Blackjack is a pig.

He devours a stack of pancakes along with an omelet and hash browns. Alternating between drinking orange juice and black coffee, he eats every bite of food before sitting back and sighing.

“How are you not fat?” I ask, still eating what’s left of my once dissected into seventeen bites of scrambled eggs.

“I have a physical labor job,” he says, stretching. “And I work out at the gym a few times a week. Aren’t you hungry?”

“I’m a slow eater.”

“Still getting used to forks, huh?”

Clenching my teeth, I glare at him. “Why would you ask that?”

“Ginger told me where she found you.”

“I’m not stupid.”

“Never said you were, foxy fox.”

The “foxy fox” thing is stupid enough to make me laugh. I’m sure that was Blackjack’s intention.

“I want to order a pie,” I announce.

“You didn’t finish your eggs.”

“I don’t want them.”

“Then why did you order them?”

“Why do you care?”

“I grew up thinking wasting food was akin to shitting on starving children’s faces.”

“Then you eat them. I want pie,” I say, pulling Denny’s dessert menu from the rack on the table.

Blackjack reaches across and takes my plate. “A good night’s rest will do wonders for a man’s appetite.”

“It’s good that you liked the bed.”

“Your bed is fucking perfect. I haven’t slept so well since I was a kid.”

“It’s not my bed. I don’t want it.”

“Don’t get bitchy.”

“No,” I say, just like I always say when I can’t think of anything else to say but I still want to say something. “Did you fall off the bed?”

“Why would I?”

“I think it’s too high.”

Blackjack chews on my eggs and watches me with a cocked eyebrow. “You could get rid of the frame, so the bed rests closer to the ground. That way, if you fall, you won’t fall far.”

“Cayenne said I could get a bed railing like the one Duffy has on her bed. Even though I wouldn’t fall with it, I don’t want that bed.”

Blackjack leans forward. “If you had a baby, you couldn’t sleep on the floor of Ginger’s house.”

“Why not?”

“The floor isn’t comfortable with a big belly.”

I can’t imagine why sleeping on the floor wouldn’t work. I’ve slept on it most of my life without any problems. Blackjack is someone who likes a bed, so he doesn’t understand how the floor is better.

After the waitress takes my order for a slice of apple pie with ice cream, I smile at Blackjack.

“I liked knowing you were in the next townhome. I thought about you all night.”

“Didn’t a tiny part of you want to crawl into bed with me?”

“No. I don’t like that bed.”

“Man, you’re fucking stubborn.”

“That house feels wrong.”

“My mom would call your home unloved. Ginger’s place has things on the walls and lots of furniture. It feels lived in by happy people. Your townhome feels abandoned.”

“You have it now.”

Blackjack chuckles. “I bet I could get that place fixed up enough for you to want to spend time there.”

“No.”

Laughing again, Blackjack shakes his head. He’s foolish to think I haven’t heard all these ideas before from Ginger, Clove, Bay, Pepper, Cayenne, and even Oz. They always promise the townhome needs a few personal touches and then I’ll love it.

No.

Nothing about that townhome feels right. Nothing will ever make it feel okay. I don’t want to live there. I refuse to live there.

No.

Blackjack’s mention of a baby makes me overly aware of the many children in the restaurant. I normally ignore people when I’m in public. Rather than be hyper-aware like my friends, I build a wall around me so I can function with the noise, lights, and people. Getting jumped scares me less than losing my mind from overstimulation.

“What are you thinking about?” Blackjack asks after my pie arrives.

“Nothing matters. Besides loving my people, life has no meaning.”

“True,” he says, and the corners of his mouth turn downward. “I don’t even have people to love.”

“What about your club?”

“I keep them at arm’s length.”

“How come?”

“Trusting people hasn’t worked out well for me,” he says and crosses his arms defensively.

“Do you trust me?”

“No.”

“Good. I don’t trust you either.”

When Blackjack grins, I reach over to tug gently at his beard. His smile grows, but I can tell he’s still sad that he doesn’t have anyone to love.

“Why can’t you be close to your family now?” I ask.

“They wrote me off after juvie.”

“Wrote you off?” I ask, not understanding his meaning.

“Stopped wanting me around.”

“But they live around here.”

“Yes. In fact, my parents live in the same house I grew up in. My sister and her husband, Rick, live a few blocks away from my parents.”

“Where’s that?”

“West side of Rawlins.”

“That’s the whore side?”

Blackjack snorts. “No, the south side is the whore side. The west side is the fuddy-duddy side, and the north side is where the hicks live. You live in the best part of town.”

“Can I meet your family?”

His sexy face twists into a shocked frown. “For fuck’s sake, why would you want to?”

“I want to see pictures of you as a baby,” I say and take a big bite of the pie. “Mothers have pictures like that.”

“I can get you those pictures. Shit, I’m sure there are a few on Facebook.”

“I want your mother to tell me stories about your childhood. I want to know if you wet the bed or ate paint.”

“No to pissing my bed and eating paint, but I did like to chew on glue.”

Smiling, I take the last bite of my pie. The sugar makes me happy and tastes way better than the eggs.

“I want to meet your parents and have them tell me why they wrote you off. I like hearing stories.”

“Do you at all fucking care what I want?”

“You care enough about that for the both of us.”

“You should care too.”

“I care more about getting what I want than if you are sad to see your parents.”

“You’re shitting on my good mood,” he mutters before slapping a twenty on the table. “You pay the bill while I warm up the truck.”

“I want to drive.”

“I’ll let you drive once I warm up the truck.”

Even suspecting Blackjack is lying, I take the twenty and stand in line while he warms up the truck. Around me, babies cry, kids whine, and adults bitch about the bad weather. I keep up my walls and think of what I love. The crew, Duffy, Oz’s kids and cats, and even Tana despite her trying to keep me from eating cookies for dinner one night. Those people are special to me, and Blackjack is now too —even though he conned me out of my truck keys.