Page 48 of Inked Daddies

Trick lets out a heavy sigh, leaning back against the counter. “Man, this sucks,” he mutters, running a hand through his hair. “But I guess you’re right. I really wanted you to be wrong, I gotta say.”

“So did I,” I say with a shrug. “But doing the math…this adds up to problems in every direction. We have to do the right thing.”

Hugo snorts a laugh. “Hard to imagine us doing the right thing when there are so many more fun options.”

“You are not wrong,” Trick says, smirking. But his expression fades fast when he looks up at me. “I hate this, boss.”

Their words hit me harder than I expect, and for a moment, I can’t bring myself to say anything. I don’t want this. I don’t want to let her go. But the thought of her losing everything—her job, her home, her sense of belonging, her only family—because of us?

I can’t live with that. And neither should she. The shop feels colder now, the silence more suffocating than before. I glance at the chair where she sat earlier, her laughter still echoing in my mind, and I take a slow, steady breath.

At least her laughter won’t leave me. My only souvenir of the best night of my life.

“I don’t like it either,” I say softly. “But it’s the right thing to do.”

Even if it feels like it’s tearing me apart.

20

HUGO

The diner is justhow it’s always been—a little rough around the edges, a little too bright under the flickering fluorescent lights, but charming in its own way. A long counter runs along one side, its red vinyl stools cracked from decades of wear. Framed photos of locals holding trophies, newspaper clippings about the town’s annual festival, and a few faded posters advertising ice cream sundaes crowd the faded walls.

Marlene’s has been a staple of Auclair since the late nineties, and the jukebox sings the tale of grunge and feisty bubblegum pop. Not really my thing, but who doesn’t love a little early Britney Spears in the middle of the day? It plays well over the hum of conversation and the clatter of dishes from the open kitchen.

The whole place smells like coffee, bacon grease, and something sweet—maybe the pies spinning lazily in the display case or the pancakes that come four to a stack. But now and then, when the busboy scoots past, his cologne lingers.

Marlene’s is wholesome, so it’s not the kind of place I usually hang out. It’s more Sam’s kind of place than my own. But today, I needed to get out of my head, and I needed information. So Itexted Preacher to meet me here. It’s the last place Sam would think to find me.

I am tired of waiting. Waiting for Marie to come back around. Waiting for her to make a move. Waiting for the Hell’s Hammers to rear their ugly heads again. Waiting for Sam to realize that capitulation is a mistake.

Patience has never been my strong suit.

Preacher’s sitting across from me in a booth, still in his pastor getup from this morning’s prayer breakfast, his sleeves rolled up and his tie slightly loosened. He’s got that unshakable presence he always has, the kind that makes people trust him immediately. But I’ve known him long enough to recognize the weariness behind his eyes, the kind that doesn’t go away even after a good night’s sleep.

Something is amiss.

He’s sipping his coffee, and I’m halfway through my second cup when the waitress comes over to top us off. She’s in her mid-fifties, with bleached blonde hair teased high and a voice like she’s been smoking since birth. Her name tag saysDoreen,and she’s got an air of no-nonsense charm that makes her instantly likable.

“Glad you’re here, Preacher,” she says as she pours. “Those Hell’s Hammers have been sniffing around town. Makes me feel better knowing you’re around. No one messes with a man of the cloth.”

Preacher chuckles, leaning back in his seat. “I appreciate the vote of confidence, Doreen, but I’m just a man, same as anyone else.”

Doreen gives him a sly smile, one hand on her hip. “Oh, I rememberexactlyhow much of a man you are.”

Preacher’s grin widens, and he shakes his head. “Doreen, you’re going to get me in trouble. Again.”

“Well, if I ever get tired of my boyfriend, I know where to find you,” she says, winking before turning back to her coffee pot.

I smirk, leaning back in the booth. “You’ve still got it, Preach.”

“Don’t start,” he says, chuckling. “Doreen’s been flirting with me since we were kids. She’s harmless.”

“She didn’t sound harmless.”

Preacher rolls his eyes, but there’s a faint smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. “How are things at the shop?”

He hasn’t asked any of us who inked his daughter since that incredible night weeks ago. I thought he might start something over that alone, but I suppose he thinks that was her business and not his. Which means he sees her as an adult onsomelevels.

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