I don’t think I’ve ever counted the days between one Tuesday to the next like I have the past week. Yesterday, when I picked up Natalie, I had to fight the desire to walk down the opposite hallway to see Blue.

It's art night again. That simple fact makes every hour seem twice as long.

Today's cleanup job doesn't help. It’s for law enforcement.

Not a crime scene, but a body nonetheless. An old man who’d lived alone and died. His body was stuck in the house for a week before someone called it in. The stifling heat is sickening, and the smell, well, respirators can only do so much. The coroner had it worse when he turned down our offer to let him borrow one.

Everybody's glad we'll be done within the hour.

My phone vibrates in my pocket. I wave at Juan as I pull off a glove to take the call. I told him I was waiting to hear about the asbestos job we'd finished last week. Convinced this is it, the nod that the job passed inspection, I step outside and yank off my mask.

I swipe the answer icon and take a breath of fresh air while pressing the phone to my ear. “Brent Eden.”

“Hello, Brent. It’s Clara. Clara Derby?” Like I don't remember. “I met you last week with Izzy.”

“Izzy?” It takes a second before it hits like a ton of bricks.

“Isabella Derby! My lovely cousin.”

Blue? Concern instantly grips me. “Has something happened –”

“No, no, nothing's happened. Izzy’s fine. Or will be once she stops beating herself up for getting that speeding ticket after leaving your house the other night.”

I shouldn’t smile, but can’t help it.

Blue was hopping mad when she left the house.

Sick man that I am, I was more frustrated than I'd been for sometime. And turned on.

She’s had my blood lit neon red since meeting her, true. But the way her eyes sparked when she got all huffy, shit, let’s just say there's something damn sexy about a woman who’s all riled up.

“That’s understandable, though,” Clara continues, “considering how worried Izzy is about her mother. A serious diagnosis does that. Listen, I just want you to know how happy we all are that she’s found someone. I’m sure you get it, being a father yourself? A parent’s greatest desire is to see their kids happy, and when our days become short, that’s even more critical.”

She pauses. Sighs. “Oh, goodness, I'm rambling. Please don’t tell Izzy I just told you everything. She’d be upset. Anywho, I just wanted you to know how much Aunt Cleo wants to meet you. The whole family does, really.”

My mind spins in circles. Diagnosis? Shortened days? What the fuck?

Why hadn't Blue told me the truth? Then again, who wants to admit they're desperately looking for a boyfriend to appease their dying mother?

Blaming crazy family drama, that's a lot easier.

At least it explains why she went out with that twisted prick, Preston.

“Brent?”

“I'm here. Go ahead.” I run a hand over my face, wondering what's coming next.

“Well, I just called because it might help if you tell Izzy getting a ticket can happen to anyone.”

I may have been born at night, but it wasn’t last night. Cousin Clara's calling for more than a damn speeding ticket.

Too bad I can’t help her. If I hadn’t already decided to stay away from Blue, as far as possible, I'd definitely draw the line at bait left by nosy cousins.

“You're right. Tickets can happen to anyone.” I'm not leaving the door open. I turn around on the rickety old porch at the sound of a car pulling in and stiffen as it parks next to my truck.

Talk about timing. What the fuck is he doing here?

“Clara, thanks for calling.” I cut her off.

Suddenly, this woman and her gumption, trying to orchestrate more trouble with Blue, is the least of my problems. This is a mess, but it's not pure evil. Not like the demon in front of me.

Tucking the phone in my pocket, I cross the concrete and then the hard packed dirt of the neglected front yard, never taking my eyes off Bastard Phil as he climbs out of his car.

I round his front bumper, fighting the urge to kick it in. “I told you once, jackass. Remember? Are you out of your mind or are you just fucking stupid?”

“I saw the deputies leave.” Phil smiles. “Think what could happen to your reputation if they knew you're in with The Pearls.”

“I'm not in with you assholes,” I growl. That's all I say because I know the worst thing I can do is show any vulnerability.

Every Black Pearls member thinks he's God. They believe they're so powerful the law means nothing. The only thing they understand is money, and they don’t care who gets hurt while they're busy collecting it.

“Go the fuck home. We're not in business. No goddamn deals.” I cast an eye over his customary black jeans and t-shirt, almost like a uniform. and his fuzzy black chin strip.

“We know, Eden,” he sneers. “You aren’t sloppy like little Davey.”

My teeth clench at the mention of my brother.

