Page 39 of Klutch's Kryptonite

Pop laughs, shaking his head. “Come on. I’ve got some good whiskey hiding from your mother in my office.”

I follow him down the hall to the small room that serves as his sanctuary. He opens a drawer in his desk and pulls out a bottle of Johnnie Walker Blue Label and two glasses.

“So,” he says as he pours, “this one’s different.”

She is, but he already knows that. “Yeah.”

He hands me a glass. “How different?”

I take a sip, the expensive whiskey burning as it slides down my throat. “I don’t know, Pop.”

“Bullshit,” he calls me out on my bullshit. “You’ve never brought a woman home before. Not once in twelve years. Now suddenly you’re showing up with this girl on your arm like she’s your fucking salvation.”

I stare into my glass, unable to meet his eyes. “Can’t explain it.” I shrug. “I just know that she’s mine.”

“She has trouble written all over her.” He leans against his desk, fixing me with a hard stare. “Titan’s been digging. Her old man’s mixed up with some dangerous people.”

I knock back the rest of my whiskey and set the glass down. “What do you want me to say, Pop? That I’ll walk away? Leave her to deal with this shit on her own?”

He studies me for a long moment. “Would you? Could you walk away from her if I told you it was for the good of the club?”

The question hits me like a sucker punch. A month ago, the answer would have been simple. The club comes first. Always. It’s what I was raised to believe, what I’ve always lived by.

But now? The thought of walking away from Demi makes me feel homicidal.

“I can protect her and serve the club,” I finally say. “Those things aren’t mutually exclusive.”

My father’s expression softens. “You love her.”

I open my mouth to deny it, but the words stick in my throat. Am I in love with Demi? I don’t know. I’ve never been in love before. “I don’t know what I am,” I admit. “But I know I’m not walking away.”

Pop nods slowly. “Then you better be prepared for what’s coming.”

Before I can ask what he means, we hear laughter from the kitchen. My mother’s musical chuckle mixed with Demi’s softer one.

“We should rescue your girl before your mother starts planning your wedding,” Pop says, clapping me on the shoulder.

We find them in the kitchen, Demi chopping vegetables while my mother stirs something on the stove. They’re talking animatedly, and I catch the tail end of a story about me as a kid.

“—covered head to toe in mud, crying because he couldn’t find his toy car!” Ma finishes, sending Demi into another fit of giggles.

“Ma,” I groan. “Seriously?”

She turns, a mischievous glint in her eye. “What? Demi wants to know all about little David.”

I roll my eyes. No one calls me David except my mother and the government.

“You two look cozy,” I observe, moving to stand behind Demi. I can’t help but place my hand on the small of her back, a possessive gesture that doesn’t go unnoticed by my mother.

Her eyes twinkle with approval. “Demi’s a natural in the kitchen. Unlike someone I know who can barely boil water.”

“I can cook,” I protest.

Demi turns to look at me, eyebrow raised. “You’ve never cooked for me.”

“That’s because we always get takeout.”

“Hmm,” my mother hums disapprovingly. “A girl needs a home-cooked meal now and then, mijo.”

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