Page 52 of Darcy
“Easy,” Slate says. “We pick a state, probably Texas, so we’re close to Prophet’s family, then we buy a big ass house. Then we give it a cute little white picket fence so it lives up to your expectations, and then set about filling it with all the stuff you want to be happy. Rugs and… candles and… girly shit.”
I can’t help it. I throw my head back and laugh. “Rugs? You think I want rugs?”
Slate shrugs. “You said you wanted to settle down. Settling down involves rugs and lampshades and ovens, and whatever other boring adult shit we have to pretend to get excited about. Like irons and cleaning stuff. My mom once spent three weeks cooing over a Dyson.”
I can’t breathe, I’m laughing so hard. “Slate, do you even know me? I don’t cook, and I certainly don’t vacuum. Wherever I live, I’m hiring a cleaning service. The only thing I care about is my rig and a damn good Wi-Fi connection.”
He looks so taken aback that I chuckle again.
“If that stuff doesn’t matter to you,” Arlo begins, carefully. “Why are you so set on finding a nice guy to settle down with?”
I bite my lip, then shake my head. “Because I used to date bad guys, and all they ever did was stomp on my heart or disappoint me. Plus…”
Arlo’s brows draw together in concern. “Plus?”
I take a deep break and look down into my coffee, wondering whether I should admit this.
“I’ve been doing a lot of soul searching in the last few years, trying to figure out what to do with my life. I want kids.” I take a sip of coffee, using the scalding hot liquid to help me swallow the lump of vulnerability that’s taken up residence in my throat. “I want my own family. I know it’s a cliché, but I always have. Children deserve a good, stable household and parents who love them unconditionally. I’m getting older, and no one has said anything, but I just…”
I trail off, wondering how to put into words the intangible pressure that’s just there.
By my age, my mother had already had me, and lost her life to the fire. My logical brain knows that the older I get, the harder it becomes to conceive. There are greater risks of complications. Even if I adopted, like Man did, I don’t want to get so old I can’t do things with my kids.
Assassins aren’t supposed to want that life, but I do. Hell, I’m all in favour of being a strong, independent woman—and I’m not going to suddenly stop being one if I have a baby—but it’s okay to want to be a mother too, damn it. I glance up, daring any one of them to laugh or criticise me.
Arlo clears his throat. “I think you’d be a fun mom, Dark.”
The others don’t say anything, and I bite my lip and steel my shoulders. This could be the end of the trial period. Not everyone wants kids. That’s fine. But I’d rather not find out three years down the line that they’re not interested. Especially with this arrangement. It takes a strong man to help raise another’s kid, even if they are best friends.
“Once everything is sorted out, and we’re not touring as much,” Slate begins slowly. “It would be nice to have a family.”
Something shadowed slips through his eyes, darkness touching the edge of his words for a second. It’s gone as quickly as it arrives.
“I don’t have a dad,” Dodger adds. “But if Prophet’s there, I’m sure they’ll turn out fine.”
I turn to Prophet, waiting for his assessment, only to freeze at the raw, unhidden emotion in his eyes. A mixture of dark heat and pure want swirls in those mismatched depths, but his face itself is pinched, almost like he’s in pain.
Without speaking, he turns on his heel and retreats into his room.
What does that even mean? Is he out?
Slate tugs me closer. “Prophet has always wanted a big family. He dotes on his nieces and nephews like they’re his own. It’s not you, or the idea of kids that he’s upset with,cariño. It’s us.”
Not for the first time, I wonder what the hell is going on with the band. At times, they’re so in tune, and others…
“We’re sorting our shit out,” Dodger promises, and my gut sinks. “Don’t give up on us just yet, baby girl.”
I can kill Miguel and his brothers, take out the cartel for good, but I’m not sure I can fix whatever bond has been broken between these men.
Eighteen
Arlo
“Vancouver, you’ve been an absolute blast!” Dodger yells, as almost twenty thousand fans bounce on their feet to the last echoes of Slate’s bass. “Thank you so much for having us and have a safe journey home, all right?”
The lights go out, and I jog off stage, wiping the sweat from my forehead with one arm as I hand my guitar to Rick.
“Good show,” Sully cheers, handing me a bottle of water. “You boys were great out there.”
