Page 49 of Inked Daddies

More support for my argument.

“The shop has been quiet for a little while. We get enough business to justify keeping the place open, but you know how it is around here.”

He nods and sips his coffee. “Haven’t seen you at church in a long time, Hugo. What’s that about?”

I laugh. “The last time you saw me in the church was Kirby Reynolds’ funeral, and that was only because he named me a pallbearer, and that’s only because it was his last ‘fuck you’ to me.”

His laugh is sharp and loud, surprising, given the mood of the place. But that’s Preacher. Never one to hold back. “Yeah, I was surprised about that too. Why you and not the other guys?”

“Remember when we were building the shop?”

“Yeah.”

“Well, I had slipped and hurt my back right before we were to move in, so I couldn’t help with the heavy stuff, and Sam hired Kirby and his gang to help with the move, offering free tattoos for life as payment. They weren’t about to turn that down?—”

“Who would?” he asks rhetorically.

“That whole time, I could only sit there and supervise, or the bulging disc in my back might have ruptured. So he and his buddies gave me shit for it. In turn, I asked how his motorcycle could possibly carry his weight, and he laughed and promised he’d remember that.”

“So, making you help carry him was his revenge.”

I nod, and he grins. “He was a spiteful son of a bitch. Had to have the last laugh. I miss that guy.”

“Same here.” Preacher sighs. “We’re getting to that age, aren’t we? Where losing friends is par for the course.”

Something I try not to think of. “Middle age is undeniable if you live long enough to reach it. Such is life.”

“You’re so French sometimes.”

I snort at that. “Oui, now and then.”

“Kirby would have hated the sermon I’m working on—forgiveness. He wasn’t real big on that.”

Forgiveness? The irony. “Pretty sure I’m past forgiving?—”

“No one is.”

“So you say. But I’m also not looking for forgiveness, and I think your little book has something to say about that too.”

He smiles and shrugs. “Yeah. It is important to ask for it first.”

That’s the difference between us and Preacher. After all we’ve been through and all we’ve seen, Trick, Sam, and I came out of it lacking faith. Preacher doubled down on his. Not that I judge him for it. When men see something that makes them question everything, some go one way, others go another.

Speaking of things I do not need forgiveness over… “How’s Marie doing?”

Preacher sighs, his expression softening. “She’s been…scatterbrained lately. Ever since the mugging. I think it shook her more than she wants to admit. Sure as shit shook me.”

I nod, keeping my face neutral, even though his words make my heart stutter. “Shook her how? What is she doing that makes you say this?”

“She’s been sticking close to home,” he continues. “Work, church, straight back to the house. No detours. No socializing. I keep telling her she doesn’t have to be scared, but…” He trails off, shaking his head. “And I get it. I’d be lying if I said I haven’t been more cautious or checking up on her more. But I worry this is something she can’t come back from.”

“She’ll bounce back,” I say, though I don’t know if I believe it. Not when she’s been avoiding us for weeks.

It’s been hell on all of us. None of us have hooked up with anyone else, a record for us. But why would we, when we’ve had someone so…Marie. She’s exactly what I want. I will not accept substitutes. She will be mine. Or rather, she will be ours.

Trick has been extra lately. Extra snarky, extra jokey. Sam, on the other hand, has been closed off. Despondent, perhaps, but he’s not speaking about his feelings.

Not that we’re big on talking about how we feel. Each of us has tells, though. Trick’s chatty edginess and Sam’s excessive cleaning. And I have been a bit of a dick lately. It gives me flashbacks to how we were when we came back stateside. None of us knowing how to handle the day-to-day of normal life, and none of us are accustomed to being awkward.

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