“Big brother couldn’t save him. That must still keep you up at night. Knowing how he –”

I snap, grab him by the front of the shirt, and slam his back up against my truck. “I’ve told you before, you sonofabitch. Stay the hell away from me.”

“I will, with pleasure, just as soon as you pay Davey’s debts. The ones Davey swore up and down big brother would pay.”

Sadist bastards. All of them.

This is his latest ploy. Refusing to take his bait is getting harder and harder. I want to pinch my eyes shut so the furious headache settling into my temples stops, but I don't dare take my eyes off this asshole.

Christ. The idea that Davey’s last breaths were spent asking for me, begging for me to help him, hits hard every time I think about it.

That’s what big brothers do. They get little brothers out of scraps, big and small, and sometimes lethal.

Knowing I couldn’t that night guts me with a dull knife.

But I will.

Someday.

Soon.

I yank him forward and throw him toward his car. “Get the fuck out of here! Last warning.”

He brushes the front of his shirt like my fingerprints left dust on him. “Can’t do that. Not till we make a little deal. Then I’ll go away.”

The desire to ring the bastard’s neck makes my hands itch so hard I curl them into fists. “I’m not making any fucking deals with you.”

“Aw, you sound so sure, Eden. Won’t take much. Not for a smart, well connected businessman like you. And, since I'm such a standup guy, I’m willing to negotiate. A hundred grand of cash laundered through one of your hazmat jobs. Easy. Shit, or maybe you’d be more interested in a shipping arrangement? You've got the wheels. Least a dozen cube trucks that can haul anything without causing a single deputy to blink an eye.” Phil winks. “Ain't I right?”

“Fuck. You.”

He lets out a glib chuckle. “Shame the Grizzlies have all gone limp. Too damn interested in their kosher businesses these days. Your old Grizz buddies could've helped you make this go quick and smooth.” He nods his head towards my truck. “I’ve seen the patch on the inside of your jacket. The little one you hide behind all the army crap on the front. You were a Grizz in your younger days. Ain't I right again, Monk?”

My teeth clench together when he says that name. Some of my best friends are from the days I was a full patch member of the Grizzlies MC. The motorcycle club still operates up and down the West Coast, based out of Redding.

They went through a lot of turmoil cleaning up their act. I saw the writing on the wall and quit before there was no getting out.

Still, once a member, always a member. Especially with good men like Blackjack, their national Prez, in charge of things now.

I haven’t tried to erase everything from that part of my life, and never will.

Bastard Phil's also clueless. Doesn't know the Grizzlies haven’t gone soft. They’ve matured and learned to operate on the quiet side since they ran the cartel back over the border. They gave up their drugs and gun running for gambling, bars, and peep shows to keep the money flowing.

I turn to walk away. “Get the fuck out of here!”

“Come on, Eden, not so fast! I’d think you’d be interested in making a deal. Fuck, I was all ready to sit down and discuss one the other night. Then I saw you had company.” The bastard lets out a low whistle. “Lucky man! Real shame that cute little blonde with the blue shit in her hair had to go and get herself a ticket, too. Saw her practically on the verge of tears while Dawson had her pulled over, writing it up.”

How the hell does he know that? My spine quivers. These assholes usually make themselves scarce when there's a squad car around, especially a police captain I've known for years. I force myself not to turn around and grab him by his throat until his eyes bug out of his head.

“That’s a pretty sweet Mustang she drives. Car like that could break down any time.” He snaps his fingers. “Just like that. On a lonely stretch of road. These Arizona nights get dark quicker, and cold in a few more months. Poor little thing like that could yell and holler and plead, but no one would hear her stranded in the dark. No one.” He shows his teeth like a demented chimpanzee.

Enough.

I pivot and take a step, putting my face so close to his I can smell his filthy breath. “You must've been hit in the head with a fucking stupid stick.”

He blinks once. Using only my chest, I ram him against his car, snarling like a bear. “Threatening me is the last thing you want to do. Understand?”

His eyes bulge and his upper lip quivers.

Finally, it's sinking in. And we're not done yet.

I reach down and grab the knife out of the sheaf hanging on his side. Shoving the tip hard enough under his chin that the skin indents, I twist it. “Now, get the fuck out of here before I castrate you with your own blade.”

His Adam’s apple wobbles against my knuckles as he nods. I step back, giving him room to open the car door and climb in, all the while holding the knife in the air, clearly letting him know I have no intention of giving it back, and every intent to use it as promised.

