Page 27 of Dark & Deceitful

Rubbing my temple with my middle finger, I covertly flip him the bird.

Dark smirks but doesn’t let the teasing insult go when he calls to Marge’s retreating form loud enough for the entire restaurant to hear, “Kali’s ass is perfect the way it is.”

The handful of men at the bar hoot like a cluster of buffoons.

Pinching the bridge of my nose, I quell the urge to kick Dark in the shin for opening his big mouth. Was that necessary? I think not. Nobody needs to come to the defense of my ass, except me. I am perfectly capable of defending myself.

“Right answer, lover boy,” Marge replies. “Your uzhe is comin’ right up. But I’m tellin’ Hank to add extra onions.” The woman whistles a merry tune all the way to the kitchen.

Dark drags a hand down his face and groans.

“It’s gonna be the whole plate.” I press my lips together to keep from bursting into maniacal laughter.

“I know.” Dark’s chin hits his chest in defeat.

“You shouldn’t have almost given her a heart attack.”

He snorts. “I was bein’ nice.”

Sure, he was.

“You’re playin’ with fire.”

My ex glances up and bats his pretty lashes at me. “I’m only playin’ with fire when I’m with you, babe.”

Not at all impressed, I roll my eyes.

“Shut the fuck up.” Fog points at his father. “I didn’t agree to be here so you could talk to Mom like that.”

Not wanting to make things worse, Dark raises both hands in mock surrender. “It was a joke.”

“No, it wasn’t.” Fog grips the table's edge like he’s about to come across it any second. The vein in his neck throbs as he clenches his jaw so hard I’m afraid he’ll crack a tooth.

Worried about my son, I grasp his knee under the table this time. My hand doesn’t cover much, but it conveys enough. “It’s okay, sweetheart. I’m good.” I double-squeeze to communicate I’m not lying. Because I’m not. Iamokay.

Fog’s glare finally breaks from Dark and swings to me, where it softens. “He’s a fuckin’ dick.”

“I know.” My voice is a mere whisper.

“This is such a fun family outing. We should do this more often,” Tarek deadpans without an ounce of mirth. Though, I see the glint of smartassery in his eyes.

Head shaking as if he doesn’t know whether to punch his brother or let shit go, Fog’s lip kicks up in the corner in a microscopic grin. It’s gone in a flash, but the tension at the table disappears, which gives me a chance to soak in the presence of my boys as they finally scan their menus. It’s been months since I’ve seen either of them in person. FaceTime is great, but nothing beats ruffling their hair or watching them smile in person. Marge was spot-on when she said they resemble their father and Sunshine, and it goes beyond the physical. It’s even in the way they move—like predators, graceful with purpose. The simple act of flipping over their menus is familiar. It’s nice. This is nice. I’m glad they came today.

Marge returns with a round of water and takes the boys’ orders and menus. She doesn’t write any of it down. Not even Tarek’s list of burger additions—he has a thing for mozzarella sticks on burgers, and not in replacement of the cheese, in addition to it. Don’t ask. It’s Sunshine’s doing—a diner experience when Tarek was little. Fog’s a different story. He’s simple. When he says, “Give me the best thing you got,” he means it.

“You sure?” Marge tucks the menus under her arm.

“Yes, ma’am,” Fog replies with a definitive nod.

Grinning at his politeness, Marge pats my kid on the shoulder. Looks like he’s earned himself an extra slice of pie, too. People Marge likes are treated like royalty by her and her husband Hank. If royalty consists of extra homemade dessert. To me, that feels a whole lot like royalty. The people who piss them off get onions. Don’t ask me why it’s onions. I have no idea and never had the heart to ask.

Since the first time I met Marge, over two decades ago, on a visit to one of the California Chapters, I’ve adored her. She was just as sassy back then as she is now, but she got around better. Age will do that to ya. Being on your feet running this place six days a week will also do that to ya.

Dark sips his water. “Five blocks, huh?” He speaks against the edge of his glass before he takes a bigger drink.

Looks like we’re still stuck on my Uber from the station. Why are we back to this conversation? I thought the case was closed.

“It was seven.” I spill the truth because enough is enough. What is it with these men?

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