It’s nice outside as I drive toward the prison. Been a while since I saw Butch. Admittedly, I have mixed emotions about my father. I want to be loyal to him, but he makes it tough sometimes.

Years ago, Smith’s father, now deceased, borrowed a chunk of money from Butch to start Outlaws and signed an agreement—if he didn’t pay the money back, he’d forfeit the bar. Butch says that debt was never repaid. Hence the beginning of the vendetta between my brothers and my cousins. We tried a variety of efforts to get them to hand Outlaws over. But eventually, our two factions made peace with each other.

Butch was pissed. Stabbed Smith. Got his ass thrown in jail.

While I understand his frustration over not getting what he justly deserves, shivving Smith was a crazy fucking move, especially since Butch was out on parole. Not to mention he didn’t bother to include me or Hale in on his plans. We might have convinced him to try a different approach…or, better, to just let it go.

Then again, Butch was never much for letting shit go.

Oh, well. I turn my bike down the road and back into the parking lot space, kill the engine. It doesn’t matter. Butch will do what Butch does. And now that he’s back in prison, he isn’t a part of my daily life. I really am alone out here.

Except…with Kendra, I don’t feel so alone.

As I walk through the security checks at the prison, sign in for my visit, I can’t stop thinking about her. I don’t know why, but I feel this urge for her to know me. To see me.

It’s crazy.

I try to not think about it as I’m led to the bland cement-block room and sit down at a dingy table, waiting for Butch to be brought in for our meeting.

A man and woman are at the table beside me, whispering. He’s looking at her with intense love in his eyes. Kinda makes me wonder about their story. Did they know each other before he landed in here? What did he do? Is she going to be around when he’s released, if he ever is?

This place is fucking sad, pain soaked into the very walls. Nothing happy about it. It reeks of loneliness, frustration.

Butch is let in, wearing an orange jumper and wrist cuffs. He’s led to my table and settles into his seat, and I’m struck by how different he looks even since I saw him a couple of months ago when he was out on parole.

His face is gaunt, skin sallow and almost yellow in tone. His flinty eyes are hard, untrusting, unyielding as he stares at me. There’s scraggly scruff on his chin, his hair far more gray than it was before. He looks bad. Sickly. I’ve never seen Butch this rough…or this weak. It’s unnerving.

Butch scoffs. “Well, someone at least comes to fucking visit me. None of my real sons give two shits about me.”

It takes all my strength to not reel back at the harsh comment. Why the fuck am I here if this is how he feels? Real sons?

Butch is a dick. Always has been. But somehow I let myself be fooled into thinking otherwise, forgetting how he is. I stand.

He rolls his eyes. “Come on now. You know I didn’t mean it like that. Sit down and tell me what’s going on.” He sounds equal parts exasperated that I dare take offense at his words, and somewhat chastened, trying to soothe me into not leaving. Not that I’m flattered. He probably just wants to not be alone right now. Doesn’t matter who is here.

I could be anyone.

“I don’t feel like sitting here if you’re in a shit mood,” I said. “It’s not my fault no one else wants to come see your miserable ass.”

That makes him bark a laugh. “This fucking place makes me ornery.”

I warily settle back in my seat. “Fine. We should talk anyway.”

“So. Axel. What the fuck is going on? I know you didn’t come by just to see your old man deteriorate.”

“You really don’t look good,” I admit with brute honesty. “They not feeding you in here?”

He gives a watery cough into his fist. “Fuck. I’m just getting sick, that’s all. This joint is killing me. I shouldn’t be in here in the first place.” He goes off on a tirade for several minutes about how Hale sold him out, everyone turning their backs on him, bitching and moaning.

I admit, I kind of check out while he’s ranting. I know my pop. He just needs to get this shit off his chest to someone he thinks is a sympathetic listener. So I pretend to pay attention and let him chatter.

He finally winds down. Coughs again, this one a long and juicy rattling that makes me uneasy. He really is doing poorly. How much longer can he make it in this place? It’s draining him of his life. Not that I feel too terrible about that, which is horrible in and of itself. I should care more, despite how he treats me.