Dirt and rocks ping the Buick's underside as he hits reverse and guns away. I watch him back out of the driveway. As the tires squeal on pavement, a cold and ugly jolt hits my spine. The last thing – the very last thing – I need is for the Black Pearls to pull Blue into this nightmare.

I'm already worried sick for Nat. It's too fucking close to her, too near to me, and all thanks to an uncle she barely knew.

I throw the knife at the ground. The sharp blade penetrates the hard dirt deep enough to stand straight.

“Son-of-a-bitch!” The curse burns my throat.

Whether I like it or not, it's happening. Those bastards will rope anyone in for leverage, and they know I know it.

They also know I have a headstone to visit, and I'll never tolerate adding another. “Fuck!”

I grab the knife out of the ground and throw it in the bed of my pickup before heading back towards the house.

I spend most of the day wishing Davey had listened. Even though I know that’s a moot point and a waste of energy, I wish to Heaven, Hell, and everything in between.

* * *

The dark thoughts are still with me when I pull into the school lot to pick up Nat.

The bell has already rung and kids are flying out the door like the Hoover Dam just burst behind them.

Nat sees me and starts running down the steps. Despite the heaviness inside me, warmth wells in my chest. Seeing my daughter does wonders to lighten the storm.

She always has a smile on her face when she sees me, but it’s bigger today. Brighter.

“Hey, sunshine,” I say as she opens the door.

“Hi, Daddy!” She tosses her bag on the floor. “Finally. I thought the bell would never ring.”

I wait until she’s inside and has the door closed before asking, “Why’s that?”

“Art class tonight! Don't tell me you forgot? I can’t wait to show Ms. Derby my dog drawing. I know she’ll love it. Oh, and supposedly we're trying landscapes tonight!”

If I could take a picture of her right now, I would. I don’t know if I’ve ever seen her so happy. “Landscapes, huh? How'd you find out?”

“I saw Ms. Derby at recess. She let the cat out of the bag.” She stretches the seat belt around her waist and buckles. “Watercolors, Dad! I love watercolors.” A more serious expression crosses her face. “Hey, um, if it's not too much...could we order pizza? Or maybe even eat out for supper?”

Her request is a rarity. “Sure, baby girl. What's the hurry?”

“Well, I have to be back here by six thirty. I wanna squeeze some time in to Google watercolor paintings and techniques. I've already read up on it, but today, I'm doing it.”

“You'll do great, Nat. You're always prepared.”

If this girl inherited any of the slacker genes I had at her age, I've never seen a single hint.

I back out of the parking space and pull into the line of vehicles waiting to exit the lot. “You shouldn't be so nervous over what you don't know yet. Remember, part of this class is teaching you the techniques.”

“Oh, I know, and Ms. Derby will. She’s the best ever! But I like to skip ahead. Have a bit of insight beforehand.”

That’s my girl. An old soul. I think she was born with more knowledge than most eighteen-year-olds. And she has a never ending appetite for more.

I roll past a blue Mustang and have to work to pull my eyes off it. “All right. Which is it then? Pizza or eat out?”

“Pizza!” she says instantly. “I can research while it’s being delivered.”

This girl. Damn if it doesn't make me smile.

Inching the truck forward while another car pulls onto the busy road, I flick the blinker. “Okay. What kind?”

She’s unzipping her backpack. “Surprise me.” Digging deep in her bag, she adds, “But no anchovies or sauerkraut, please.”

I cock my head. “Have I ever ordered a pizza with anchovies or sauerkraut?”

She's still digging, now in a side pocket. “No, but only because I always remind you not to. I know you, Daddy. Someday you'll give it a try just because I didn’t tell you not to.”

Little shit. I just might have to do that to her someday for fun.

There’s an opening in traffic, so I pull out. “What are you digging for?”

“A friendship bracelet. I can’t remember which pocket I put it in.”

Even though the term leaves little doubt what it is, I ask anyway. “Friendship bracelet?”

She huffs out a sigh. “It's like...a piece of jewelry one either gives or receives from a friend.”

I grin at how she sounds like she’s reading right out of Webster’s biggest and oldest book. Hope also rises up inside me. “Where'd you get it?”

“We made them during pod today.”

What she calls pod is a close second to what was called homeroom when I was in school. My heart also tugs slightly at the idea she’s digging it out to give to me.

