Page 70 of Bound

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

Jackson

“I told you that this is serious business,” Claire murmurs as we walk slowly into the auditorium later that night.

Slowly because Gran only moves at one speed.

“I know,” I murmur back. “I just didn’t…”

I take a look at the packed room, full to the brim of people and tables and noise. The lights are bright as hell and there’s a table with an emcee on the far side of the space, along with a huge gaily lit board of numbers. The other side has a huge setup of even more tables, all topped with food.

“…this.”

“It’s a popular event,” Gran says, shuffling forward.

I hang back so I can whisper in Claire’s ear. “Is that the infamous cake you mentioned before?”

She smiles, fucking beams with happiness from the inside out.

I know it’s because I remember, because it’s one of those small things.

But she doesn’t get sappy on me—we’ve got the serious business of bingo to conquer—just nods and presses a kiss to my cheek. “Don’t worry,” she says. “I know how to sweet talk my way into a piece of red velvet.”

My favorite.

Another small thing.

One that has me taking her hand, lacing our fingers together, and following Gran to what’s presumably our table…

Not presumably, I realize.

It’s filled with hockey players.

I smother a grin—Claire’s magic at work.

Gran doesn’t seem surprised, just sidles right in and drops into a chair.

“Come on,” Claire says, drawing me to the front of the room. “We need cards before they run out.”

“What?” But I follow her as she zips up to the front, pausing in front of an older woman with sleek gray hair and a ready smile.

“I need cards for Gran and me,” Claire says, then hitches her thumb over her shoulder. “And for a table full of newbies.”

I know that she’s teasing, especially with the grin she tosses my way, but I still bristle anyway. I don’t like being called a newbie at anything, least of all at something as simple as crossing off some numbers.

“Trust me,” she murmurs, batting my hand away when I go to pay, before gathering up sheaves of paper and tubes with colored caps that she’s called dabbers.

“I—” I reach for her, intending to help, but I don’t get the chance.

She’s gone, arms full, but that doesn’t stopping her from zigzagging through the crowd and making her way back to the table.

I follow a lot less gracefully, managing to get to the table in time to hear Smitty and Gran going at it—both of them looking like they’re having the times of their lives as they bicker.

“Are you ready to get your butt kicked, big guy?” Gran asks, holding up a dabber threateningly.

“I’ll remind you that I can crush you like a toothpick, little lady,” he replies, snagging the dabber and pretending like he’s going to launch it across the room.

“You ruin my lucky dabber,” Gran threatens, “and I’ll break all of your hockey sticks.”

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