Page 58 of Misrule
Bailey gasped, then narrowed her green-gray eyes. “I’m sending Lucas to kill Duke. He’s gotten into your head and is ruining you.”
“Leave Duke alone,” Roxy ordered. “It’s not only our differences…Or, maybe, it is…I’m afraid this is a dream and I’ll wake up and he’ll be gone. Besides, I want Knox to be accepted by the boys. If he listens to Lucas, this will go a long way in them accepting him.”
“Please don’t let Duke do this to you. The problem is his. Not yours. You’re perfect just as you are.”
Roxy forced a smile. “Kind of hard to believe that when one of your own kids thinks you nothing but garbage.” It was meant to be breezy. Yet even she heard the dismal hurt. “Let’s plan our lovely weddings, sugar. I promise I will give myself a good talking to.”
“Yeah, okay, Momma,” Bailey said grouchily. “I still want to punch Duke.”
“I understand, baby.” Roxy opened to the black bridesmaid gown she’d seen a bit ago. “Get Mrs. Whittlestone so we can have our measurements taken and talk numbers.”
Bailey nodded and got to her feet, opening the door and leaving Roxy alone. Watching as her daughter left, she felt a deep gratitude for the woman Bailey had become.
“I know you’re so proud of our little girl, K-P,” Roxy whispered, smiling, then turning her attention back to the gowns when Bailey followed Mrs. Whittlestone in to get on with the planning.
Knox stared at the tattoos staining Mortician’s back, chest, and arms, as the tailor took the biker’s measurements. He stood in their private room in only a pair of black boxer briefs, not caring that he was nearly naked in front of other people. That was bad enough. But he’d had to de-weaponize himself, removing guns strapped underneath his clothes and on various parts of his body. The four weapons sat in a neat pile on a bench, right next to his clothes.
“That grim reaper tat is cool, Mort,” Grant gushed. “I want one when I grow up.”
Mortician smiled at Grant, holding his arms out as Mr. Whittlestone spread out a tape measurer. He was standing on a stepstool to reach Mortician’s arms and shoulders.
“Are you getting a tat, Dad?” Grant asked.
“No,” Knox answered with irritation. The very idea! “And neither are you. Ever. You’re not a biker.”
“I want to be!” Grant complained. “CJ said he’s going to be a big biker like ‘Law—”
“Outlaw,” Knox gritted.
“CJ said I can call his dad ‘Law.”
“CJ is four years old, Grant! You do not do what that little boy tells you to do. If anything, you should be trying to impress your good manners on him.” Christ! What was he saying? “On second thought, don’t. Just leave him alone.”
“Mr. Harrington, have you reconsidered allowing me to take your measurements?”
“No.” Why bother with measurements when he didn’t know what Roxanne—Bailey—had chosen? Besides… “I have my own haberdasher. The same one my father uses.” He smirked at Mortician. “In North America, a haberdasher is a dealer in men’s clothing.”
Instead of answering, Mortician began strapping up again.
“Can I get measured here?” Grant asked hopefully. “Mr. Hocking is too mean.”
“He is no-nonsense and firm,” Knox stated. “And, no, you will get measured with me and your grandfather.”
Grant’s face fell.
Whistling, Mortician pulled on his jeans, then grabbed his T-shirt.
“Tell him, Mort,” Grant said.
Heat rose up Knox’s neck and into his face.
“Can’t, little dude.” Mortician said and put on his socks, then began pulling on his boots. “Knox your old man. I’m not.”
“Will that be all, Mortician?” Mr. Whittlestone asked.
“Yeah. Whenever Bailey tell me if I’m wearing a vest or cummerbund, I’ll call you so you can order it. She might be telling your woman, though, so just get whatever she says I’m supposed to wear.”
“Wait a damn minute,” Knox said, outraged. “You’re just allowingBaileyto choose what you want to wear?”
