Page 46 of Property of Bull
“I could have paid for the lessons, I just wanted to make sure it was something you really wanted,” Eli tells her, looking sorry for not having done it.
“I know that you would have if I threw a fit, but it wouldn’t have meant what it did to me. I was so proud of myself because you didn’t hand it to me. I mean, even that SUV you got me so I wasn’t dependent on rides after I turned sixteen—it needed work and we did that together. You taught me so much and maybe I’m being a little selfish, but they all lived within a few hours of Granddad and couldn’t be bothered to even respond to a text, unless they needed money.”
Margo’s cheeks are red as she vents.
“And it’s not like Granddad was throwing money around, other than his electric bill,” she says, allowing herself a small grin. “His Bronco was nearly as old as I am, I bought him his boots for his birthday, because his were falling apart, and he brought actual paper coupons to the grocery store when we went. If they get his money, it’ll be gone in a couple of years, and they’ll be bitching about him for not leaving them more. So, they get what they get and that’s it.”
“Maybe it’s because I can still smell gun oil,” Eli slowly starts after a moment. “But I’m in no hurry to bail any of them out. I guess I’ll wait and see, as time goes by.”
While I’m siding with Margo in my head, I keep my mouth shut since this doesn’t concern me.
“Eli,” I interrupt their conversation a few moments later. “I’m beat and I ain’t going to bed without Margo. There’s a guestroom on the left at the back of the hall. Excuse the mess in the room across the hall.”
Staying silent even as his lips draw into a tight line, he gives us a nod and Margo leans over to kiss him on his cheek before standing up to follow me to our room.
Margo
Tracing one of Stryker’s tattoos as he snores beside me, I narrow my eyes at the window, pretending that I have the power to close the blinds without getting out of bed.
After the past few days, and an additional round of sex after leaving my father in the living room, I have zero energy or motivation to move.
If I never see another dead body, it’ll be too soon, I think and almost grown out loud once I remember who’s lying beside me. He might be an undertaker on the surface, but I have no intention of working beside him. It’s all I can do to convince myself that Granddad’s funeral won’t be anything like my grandmother’s.
As the morning light fills the room, I take the time to really study it and wonder if Stryker will let me paint it a lighter color. The dark gray on the walls is a bit on the depressing side. Scanning the room, my eyes almost miss a painting in the corner, and I immediately know it is one of his mother’s pieces.
With the darker hues in the colors of the mountains and lake that is in the forefront it almost blends into the wall color. On the bottom right, almost like a signature, there’s a couple sitting on a blanket, with a woman leaning back against a man, whose hands are cradling her rounded belly.
Unlike the painting in Stryker’s room in the clubhouse, I know this one was based on a day that actually happened, in a time when his parents were young and happy.
Learning more about his mother gets added to the list of things I have going in my mind.
We have time though.
Before Stryker fell asleep, he promised me a lifetime together and God help him if he doesn’t deliver.
Chapter 15
Bull
“What have you heard from Rage?” I’m looking at Thunder as I ask the men at the table around me what I thought was a simple question before I wrap up church.
Thunder looks back at me, his brow furrowed deeper than usual, before he looks around the table himself. “Who’d he check in with?”
Motherfucker.
“Has no one heard from him?” I ask, proud that I didn’t bellow that question.
When everyone remains silent, Thunder pushes back his chair, ignoring it as it falls and yanks open the door. Not one of us give a shit when he returns to church with his cell phone in hand, hitting a few buttons before putting the call on speaker.
As soon as Rage’s voicemail picks up, Thunder sends him a text before looking at Edge. “What burner did he have?”
Without pause, Edge recites a phone number and Thunder keys it in, holding his breath until it’s answered on the second ring.
“Who do I have the pleasure of speaking to?” The man who picks up sounds cultured, and if I didn’t know better, like he was mocking us.
“Who the fuck are you?”
“I’m the man you owe a hundred grand to. I expect it by Monday. My associate will call this number with details,” he calmly replies.