Damn. I’d be honored, of course, but I wish she'd give it to a real friend from school.

“Here!” She holds up a few pieces of jute twine braided together and decorated with colorful beads.

“That’s pretty.” I’m rather indifferent to the style, actually, but do my best to support her in everything. “You did quality work.”

“I know. I’m quite proud of how evenly I was able to space the beads.” She tucks it in her pants pocket. “I want to remember to take it with me tonight.”

“Tonight?”

“So I can give it to Ms. Derby, of course.” She does a little pout with her lips like she can't believe I didn't know.

Shit.

My heart sinks. I take a deep breath, carefully choosing my words. “Ms. Derby? Wouldn’t you rather give it to a friend from school? Someone your age?”

“Ms. Derby is from school.” She’s looking straight ahead, out the windshield. “And I don’t really have any friends my age.”

Right. I look at her softly, hoping I haven't kicked up too much crap she'd rather not touch.

Still, this issue keeps bothering me more lately. “It's your bracelet to trade with whoever, Nat. Just curious. You must talk with some of the kids at school? Visit with some more than others?”

“I talk with plenty of kids at school, yeah. But it doesn’t mean they're friends.” She gives me one of her Doctor Know-It-All looks. “Just like you talk to a lot of people who aren’t exactly friends.”

I continue trying to be diplomatic. “Nat, Ms. Derby's your teacher. That's all I'm saying. I’m not sure what she'll think.”

“I thought about that,” she says seriously. “But technically, she’s not my teacher. Not for the day classes. And she’s only filling in for Mrs. Wayne for eight weeks because Mrs. Wayne’s son, Forrest, got in trouble this summer. Guess he was court ordered to do community service. Mrs. Wayne has to drive him to his assignments every Tuesday night because Mr. Wayne, besides being the chemistry teacher, is the JV football coach and they play on Tuesdays.” She shakes her head while continuing, “Us Arizonians love our football! Lord knows Mr. Wayne couldn’t drive Forrest around.”

Her gossip makes me smile. I knew Blue was only filling in, but hadn’t heard the particulars. “Juicy. How'd you find all that out?”

“I just told you, I talk to a lot of people at school.” She leans back and crosses her arms. “Which brings up another subject.”

Almost afraid to ask, I glance her way. “What’s that?”

“How would you feel about hiring Ms. Derby to privately tutor me? After she's done subbing, I mean. She’s way better than Mrs. Wayne. I'd learn so much more, so much faster, with private lessons.”

“I’ve already paid for the accelerated art class you're taking.” I try not to bite my tongue.

I'm searching for excuses. It's not the money, honestly, business is great.

It's Blue. Having her in my house. With Nat.

Barely a stone's throw away from teasing my dick seven ways from Sunday.

And a convenient target for Bastard Phil, if the evil prick doesn't listen.

“I know. I don't want to waste your money. I'll do both.” She grins coyly. “I’m sure Ms. Derby wouldn’t charge like the academy does. You'd probably be saving a few pennies after Mrs. Wayne's class ends.”

Fuck. I wish money was the real issue. Then it'd be a hard limit.

Knowing her, she’s too well aware it isn't. Looking for some sort of a round-about answer, I say, “What about something else beyond Mrs. Wayne's class? Something creative – music, vocals, guitar? You love country, baby girl. Bet you'd be damn good at it. All work and no play –”

“Art is my play, Dad. It keeps me from getting dull.” She shrugs. “Don't stress. You don’t have to answer right now. Just think about it. I still have four more classes with Ms. Derby after tonight, so it's not like there's a crazy rush or anything.”

Maybe that's the problem. It's like I'm trapped in a slow moving train wreck.

I don’t think I’ve ever had a person hurled at me from so many directions as Isabella Derby. Need time to process. Figure this crap out. Time to change the subject.

“So, where're we ordering pizza from? Any requests?”

She rolls her eyes. “We both know Mike’s is the only place that makes the crust you like.”

“But you like that other place better. The one with the cheesy-bacon breadsticks?”

“I don’t want any breadsticks tonight. Too many carbs.”

I shake my head, clenching my jaw. Why the hell is my ten year old daughter suddenly freaked about carbs? “You don’t need to worry about carbs, baby girl. You're only ten and you're beautiful.”

My gaze hardens. I wish she'd go on, let me know if somebody's making her self-conscious. So I can hunt them down and have a real fucking friendly heart-to-heart.

