Page 52 of Inked Daddies

“Since when do you make jokes? That’s my job.”

He rolls his eyes and turns back to the window. “You could be doing your actual job instead of being here and annoying me.”

“Where’s the fun in that?”

“Getting paid, rookie.”

“Did you just pull rank on me?”

He huffs and smirks. “Hardly.”

We both know he’d never do that. Just like we both know things haven’t been right among us ever since he decided to make us all be the good guys and steer clear of Marie. But she’s been doing her own steering clear, so we haven’t needed to do much of anything on that matter, except not go to the library to bother her.

It’s been hell, and I’m over it. Enough dancing around this. “You’re thinking about her.”

Sam stiffens, and for a second, he doesn’t say anything. Then he sighs, dragging a hand down his face. “Of course I’m thinking about her.”

“Because you care,” I say, sitting up and resting my elbows on my knees. “And because you care, you’re making this a lot harder than it needs to be.”

He frowns, his jaw tightening. “It’s not that simple, Trick.”

“It is,” I insist, leaning forward. “You’re just making it complicated because you’re overthinking everything like you always do.”

For a long time, I envied Sam’s brain. He’s always planning ten steps ahead, always quick to action. The man’s SAT scores got him scholarships to every Ivy League school in the country, not that he told us himself. His aunt opened her home to us for Christmas one year and spent the whole time bragging on her nephew.

Well, at least, that’s what they called each other. Later on, we found out they weren’t blood related at all—she was the woman who took him in when he was a homeless kid. He was living in a cardboard box in the alleyway near her apartment in New Orleans. It took her some time to coax him inside, but apparently, bribing him with beignets got him to come in. She swore that worked on all her kids, each of them orphans off the street. He was the youngest of four boys she had rescued.

These days, I see his overthinking and planning for what it is. He’s still that same kid on the street, looking for every possible way for things to get worse so he can protect himself. It’s been thirty years since then, but I think that kind of thing never really goes away.

“Look,” I say, turning my attention back to Sam. “I get it. You’re thinking about that little girl who used to ride her bike down our street. The one who crashed into the mailbox and cried until we gave her a lollipop and a hug. But that’s not who Marie is anymore.”

Sam’s lips twitch, like he’s trying not to smile. “She was six. And you didn’t give her a lollipop. You gave her a beer.”

“It cheered her up, didn’t it?”

He shakes his head, this time unable to hold back his smile. “If I hadn’t come along and traded her that beer for a snack cake, what do you think Preacher would have done?”

“Doesn’t matter now, does it? What’s done is done. In every aspect?—”

He sighs. “Back to this?”

“It’s been two decades since her bike accident, Sam. She’s a woman now. A smart, funny, kind woman who knows what she wants. And she chose us.”

His frown deepens. “She’s Preacher’s daughter.”

“Yeah, but she’s not a child,” I fire back. “She’s not some delicate little flower we’re going to crush if we so much as look at her the wrong way. She’s a grown woman, and we have to respect her and her choices.”

Sam doesn’t say anything, but the conflict is plain in his eyes. He wants to believe me, I can tell. But he’s stuck in his head, worrying about all the what-ifs. He asks, “No joke? No funny comment? You must be serious.”

“I am, and stop delaying the topic. Preacher knows she’s grown up,” I say, lowering my voice. “Everyone does. That’s why he’s so paranoid about her safety. Especially after what happened with the mugging. He’s scared because he knows he can’t protect her from everything. And you’re doing the same damn thing he is, Sam. You’re trying to protect her from something that isn’t even a threat. None of us can—or should—protect her from her own decisions.”

“She’s his daughter,” Sam says again, like that’s the end of the conversation.

“Not his property,” I shoot back. “She made her choice, and she made it loud and clear. Are you really going to sit here and act like she didn’t know what she was doing? You’re looking at this all wrong.”

His brow furrows. “Am I?”

“Yes. Marie isn’t some innocent girl. She lived in Boston. She’s seen the world outside this little town. She lost her mom. She went to college. She has a ton of life experience. So are you gonna tell me you think she doesn’t know what she’s doing? That she hasn’t thought this through?”

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