Page 35 of Broken Bonds
About everything.
Even stuff he shouldn’t be worrying about.
Jax doesn’t want Shawn to have too much time to consider the ramifications of us giving refuge to the son of Randolph Sterling. I mean, not that it’s a sure thing. Under the circumstances, multiple people might validly object to Mal joining, or Jax might end up passing him off to another pack to put distance between the kid and Atlanta.
Or, Jax might opt to hand the kid pocket money, buy him a ticket to anywhere, and drive him to the appropriate transportation station.
I love to cook, but normally I don’t make breakfast unless it’s a special occasion or I have guests. By the time Mal knocks on the back door ten minutes early, I’ve got bacon and scrambled eggs ready, and the pancakes are just about ready.
“Come on in.”
Mal’s wearing jeans and a T-shirt, and sneakers. I mentally run through the extra supplies I have on hand to remember if I have work boots in his approximate size. I think I do.
“Good morning,” I say, offering him a smile.
Mal dips his head and gives me a faint smile. “Good morning.”
I point at the coffee maker on the counter, where I’ve already set everything he might need—mug, spoon, creamer, sugar. “Help yourself.”
“Thank you.”
“When you’re ready, grab a plate and start shoveling it in.”
That earns me a full smile.
Damn. He’s adorable.
“I wasn’t expecting this,” he says. “I really appreciate it.”
“It’s okay. I don’t normally cook breakfast, but for your first day, I wanted to make sure you don’t keel over from hunger before lunch. Which I also provide for my guys.”
“What’s first on the agenda?” he asks.
With that, I start telling him as I deal with the last batch of pancakes. By the time we’ve finished breakfast and he helps me clean up and load the dishwasher, I’m feeling even better about the kid. He’s definitely worked for a living and I expect he’ll be a fast learner.
We head out to the overhang on the back side of the house, where I park one of the ATVs I use for getting around the ranch when I don’t need my truck. “We need to take you shopping for work clothes this week,” I say. “If you want to stay here, that is. Don’t want you ruining your clothes. I’ll even spot you if you can’t afford it.”
“Thank you,” he says. “I have a little money, so if I take it easy, I can pay for them.”
“Good for you.” We drive out to the main barn where three of my guys are working. I introduce Mal around, then lead him to the equipment room where, yes, there’s both a used but clean jumpsuit and a serviceable pair of work boots in his size.
Then I leave him to his work and head out to start my own chores.
All of my employees are either shifters or otherwise part of the pack—mates or kids or relations. Easier that way for everyone to only employ packmates. But as a small dairy farm, I’ve found my niche locally, providing organic dairy products to stores and restaurants, and we sell premium small-batch ice cream. When someone like Mal comes to work for me, it’s not unusual for the pack to kick me a stipend.
We take care of our own in this pack. Always have, always will.
I’m riding the fence line in the ATV when my phone buzzes with a text.
Jax.
How’s the pup?
I’m tempted to text back “unfucked” but that would be crude. Right?
I opt for the basics.
He’s working with my guys and learning the job. Seemed eager to get started this morning.