“I know. But...you're kinda getting around the age that you should be.”

I snort, my anger drifting away. “You saying I’m getting old?”

“Nope, just aging.” She smiles at me. “But don’t worry. It happens.”

I’m not worried about pushing past my mid-thirties or the carbs. I wish life was that dull.

My anxieties are tangled on mean looking assholes toting guns, up in my face, and a woman I like drawing naked far too much. Every sexy, spitfire shade of Blue knocks around in my brain during the rest of the drive home.

* * *

Nat opens her door after I park the truck. “Can we shoot for pizza around five thirty? That'll give us time to eat and get back to school.”

“Perfect.” I climb out and meet her on the step going into the house, wondering why she's waiting. “Anything else, Nat?”

“No.” She wraps her arms around my waist. “Other than I love you.”

My heart melts. I return her hug. “Love you, too, sweets.”

She heads up to her room, and I go to my office, where I call in the pizza and then start working on the billing for this morning’s cleanup. I remember a time, not so long ago, when a dead body was the worst part of the day.

Bastard Phil comes to mind, front and center. His threat against Blue. How close I came to choking him lifeless, leaving him to rot beneath the scorching Arizona sun.

So does Davey, and the last time I’d seen him alive. I grit my teeth, hating it like hell.

* * *

“Come on, big bro, one more game.” Davey taps the end of his cue stick on the edge of the table. “I’ll go easy on you this time.”

I laugh, chugging the last swallow of my beer. “You, go easy on me? I just won three out of five. I'm kicking your ass up, down, and sideways, brother.”

“One more will tie us up.” Davey loads coins in the slots in the corner, wiping sweat from his forehead while the mechanical reels spin. No luck. The dimples he’d been known for since birth appear in both cheeks. “Even Steven. Come on,” he turns back to me.

“We’ll never be Even Steven. We know how this ends.”

I mop the floor with my little brother. He gets pissed. Maybe he makes a scene if he's knocked back too many drinks.

We both storm off pissed, brotherly anger eclipsing our personal woes. It's such a predictable distraction we do it every week or two again.

“Quit wasting time. Let's go, Monk. Even fucking Steven,” he insists while racking the balls, centering the black eight ball.

I cringe a little, hearing my old name from the Grizzlies. Those days are behind me.

“Not only even in pool. This time next week, our bank accounts will be squared up real nice.” He laughs. “Actually, mine will be bigger.”

That hits more than a nerve. My new hazmat company's success annoys him.

I don’t know why. Ever since the time he was born, he’s been trying to out-do me. I’ve let him at times, little things, hoping it'd knock the chip off his shoulder. So far, it hasn’t.

Damn it, Davey. Life's too short for these games.

“What're you talking about? New photo gig?” I ask.

He shrugs and levels his cue stick on the white ball. “Not quite. My ship's about to come in, though. Just you wait.” He shoots. The colored balls smack together, scattering across the table.

Between my business and taking care of Natalie, I don’t have a lot of time for gossip.

Still, I've heard the whispers. Davey, hanging around a crew he shouldn't. One that's too damn close to the underground I left behind.

I eyeball my brother, an electric unease needling the back of my neck.

Just this morning, I’d gotten wind of it again, after asking our ma to watch Natalie, and before I called Davey to join me for beers tonight.

Since he finally touched the subject, I say, “What ship's that? A jet-ski?”

He laughs, still plunking colored balls in pockets one after the other. “A yacht, bro.”

I wrap a hand around his pool stick, preventing him from shooting again. “And where are you getting this yacht?”

His signature grin appears. “Jealous? I figured you'd want in.”

“Fuck no.”

Anger snaps in his eyes. “You should be.”

“What the fuck are you thinking? The Black Pearls?” I don't even know if it's true, but I drop the name.

The nervous glance he shoots around the room tells me what I’ve heard aren’t rumors. Shit.

“Davey –”

“Don't. Don't even get your mouth running. I know what I’m doing, Brent.”

“Bullshit, you do. You can’t.”

He pulls his cue stick out of my hold. The look in his eyes makes me think it's already up his ass. “You think you’re the only badass in this family? Only guy with friends in low places? The only one who gets to make scratch doing shit he really shouldn't, and then go hiding behind the hero-in-uniform and father-of-the-year act? Sorry to tell you, you’re not.”

He’s been jealous of the Grizzlies for years. Again, for no reason.

