Page 30 of Loving You

Monty: I’m about to walk into court right now. When did you have in mind?

Bronx: Meetings during the day, but my nights are free.

Mostly. They were mostly free. He still had a kid to raise, and just because he was teetering on the brink of eighteen didn’t mean his job was done. Or that it would ever be done. He wasn’t going to be one of those dads who showed Lucas the door the moment the clock ticked over to adulthood and told him to have a good life.

His parents had done that to him, and he could still feel those scars.

“…tonight okay with you?”

Bronx looked up and realized Lane was talking to him. He blushed. “Sorry, what?”

“Is tonight okay for Lucas to come down to the restaurant?” Lane said patiently.

Bronx felt his brother’s eyes on him, and he cleared his throat, trying to slip his phone back into his pocket, but his jeans were too tight. “Ah. I…yeah. Yes.” He looked over at Dallas. “Unless you need him.”

“Who were you talking to?” Dallas demanded instead of giving him an answer.

Fuck. “Work stuff. It’s not important. Do you need?—”

“No. Ky’s off, and he can deal with anything that comes up. Who were you really talking to.” Dallas suddenly lunged at him, and Bronx stood, dodging him easily as he shoved his phone into his pocket properly. Dallas froze halfway over Frey’s lap and didn’t bother moving. “You’re spry for an old man.”

It wasn’t like Bronx could argue his age. He had a couple of years on Adele, who they all treated like he was sometimes the dad and sometimes the grandpa of the group. But hewasspry, damn it. And if he got lucky enough, he could prove it to himself—and to Monty.

“Will you please mind your own business?” Bronx asked tiredly. “I’m stressed enough as it is.”

Dallas held his hands up in surrender as he pulled away from Frey, settling next to him. “I expect an explanation of some kind later.”

Fat chance, Bronx thought, but he nodded all the same. He didn’t mind a little white lie if it meant getting Dallas off his back for now. He didn’t know when Monty was free to meet up, but he was hoping it was sooner rather than later.

He turned back to Lane. “I’ll talk to him when I get home and have him text you. Sound good?”

Lane was still frowning, but he nodded. “Sounds great. See you later.”

Bronx hadn’t realized he’d been inching for the door, but he was. He was nearly there. No one seemed bothered by his exit, so he shot the guys a quick wave, then headed out and collapsed in his driver’s seat. He was pretty sure his brother was watching from the window, so instead of calling Monty immediately the way he wanted, he instead put his car in reverse and headed down the street.

“This isn’t a joke, right?”

Bronx glanced over at his son, who hadn’t stopped fidgeting in his seat. The school he’d gone to had put a lot of emphasis on training out blindisms when Lucas was younger—something Bronx hadn’t realized they were doing, or he never would have agreed to it. Lucas had quite a few of them compounded with his autistic need to stim, so he was rarely still.

But he’d been coached to channel his need to rock or shake his head into twisting spinning rings on his fingers or rolling his cane in his hands. Right now, he was very clearly suppressing the urge to flap his hands, and Bronx wanted to tell him it was fine.

But he also knew it made Lucas self-conscious, especially since he was about to walk into a restaurant full of sighted customers and employees, and it was Bronx’s fault almost entirely he hadn’t been given this kind of exposure before now.

“Why would this be a joke?”

Lucas wrinkled his nose and rubbed at his eyelids. “I know it’s not. I mean, that’s some shit Jules would do. Not you.”

Bronx had all but given up trying to encourage Lucasnot to give up on Jules. There was no point. The man hadn’t bothered calling since his attempt at threatening Bronx with court. He’d been in touch with his attorney, who said it was all quiet on his end, so he’d been able to relax a little.

He and Lucas had finally spoken about what happened, and Lucas admitted he was just venting. “I don’t hate you,” he told Bronx just before they left the house for the restaurant. “I’m not even really mad at you. It just feels like so much sometimes.”

Bronx had held him tightly, squeezing him the way he used to do when Lucas was little and needed that pressure to calm down. It wasn’t perfect. It wasn’t completely alright. But it was getting better.

“This is something you want, right?” Bronx asked as he stared at the back door to the building.

Lucas bit his lip, then nodded. “Yeah. I mean, it’s probably a terrible idea. I’m going to make a mess of this whole thing, and Lane’s going to find some polite way to fire me, but?—”

“You don’t know you’re going to make a mess of anything,” Bronx told him, cutting him off. “And it’s not like he’s going to throw you on the hot line and tell you good luck. This is about figuring out where you work best.” That was how Lane explained it later when Bronx had given him a call.

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