Page 13 of Single Mom's Daddies
Max gives me a long look. “You’re sure about that?”
“Yes.”
“Even if it costs you the operation?”
“If we take him out now, itguaranteeswe lose the operation.”
Max rises more slowly, rolling his shoulders and tucking his toothpick back between his teeth. “Well. If we’re not killing anyone, might as well get a drink.”
I don’t respond.
Renner’s still frozen behind his desk, like he’s afraid to breathe too loud.
Max claps him on the shoulder hard enough to jolt his whole frame. “Cheer up, kid. You got what you wanted. Nobody’s dying today.”
Renner swallows hard. “Thanks?”
“That’s the spirit.” Max follows me out, whistling an off-key tune I can’t place.
As the door swings shut behind us, I catch one last glimpse of Renner’s face. He looks like he just realized exactly what kind of men he’s doing business with. About damn time.
The bar Max picks isn’t far from the gallery—just far enough to avoid running into patrons who wear scarves for fashion and pretend to understand postmodern oil work. It’s one of those spots hidden under a hardware store, all cracked leather booths and vintage bourbon lists. Max likes it because the bartender doesn’t ask questions, and the regulars know better than to look twice.
We take the booth in the back, tucked beneath an old boxing poster so faded you can barely read the names. The leather seat sighs under Max’s weight. I sit across from him and glance at the laminated menu, though I already know I won’t order anything on it.
“Think Renner pissed himself?” Max asks after a beat.
I raise an eyebrow.
“Kid looked like his soul left the building.”
“He’ll be fine.”
Max grins. “Maybe. But next time he sees me, he’s gonna flinch.”
“He always flinches. And you like that.”
“Damn right I do. Man should know where he stands.” Max leans forward. “You’re too good at pretending your new way’sclean. You think wearing suits and talking quiet makes you better than me.”
“It doesn’t make me better. It makes me quieter. More efficient.”
Max barks out a laugh. “That it does.” We order drinks and set into the familiar pattern of sip, mutter nonsense, and sip again. Max is nursing his second drink when he says, “You ever think about what we could’ve done different?”
“About what?”
“Everything. Your dad. Your mom. The Costellos. The pipeline in Racine.”
“I think about how to keep what we have. Not what we lost. Can’t change that.”
“You know what bothers me?” he asks after a moment.
“Lots of things.”
He grins. “You’re not wrong. But it bothers me that you’re too good at this. Like you were built for it. Makes me wonder if we made a mistake keeping you soft when you were younger.”
“You didn’t.”
“No?”