For fuck's sake, I gave it up, and I'm glad. I got out because I had a daughter to think about and it was damn good timing, too. If I hadn't, I might be long dead from the club's infighting, or maybe another casualty of their California war with the Mexican cartels.

I plant myself between him and the pool table. “Davey.”

“No. It's your turn to listen: you aren’t the only one who deserves a good life. I've fought like hell for years just to have my piece, and now, it's coming.”

Fuck his bad attitude.

It’s gotten out of hand lately. Almost like all his rage and jealousy and quiet venom has hit a perfect storm. I wish I knew why.

I love my little brother. I'm pretty sure he feels the same, but damn it.

Sometimes, I don't know who he is anymore.

“If it's really about money, come work for me. I’ve told you from the beginning we'd make a good team. There’s plenty of work. Plenty of money. Good, clean honest living.”

“I don’t want your table scraps.”

“No leftovers, Davey. I need the help. A partner.”

I'm digging my grave, offering Davey a stake in what I've built. Fucking up is in his blood. But I'll do it in a heartbeat, without hesitation, if it reduces the chances of him winding up in a coffin.

He flashes a sarcastic snarl. “Oh. Yeah, sure. My help.”

Now, I’m pissed. “Dammit, David. What the fuck's your problem? Talk to me!”

“Nothing.”

I know better, but I won’t get an answer tonight. Instead I go straight to the point. “Whether you believe it or not, I'm trying to help. You don’t know what you’re getting sucked into. The Black Pearls are the lowest of the low. There’s no easy out once they’ve roped you in. Back out now. While you still can.” Growling, I yank my checkbook out of my pocket and slam it on the pool table. “Whatever money you need, you've got it. Right here.”

I want to add a stipulation, that he has to guarantee he’s cut it off with the Black Pearls, before I give him a cent.

No, not yet. The contemplation in his eyes, the look that he’s seriously considering my offer, holds me back.

I hold my breath as he reaches for the checkbook, hoping it’s not too fucking late.

There's always more money. It's replaceable. Unlike flesh and blood.

* * *

Disoriented by the past, it takes a moment before I realize the doorbell's ringing, echoing through the house. Pizza time.

Rubbing the tension out of the back of my neck, I stand, walking toward the hallway.

Nat runs down from her room while I’m paying the delivery guy. “I’ll set the table,” she says, walking past me.

Needing to leave this stupor, I nod. “Thanks, sweets.”

She has plates and silverware on the table and is filling two glasses with milk when I carry the pizza into the kitchen.

“Yum! That smells good.”

“Yeah,” I agree, giving her a serious look. “Must be the anchovies.”

“Very funny.” Nat giggles, wrinkling her cherub nose.

We both sit and scoop slices straight out of the box.

She bites the tip off her piece before setting it on her plate. “I like it better when it’s cut like this, in triangles, rather than squares, you know?”

I nod and finish chewing. “Unless it’s a square pizza.”

“The only square pizzas are those cheap ones Julia refuses to buy.”

“They used to be round,” I say. “Your Uncle Davey and I would have them as after school snacks. He’d have pepperoni and I’d have sausage. Those were the days.”

Those days are gone.

“You each ate your own pizza?” She blinks in surprise.

The memory makes me chuckle as I take another slice of pizza. “Yeah. Some days it was two each. Growing boys.”

“Jeez! Where'd you guys find the room?”

“I honestly don’t know. But we did.” A memory of my brother and I having friends over and raiding the kitchen flashes in my mind. “Teenagers can eat like a pack of piranhas. Just about anything, and still be hungry. We used to eat cookies as fast as Grandma baked them.”

“Poor Grandma.”

“Poor Grandpa, you mean. There were never any left for him.” I grin, remembering how pissed dad would get over having his sweet tooth denied.

We both laugh.

“If you're talking peanut butter, nobody had a chance.” She knows my favorite cookies all too well. “How about Uncle Davey? What did he like?”

“Chocolate chip. He’d eat the batter before it was even baked sometimes.” My smile vanishes.

She laughs again, but then her eyes grow serious. “You’re missing him today, huh? I'm sorry, Daddy.”

I nod. “Yeah.”

“I miss him some days, what little I can recall. Then I remember what you told me. How missing him's okay, and so is remembering how lucky we were to have our time with him.”

“I did say that, didn’t I?” Everything after Davey's funeral is still a fucking wash in my brain.

