Page 80 of Kings of Sherwood

He sets about pouring coffee—me first, then him. Takes a sip, looks out the Venetian blinds to the parking lot, then back at me.

There are plenty of wisecracks I could make.Come here often? Don’t break the bank on this one—the most expensive item on the paper menu is the upgrade to bacon and sausage—but when I open my mouth, something in me says to keep quiet.

“I used to come here a lot,” Rob says. “Breakfast once a week. Great if you’re broke. Hell, great if you’re not broke. But I was at the time, so...win-win.”

I nod, taking a sip of my coffee. It’s not gourmet, that’s for sure—but it’s strong.

“How’d you even...” I look around us again. Of the six or so people here, Donna included, no one’s even approaching our age. We’ve lowered the average by at least thirty years just walking through the threshold.

“It’s a good group,” he says. “I mean, the regulars, sure—but the organization in general.”

He presses his lips together, blows out a breath through his nose.

“My daddy served.”

It’s a simple sentence. And yet it stuns me so much I almost forget to speak.

I’ve never heard Rob speak about his family. Never. Will—sure. It’s the whole cause of his psychodrama. LJ, enough to know he hates them and wishes them all dead, if they aren’t already. Tuck—bits and pieces, at least. A normal suburban upbringing, easy to pacify with a lie about working somewhere in international banking and not coming home too much.

But Rob? Nothing.

“Yeah.” He nods. “Iraq. When I was a kid.”

“Wow,” I say, because I don’t know what else to say. I don’t know where this is going, other than somewhere meaningful.

“You don’t have to act impressed,” Rob says—not unkindly. “For all you know, he was a traitor and a shit shooter who committed fratricide.”

I open my mouth, but his face relaxes.

“I’m just ribbing you, pretty lady. He was good enough at what he did, so I gather. Cared about it a lot, that’s for sure.”

“What...” I don’t know how to phrase the question. But maybe the phrasing doesn’t matter. He knows what I’m going to ask. “What happened?”

“Got killed,” Rob says. “IED. Riding along. And then—” He shrugs.

“Shit,” I whisper. “I’m so sorry.”

“Don’t gotta be,” Rob says. “But thank you.”

“Was that when—” A second question I don’t know how to articulate.

“Y’all need a minute?” Donna’s back, hovering at the edge of our table.

Rob snaps to life, smiles at her. “Yes, ma’am. I believe we do—well, more like thirty seconds.”

He picks up the ballpoint she left us, makes a few quick checkmarks on his menu, then takes mine. Pauses a split second. And does the same.

“He’s efficient,” Donna says. “I like it. Be right out.” She scoops the pages away and disappears.

“How’d you know what I want?” I ask him.

“I’d never presume to know what you want,” Rob says. “I put one of everything and I’ll let you sort it out once it’s here.”

Can’t argue with that logic, I think.

“Was that...?” He trails off, echoing my question. Then picks back up. “Was that when I turned to a life of crime, you mean?”

I pause. “Not in so many words. But I guess, yeah.” I clutch my coffee for warmth.

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