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Deliberately avoiding eye contact, I picked up the drink and wandered in the food’s direction. After I filled a plate with sandwiches and nibbles, I looked for an empty table. Spying one in the middle, I walked over to it. A few women stopped and smiled warmly as I passed them. I returned a small smile and sat down on my own. Half-heartedly, I picked at the food, listening to conversations around me. Most mentioned memories of my father, and I listened intently. Others were just random tales of Dad helping them with books or research, some of him drinking in this bar.
An annoyed rumble made my head in its direction.
A tall, good-looking man with black hair greying at the temples spoke to a stunning woman, and he looked frustrated. He wore a waistcoat like Jett’s, but his patch said ‘President.’
“It’s fuckin’ rude, babe,” the biker growled.
“Drake,” she shushed.
“Nah, it’s disrespectful and wrong. Monty’s asshole boy organises the funeral and wake and then don’t turn up? Fucker wants an ass-kicking.”
I watched, puzzled. Monty’s son? Monty meaning my dad, but what son?
“Something might have happened,” the woman whispered.
“And no call? Drake’s right, it is out of line. Not showing up for your father’s funeral is a shitty move,” a Native American guy said just as irately.
Not turn up? But I was here, except I wasn’t a boy! I coughed, pushed the plate to one side and stood up. The following words stopped me in my stead.
“It’s disgusting. Kid never visited his father. Nobody even guessed Monty had a kid. Poor fucker went to his grave alone.”
A flush started at my cheeks. That little spark of anger I often held back lit inside me.
“Excuse me, I don’t think you knew Monty well enough to pass judgement. Certainly not on either of us,” I snapped at them and received surprised looks.
Not bothering to wait for a reply, I stormed past another shocked man, this one, the guy from the bar. Nearly in tears, I pulled Dad’s keys from my pocket and headed down the street to the store. Blearily inserting the key and unlocking the door, I turned the handle and let myself into the shop. Quietly, I entered the alarm code and shut the door. Taking a deep breath, I drew in the scent that remained of my father’s legacy. Musty books and caffeine. The smell was so familiar. Dad’s mug sat next to the cash register, and I ran my fingers down it, making a trail in the light covering of dust.
Tears welled up, and I blinked them back as I saw Dad’s grey cardigan hanging on a wooden stool behind the counter. I walked around, picked the woollen garment up, and held it to my nose, my nostrils filled with the scent of Old Spice. Tears fell quickly now, and walking to a battered leather armchair, I curled up, holding my father’s cardigan and crying freely. I was so upset I didn’t hear the door open and close, nor the booted footsteps that came toward me. Someone picked me up, and I stiffened in shock, opened my eyes, and peeked over the top of the cardigan. It was the guy from the bar, Jett. He sat his ass in the chair and tugged me into his lap, and one hand gently pulled my head onto his shoulder.
“Let it out,” Jett whispered.
I lifted Dad’s cardigan, drew it back to my face, and sobbed.
Deep down, I’d been burying the pain of Dad’s death, arranging stuff and organising the funeral and wake and not dealing with the fact he’d died. That I was alone in the world. Jett sat there and allowed me to cry, one hand wrapped around my waist, holding me tight, and the other gently stroking my hair. Finally, I sniffed, took a deep breath, and glanced up. Jett was gorgeous, I noted vaguely. I wiped my face. Calm dark brown eyes looked down at me.
“Sorry.”
“You knew Monty well.”
“Of course I did; he’s my dad,” I told Jett indignantly. Jett seemed surprised.
“Heard he’d a son but not a daughter. Where’s your brother?” Jett asked.
“I don’t have one; it’s just Dad and me.”
Jett blinked as he struggled with something.
“Monty has a boy, sweetheart,” Jett mumbled as if he didn’t want to upset me further. “Named Sinclair.” For the first time today, and possibly since Dad’s death, I giggled.
“I’m Sin.”
“Not gonna deny, you certainly look like sin, but you’ve a brother called Sinclair.”
I shook my head at Jett. “No, I’m Sinclair Montgomery. Sinclair was Mom’s maiden name, and she was determined, boy or girl, that I’d be named Sinclair. Most people call me Sin.”
Jett looked surprised again, and his eyes studied me.
“No wonder you were pissed at the bar,” Jett murmured, and I nodded.