But years of feeling less-than have worn on me, and I’m numb toward my father more than anything else. I’m only here out of some old sense of duty. I don’t feel close to Butch—how could I? The man has spent all of the time I’ve known him keeping me at arm’s length. At best.

“So.” He eyes me. “Enough about my shit. Tell me why you’re here.”

Briefly, I outline what has been happening with his house—how Kendra and Charles came by offering a deal to buy it, how they want to tear down our neighborhood and put in some ritzy mall. I don’t mention anything personal about Kendra. The way she makes me feel. How I can’t stop thinking about her.

As I talk, Butch leans back in his seat and listens, head cocked to one side.

I can’t read what he’s thinking, but when I finish, I’m waiting for the inevitable explosion from him, the righteous indignation over the presumptiveness of rich assholes trying to take over our territory.

Instead, he gets this wicked smirk on his face. “Fucking idiots. That house isn’t worth shit. Whatever they give me will be more than its value. Take the deal.”

My stomach sinks with disappointment. “So you want to sell?”

He looks at me like I’m a moron. “Are you kidding? Of course I want to sell. Fuck that house. I’m not using it anyway. The money will be much more handy for me.”

Doesn’t matter that I am living there. Butch just cares about the bottom line. Not about the house or what it represents. Certainly not about me. I was stupid to think otherwise. Bitter disillusionment floods me, tightens my chest. Why the fuck would I think otherwise? This man has no sentimental bone in his body. He’d sell my kidneys out from under me if it meant he could get money for himself.

Time to stop fooling myself. This is what the Becketts are now…or maybe what they always have been, and I just never realized it. Self-serving, no longer living for the ideals we used to represent. Honor among thieves, that sort of thing. No, the old ways have scattered to the wind. I’m the only one upholding that shit now.

Why?

Because I have to, even if no one else does. Fuck it. I still have my principles. My actions have to mean something.

We make small talk for a few minutes, Butch complaining about commissary screwing him over, the guy in his cell constantly farting in his sleep. It’s mundane, and I just listen. I don’t know when I’m going to come back here, so I might as well give him my attention now. I just don’t think I can sit across from him and pretend I feel okay with how things are.

Butch won’t care if I don’t come back anyway. He didn’t ask me one thing about myself or what I was doing.

I leave the prison, feeling strangely empty. I hop on my bike and head home. The ride doesn’t comfort me the way it normally does. I don’t find solace in the isolation, in being surrounded by nature.

All I can think about is how everything has changed, and nothing will ever be the same.

Butch wants to sell his house. Okay. But I’m not going to tell Kendra or her father, or anyone else, at least for now. I’m not getting involved. I got my own shit to deal with, like my new job at the tattoo shop, and where the fuck I’m going to live once this shit happens.

And how I’m going to feel about my last tie to the Beckett family being severed for good.

* * *

I stand in front of my full-length mirror and examine myself. My heart is thrumming harder than I want to admit. I shouldn’t be this worried—it’s just dinner. But I know it means more.

Kendra asked me to come over and eat with her and her father. I’ve been sneaking into her place for a couple of weeks now during the dead of night, meeting with her when no one knows I’m there. This will obviously be different, though.

I’ll be walking through the front door, boldly, like I belong there. Some sort of proclamation about what she and I are, what we want us to be. Meeting her dad is a statement to her and to him. Frankly, given the way he and I ended things the first time I met him—I’m surprised he agreed to it.

But Kendra asked me to come over, wanting me to meet him in a more informal setting. It’s evident she wants us to learn to get along, or at least tolerate each other. And because I like her more than I want to admit, I’m wearing a fucking tie and trying to look nice to make a good impression on her asshole father.

I can’t remember the last time I cared about someone thinking highly of me. It’s fucking weird, to say the least.

I head downstairs, hop on my bike, and drive toward their house. Riding the bike forces me to focus on something other than my growing nerves. I let myself sink into the ride, the feel of the road beneath me, the mastery of the motorcycle as I bend into the curves.

