking so much from them.
“Just a heavy-drinking biker with rocks rolling around in his head then,” I agreed.
“Now you’re getting it. What do you think?” he asked, holding up his several inches of scarf beside his face. “Does this go with my coloring?”
“I can just see it now… your tee, a leather jacket thing, and a big, chunky winter scarf.”
“Chicks would be intrigued.”
“I bet they would,” I agreed.
“Cut,” he said.
“Hmm?”
“It’s not a leather jacket. It’s called a cut. Figure if you’re gonna be a biker old lady, you might want to get some of the lingo down.”
“I’m not… it’s not…”
“Yeah yeah yeah. Heard that shit already. But me? I got eyes. Sexy, smoldering fucking eyes, mind you, but eyes. And they see shit. I’m seeing shit with you and Cary.”
“He’s just helping me.”
“Mmhm, heard this song more than a few times. All the remixes too,” he went on. “You want to order Mexican?” he asked.
“We just had burgers,” I reminded him.
“Yeah, but burgers aren’t tacos.”
“I mean, we—“ I started, when I heard a knock at the door that had me stiffening and sucking in my breath hard.
“Prolly just Zaddy,” Dezi said, and the nickname surprised me enough that a wobbly smile toyed at my lips as Dezi got off the bed. He reached for his gun, though. “But it never hurts to be prepared,” he added when he saw my gaze move to it.
Less than twenty seconds later, though, Cary was coming into the room, barely able to keep a smile off his face.
“What’d I miss? Place has been a fucking tomb for weeks, I leave for a couple hours, and it looks like something went down,” Dezi complained as he tucked his gun away.
“Do you remember Louana?”
“The chick Valen skipped town on, yeah? Daughter of that vigilante guy.”
“Yeah. That one.”
“What about her?”
“She just became a prospect,” Cary said, sharing a smile with Dezi that I was jealous of not fully understanding.
“Aw, man. It’s gonna be a shitshow. I gotta go get my front-row seats,” Dezi said, giving me a nod. “Figure out your happy, yeah?” he asked, and then before I could even thank him, he was gone.
“What was that?”
“Oh, nothing. He just helped me realize I have time to figure out what I want to do with my life.”
To that, Cary nodded as he moved toward his bed, picking up the loom Dezi had abandoned, and looking at the progress. “Hey, look, you figured it out.”
“Actually, no, I didn’t. Dezi,” I confirmed at his raised brow.
“I wish I could say I was surprised, but that guy is an enigma. If someone told me he was a world-class pianist, I wouldn’t be shocked. He plays his cards close to his vest.”
“He’s a good guy,” I insisted.
“He is. He can be like having a pain-in-the-ass, grown son at times. But underneath all the scuffling and bullshit, he’s a good man. It’s why I trust him here. I wouldn’t leave you with someone if I didn’t trust them implicitly.”
“I know that,” I agreed, nodding.
“I got a text from the apartment owner. He said things moved faster than he planned, so if we are ready, we can head out of the hotel and over there tomorrow. We don’t have to move in,” he rushed to add. “But maybe do some cleaning. If we have time and it needs it, painting. And figuring out dimensions so furniture can be ordered. And don’t,” he started, cutting me off when I started to open my mouth, “start giving me shit about buying furniture. Way I see it, this is my small way of paying you back.”
