Page 81 of Kings of Sherwood

“Not directly,” Rob says. “It’d be nice and neat, right? Pretty little villain arc for me. But no. Right after, I was just angry. Because dead sucks. But here everyone was telling me I should be proud—that he died fighting for our freedoms.”

He tips his head to the side. Then the other.

“Okay, so I’m proud. I don’t mind being proud. I sure do like our freedoms. Take regular advantage of the smoking and drinking ones, at least. But then I start looking around me. You know, at actual America, the one that’s in Sherwood. And I see that maybe it’s all kind of bullshit. I mean, I’m a teenager, so everything’s bullshit, right?” He laughs. “But then the bills catch up with me. I see what it costs just to have the privilege of existing here, in a country where you’refreeto pay taxes out the nose so some damn glorified rent-a-cops from the sheriff’s office can drive around in Humvees. In a place where the best job aman can get is volunteering to go get killed by strangers halfway across the world. And it just—”

He presses a palm to the table. Not hard enough to be called a hit, but with a little bit of force, just enough to rattle the silverware.

“Well. Then I got angry again. And I think you know where it picked up from there.”

I nod. Because I sure as hell do.

“I would’ve enlisted myself, if I’m honest,” Rob says. “Once I got my head on straight. Stopped fucking around. But by then, I was a convicted felon. So I—y’know. Good enough to rot away in jail. Not good enough to die for my country.” He flashes a little grin. “And I suppose that’s why I sought out alternate means, you could say.”

“Order up!”

Donna sets a platter in front of each of us with portions that could only be called kingly. My eyes go wide at the mess of eggs, toasted bread, grits, every kind of breakfast meat, and butter dripping everywhere.

“Donna, I think I’m in love,” Rob says.

She giggles. “Can I get y’all anything else?”

“Maybe a napkin or two?” I say.

“Sure thing, sweetie.” She pulls some out of her waist pack. “Enjoy.”

I whistle under my breath and pick up my fork.

“Don’t act like you’re not equal to it, pretty lady,” Rob says, forking up his own bite. “I’ve seen you put away a lot of meat.”

I bug my eyes at him. “Perv.”

I kick him lightly under the table. He doesn’t kick me back—just taps his work boot to mine. Playing footsie like we’re kids on a first date.

We eat in silence for a little while, because it’s so good, and there’s so much food, and I’m honestly astonished to think that$3.50 even covers the cost of it, let alone turns any kind of profit for the vets.

“He would’ve liked you, Maren,” Rob says, looking across the table at me. “My daddy.”

“Really?” I say.

“An absolute dime piece who can fix a car better than he can and puts up with his sonandhis son’s idiot friends?” Rob laughs. “Absolutely.”

I have to blush.

“Shit, he might’ve tried to steal you away himself,” he adds. “But yeah. He’d have loved everything about you. No question.”

We clear our plates. Rob goes to the register at the end of the bar to pay our tab, comes back with change, then flicks through his billfold and leaves ten crisp hundreds, tucked under the edge of his plate.

Then he nods at the door. “C’mon. We’re burning daylight.”

Outside, it’s more properly morning, even though it can’t be later than 7 a.m.

We take a few steps toward the parking lot, but Rob catches my wrist, pulls me back.

“Wait.”

I wait.

“You know...I don’t even know why I brought you here, exactly,” he says. “I guess I just felt like I had to. Maybe an apology for how I acted last night? But maybe now you understand—”

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