As I drive, I try to tell myself it’ll be fine. I am who I am, and clearly Kendra likes me. If her father doesn’t, well, that’s his problem. But even as I think that, I know I want him to. I want him to see more to me than the fucking poor bastard son everyone else sees.

His opinion means something even if I try to tell myself it doesn’t.

I get to their driveway, turn in, and stop at the gatehouse. Press the button for entrance. Kendra isn’t there in person this time to buzz me in, but the gate is opened regardless, and I drive through and park in the massive asphalted area where several expensive cars are lined up. Are there more people coming tonight, or are these just her father’s cars? They have a six-car garage, as if anyone even needs that many vehicles.

But I’m not going to be intimidated. He isn’t better than me—he just has more money.

I stroll up to the door, straighten my tie, and knock.

An older man with salt-and-pepper hair I don’t know answers it. He’s wearing a freshly pressed suit that is tailored to his frame. “Mr. Beckett. Welcome,” he says, opening the door and waving me in. “Mr. and Miss Rochester are having cocktails in the drawing room. Please follow me.”

Must be a butler or some shit. I do as the man bids, walking down the hallway toward the massive double doors. The man opens them and guides me toward the entrance.

Kendra is there is a slim-fitting black dress that drapes off the shoulder. She’s stunning, and I want to touch her, kiss her. Her father is near her in a charcoal-colored suit. Both are sipping amber-colored liquor, which I’m guessing to be scotch, given their affinity for the liquor.

I’m glad I put on something nice.

When she sees me, her face instantly brightens, and she comes over. “Thank you for coming,” she says softly, grabbing one of my hands and kissing my cheek. “You look great,” she whispers in my ear. “I’m so thrilled you’re here.”

I can’t help but be warmed by her presence. This woman has burrowed her way into me and I can’t deny it. I kiss her softly on the lips, savoring her taste. “Thanks for inviting me.”

A throat clears, and Charles says, “What would you like to drink, Axel?”

I pull away from Kendra and face the man who doesn’t like me. It’s clear from his cool tone that the only reason he’s here tonight is because of her. Which is fair, because it’s the same for me. “I’ll have whatever you are.”

“Scotch man?” he says, brow raised.

“I can appreciate a fine liquor,” I retort. “I usually have bourbon, but scotch is a fine drink.”

He pours me two fingers in a nice glass, then hands it to me. “I do as well.”

I take a sip of the scotch and nod my thanks. It’s expensive, I can tell that much from just the taste. I don’t know if he normally drinks this or is trying to impress me, but I guess it doesn’t matter.

We remain silent for several awkward moments. I try to maintain a casual stance, aware that he’s judging me.

Kendra smiles. “So, Daddy, Axel helped open a very successful restaurant. Fugitives. Have you heard of it?”

He eyes me. “I think so. It’s right across from that other bar, right?”

I nod. “Those are our cousins who run Outlaws. Fugitives works with Outlaws—they do specials together and support each other.” Not that I work there anymore, but I feel a weird need to defend the family business.

He gives me a nod of respect. “Isn’t an easy thing to do, working with a competitor who is a relative. I give you kudos on that.”

Kendra just sits there with a small, happy smile on her face as we talk.

“So.” I clear my throat. “What do you do when you’re not razing neighborhoods and building malls?”

Kendra’s mouth flies open. “Axel!”

But Charles laughs, a genuine gesture that makes him look younger than he is. “You’ve got balls, I’ll give you that.”

“Dinner is ready,” a woman says upon entering the room.

We follow her into the dining room. This is fucking surreal—cocktails before dinner? A fancy multi-course meal? What the fuck is next, cigars in the den where the men hide away and talk about the woes of being a male in modern society?

I don’t even know how to handle this shit.

We go through course after course. A tiny appetizer I eat in one bite. Soup. Salad. There are five hundred motherfucking forks set in front of me that I’m supposed to pick from for each serving. I’m certain Charles is doing this to fuck with me and prove I’m not one of them.

