Page 7 of Chasing the Fall

My mind wanders to Tallulah “Twiggy” Gentry, aka Baby Cousin. Scrawnier than any other female I’ve ever known, she definitely would not be a candidate for any cheek flapping. Last I saw her, she couldn’t have been more than a hundred pounds soaking wet. I might’ve been the one who gave her Twig as a nickname, but it stuck for a reason.

As skinny and stick-straight as she is, I would break Tallulah Gentry in a hot minute. I prefer my women lush and padded and able to take a pounding…

I also like my women able to take a joke. Tallulah and I never got on. It should never have been an issue. I’m several years older, thirty-two to her twenty-something. When I gave her the nickname she was in her teens—not someone I hung out with or even ran into that frequently.

But she was some kind of genius, always tagging along with her older cousins, and she had a fucking smart mouth on her that she didn’t know when to shut. I always had the impression that she thought I was just big dumb muscle, when nothing could be farther from the truth. I was one of the few men in the ECI who actually had a degree—not that I was using it for much.

The Irish didn’t have much use for history degrees.

But history had always been my passion, and I was proud, regardless, to have earned my college diploma.

Tallulah Gentry could assume I was stupid all she liked. Everyone knew what they said about assuming things.

Four

Twiggy

I need a donut,and I need it ten minutes ago.

Technically, I wasn’t supposed to leave my apartment for anything less than an emergency. While Brodie defined ‘emergency’ as blood, fire, or imminent childbirth, a donut craving was one hundred percent an emergency in my book.

I might be addicted. I might not care.

Besides…I’ll be in public the entire time. What’s going to happen?

I glance in my rearview as I make the turn into Karla’s Cuppa, one of Lucy Falls’ revered institutions. As usual, the little diner is packed, and I end up parking close to the back of the gravel lot.

Dusk is setting, the streetlights beginning to turn on with an audible hum. I need to make it back quickly; my bodyguard issupposed to arrive sometime this evening, and he’ll probably be pissed off if I’m not there when he arrives.

I make a face as I climb from my beloved Hellcat and stroll into Karla’s. He can get over it. I didn’t want him here to begin with, and I did leave him a note.

Inside the diner, I cast a glance around and shove my hands into my pockets before heading to the end of the line. Shiloh and Gunner sit in a corner booth, Gunner gazing with his usual gaga eyes at his wife as he holds her hand across the table. As I watch, half-amused, half-grossed out, they begin to play thumb wars.

“Mother Mary, get a room, why don’tcha.”

The line moves, all of us shuffling forward a couple of steps before pausing again. It’s moving super slow tonight for some reason. Figures. I check the time on my phone. I’ve been gone close to half an hour, total.

“Hey, Twig. Donut run?” Gunner’s voice cuts into my thoughts, his hands landing heavy on my shoulders in a teasing squeeze. I groan. That feels too good after sitting hunched over the computer all day. Maybe I need to book a massage.

I turn around with a smile. “You know me.”

Shiloh laughs and gives me a knowing look. “‘Just pay me in donuts.’”

Years ago, when anyone needed anything—computer help, tech assistance, information not readily available to the public—they would call me.

For a long time, I was stymied on what sort of payment to request. I enjoyed helping my friends, and I didn’t feel comfortable asking for money from them. I was the product of wealthy parents who had given me everything I needed and then some. Money wasn’t important to me.

But donuts…I liked donuts. They seemed like a fair trade for a few minutes of work.

I shrug. “I didn’t need the money, but the sugar was another story.”

We chat a few minutes longer, until Gunner looks at Shiloh and waggles his eyebrows. “Remember that…thing, Shy? That thing we need to get to?”

Shiloh’s cheeks flame red, and I roll my eyes. “Oh my God. Please go appease your lust, or whatever you want to call it. Do your thing.”

Laughing, they leave, and I turn to finally give my order.

Five minutes later I’m walking out, a box of a dozen Boston creams under my arm. Maybe I can get back before my bodyguard arrives, after all.

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