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“Don’t mess that up,” Bree says, pointing at the picture. “Her mom wrote a note on the back of it before she died, so it’s important to her.”
“I’ll guard it with my life,” Mack promises her, holding his hand over his heart.
After chatting with him for a moment or so, Bree kisses my forehead and moves on to talk to Betsy. My eyes following her, she’s been uneasy since I made the trip to help tie up Shade’s loose ends. Watchful, I guess; probably worried about anyone else coming after us. Every day I wonder, how I got lucky enough to cross paths with Bree.
“Is the baker another of Bree’s strays?” Mack asks and I let out a bark of laughter at his phrasing.
“Yes, she definitely is,” I readily agree, shaking my head at the menagerie of people my wife has collected since we’ve met. Of course, I guess I’m also on that list.
“She used to party here, back in our day.” Roy keeps his voice low as he leans forward, placing the picture back on the table and tapping the glass over the woman’s face as he delivers that verdict. “I can’t remember her name, but she was up foranything.”
“Right? That’s what sprung to my mind, also,” Mack says, nodding in agreement, a wry grin spreading across his face.
“It was a couple years after your dad was killed,” Roy continues, wiping some crumbs off of the stubble on his chin. “You were just starting to get your shit back together and working out visitation with your ex.”
Mack flips the frame over and opens the back, stretching his arm out as he tries to read whatever’s on the picture. I smirk when I hand him my reading glasses.
“Asshole,” he grumbles, accepting them to make out the words. “’Never be afraid to go where the wild things are…’”
“Max,” I say, suddenly remembering something tangent about the woman. “She went by Max and she had tattoos from Where the Wild Things Are.”
“It’s signed, Momma. But, yes, that was her name,” Mack finishes. “She came back from Sturgis with someone and left before the winter hit. That was the winter I lost my leg, nearly twenty-two years ago now.”
All three of our eyes snap up from the photo at the same time, each studying the other’s face.
“Hey, any chance you know how old the girl is?” Mack asks a very relevant question before slamming his beer back.
“Christ,” Roy groans, pinching the bridge of his nose. “That’s all I need at my age, finding out I have a kid.”
“Yeah, maybe Ellie would let you eat more sugar if you did,” I crack, but the thought is bothering me also.
I wave for more beer, and this time it’s Royce who delivers it, precariously balancing it on the brace he’s still wearing on his arm. Connal’s behind him with a second pitcher and additional glasses, I hate sitting on the inside, so I stand to let them slide in on my bench. Unobtrusively handing off the picture to Mack for keeping.
Royce being the low man on the pole goes in first, and I’m hoping he has some of the information we want. Mack shoots the shit with them a bit, getting caught up on Royce’s recovery before I lean in and ask how things are going with Molly.
“Great,” he says, sounding pleased but not elaborating.
“She’s finally agreed to go out with him,” Connal contributes. “And she hasn’t cancelled yet.”
“How old is she?” Roy asks, catching on. Unfortunately, Royce just shrugs, indicating that he doesn’t know.
“She’s twenty-one,” Connal answers. “The girls took her out for her birthday not so long ago.”
“Are you fucking her or is Royce?” Mack growls at Connal, and I imagine that he’s annoyed on Charlie’s behalf.
“Calm down, she’s part of Charlie’s gaggle,” Connal says, holding his hands up. “She and Shade’s Ol’ Lady are tight, so they all got to be friendly. And she’s giving Royce blue balls, if that matters to you.”
“Not a party girl, huh?” Mack asks, sounding more invested in the situation than I would have expected.
“Definitely not,” Royce mutters, looking up to find the three of us glaring at him. “Um, she’s up by four or five in the morning, to get things going at the bakery, so she usually goes to bed pretty early. She’s gonna pick me up tomorrow night since I haven’t replaced my truck yet.”
That’s the thing about Royce, if you don’t say anything he’ll just keep talking to fill the silence. Considering he still has the soft cast on his arm and is barely past concussion protocol, I decide to have mercy on him.
“Have her in for a beer,” I suggest. “Introduce her around a little.”
“Why?” he asks, sounding confused.
I loudly exhale before lifting my beer up and tipping back my mug.