I don’t care.

I just grab whatever the fuck I want to eat each round. I don’t even bother to see if it’s right or wrong. Does it matter? It’s silverware. If it does the job, who cares?

Kendra is opposite of me, with her father between us at the end of the table. When we get a serving of sherbet after our salad, I can’t help but laugh.

“My dad would have beaten my ass if I’d ruined dinner by eating ice cream before my meal,” I muse.

Charles snorts. “It’s weird, I know. But it actually serves as a good palate cleanser. It has a purpose.”

I eye him. “Rich people are interesting.”

Kendra laughs at that. “Yeah. I admit, I never understood that either. It always felt like a treat to get ice cream before the main meal.”

The meat is delivered, a steak that’s so tender I don’t even need to use my knife to cut it. I gotta hand it to them, their chef is a fucking genius. I inhale the food. And the side dishes are exquisite too. I’ve never had mashed potatoes that were so amazing. It’s ridiculous how good their cook is.

I am sated on delicious food when Charles declares, “Let’s retire to the den for cocktails, shall we?”

I suppress a chortle. I totally saw this happening. “More scotch, Charles?”

Kendra sighs. “Daddy is nothing if not predictable.”

The three of us to go this den, a room with lush fabrics and rows of books packed into the shelves on the wall. There’s even a small fire crackling in the massive stone fireplace. Not big enough to sweat us out of there; the flame doesn’t overwhelm the room with heat.

Charles gets a box off the mantle and opens it, pulling out a cigar. He cuts the tip and lights it, puffing deeply.

Kendra pulls a face. Clearly she’s not a fan of cigars. But the soft scent pulls me in. Butch used to splurge on fine cigars back in the day, and I have weirdly fond memories of hanging out with him as he smoked on the back patio, chatting with neighbors while my brothers and I sat around and listened.

I worshiped him, revered him, back then. Wanted to emulate him. Wanted him to enfold me in his family.

“Montecristo?” I said, giving a nod at what he’s smoking. “Good, solid brand with a nice flavor.”

He pauses. “You like cigars?”

I roll my eyes. “I might be from the ‘hood, but I’ve had a good cigar or two in my day.”

Charles digs into his box and tosses me one, plus the cigar cutter. “Here. Have one, then.” He walks over to the bar and pours me a fresh scotch. “The drink goes really well with this brand.”

Kendra eyes me as I cut the tip and light the cigar evenly. Charles gives me a nod of approval. “You really like that stuff?” she says with a laugh. “Who knew?”

Something her dad and I can bond over.

“I have some Cuban cigars I haven’t busted out yet,” Charles says to me. He clinks his drink glass against mine, and we sip, take puffs of our cigars. It’s fine and delicious, and I savor the flavor in my mouth. He’s right; it does pair well with the scotch.

“You saving them for your funeral?” I tease. “You should smoke them before you get too senile to appreciate them.”

Kendra gasps, but Charles laughs so hard he almost snorts, and he slaps me on the shoulder. Clearly, he’s feeling the alcohol and it’s relaxing him—getting that stick out of his ass for a few minutes. “You got sass, Axel.”

The rest of the night passes smoothly. We talk about cigars we like, and I discuss my preference of fine bourbon to him—our argument over scotch vs bourbon is heated, but fun. Kendra chimes in with her opinions, and I have fun teasing her about just repeating what her dad says.

After I say my goodbyes, shaking his hand and leaving him for the night, Kendra leads me out the door.

“That went…really well,” she says breathily. Her eyes are warm as she looks at me. “Thank you for coming over. It means a lot to me.”

“Thanks for having me.” I hop on my bike and lean toward her, letting my lips caress hers. I want to drink from her, take more than I should. But I don’t want to overstep. Not when I made good progress with her father.

It shouldn’t matter.

It shouldn’t, but it does.

I wanted to impress him, make him like me. And I feel like he did.

“I’ll talk to you tomorrow, sweetness,” I whisper against her mouth, and then I head home. My heart is light, and I can’t wipe the smile off my face.