“Right after he died.”

My throat tightens and I reach for my glass of milk. She does, too.

I'm trying to figure out what's different today as I watch her empty her glass. Acting more grownup isn’t unusual, but right now she looks more grownup, too.

It's got to be the hair. “What’s going on up there, Nat?” I ask, waving a finger around my own hairline.

“It’s called a messy bun.” She twists so I can see the back of her head, how her hair piles up and sticks out in all directions. “All the female artists online wear their hair like this. I thought I'd try it out. Do you like it?”

Can't hide my frown. “Give it a few more years, baby girl. It's too adult. Brush it out and put it back in a ponytail before we leave, please.”

“Aww, seriously?” she asks.

I nod. “You're too young. Not joking.”

I’ll be the first to admit she’s spoiled. She’s my only child, and probably always will be, but even she knows the difference between being spoiled and misbehaving.

I’ve made that clear since she was little. Just as she knows the difference between discipline and punishment. If more adults and children understood that, the world might not be such a dark, fucked up place.

She doesn’t say anything more, and though the sadness on her face makes a knot form in my stomach, I remain silent. I hate disappointing her.

Not everything about being a parent is fun, or clean, or easy.

Too bad. I wouldn't trade it for the universe.

We finish eating, shifting gears to lighter subjects. I cleanup and load the dishwasher while she goes upstairs to get ready. By the time I’m done in the bathroom across the hall, she’s back in the kitchen, near the door that leads to the garage, a neatly combed ponytail replacing the bun.

“Need me to carry anything?”

She holds up her sketchbook with one hand and the small backpack she uses for art class with the other. “Nope, I've got it.”

“Did you put a bottle of water in your bag? It's been damn hot today and I don't want you getting dehydrated.” I've lived in Arizona for ages, but the constant need to guzzle water never ends.

“Yeppers. I'm not gonna turn into a mummy.”

I chuckle. “All right then, I’ll get the door.” I pat her head while reaching for the knob. “I like your hair this way. Thank you.”

Her smile says 'no hard feelings.' “You’re welcome. I like yours, too.”

Considering it’s cropped about as short as it can get, I just laugh.

It doesn’t take long to get to the school, and because we’re early, Blue is just climbing out of her car when I park next to it.

Natalie rolls down her window. “Ms. Derby! Can I walk inside with you?”

“Of course you can, Nat.” She doesn't give me a second look.

Before I have the truck shut off, Natalie plants a quick kiss on my cheek. “See you later, Daddy.”

The next second, she’s out the door, stepping up the sidewalk beside Blue. Instinct has me grabbing the door handle, but watching the way they're chatting, and smiling at each other, has my hand slipping off it.

I’ve always known that someday, no matter how hard I try, I won’t be everything my girl needs. There'll come a day when she needs a woman’s guidance. Someone to learn from and model after.

I just never thought it'd be this woman. One who gets me between nail spitting mad and hard as goddamn granite.

They both have their bags slung over one shoulder, carrying their big sketchpads. If I’d let Nat keep the messy bun she’d liked so much, even that would be the same, except for the difference in coloring.

No wonder I had such a gut punch reaction. It reminds me too much of Blue, and with everything else going to hell, that's a distraction I don't need.

I keep watching. My breath lodges in my throat as Natalie digs in her pocket, pulling out the friendship bracelet.

I know what I’d told her about handing it off to a friend her own age, but a part of me silently prays Blue won’t deny the gift.

Of course, she doesn't.

The air seeps out of me as she bends down and hugs Natalie, and then holds out her hand for Nat to tie the bracelet around her wrist. They exchange smiles, heading inside.

The class runs for two hours tonight. The past few weeks, I’ve done errands, coming back just long enough to spend a few minutes sketching Blue in the back of the room. I start the truck, but only for the air conditioning.

I pull the notebook out of the glovebox and flip to an empty page.

All on its own, my hand sketches out the scene I’d just witnessed. The two of them smiling like old friends.

The next two hours, I do little more than think. Mulling over Blue and her family issues. Brooding on what’s happening with the Black Pearls. Tossing around what I have to do and how.

I shut off the truck and open the door, fully understanding the time has come to implement the plan I’ve put into place.

I can't wait forever. Can't let the Pearls chew another piece out of my family. Or a certain blue haired spitfire who's gotten closer than I ever should've let her.

Soon, it'll be high time to put an end to this fucking mess once and for all.