Page 48 of Smooth As Whiskey

Rings made.

The form for a marriage license.

And I had her property kutte made.

When Maisie saw all of this, she clapped.

I was hoping this would work because if it didn’t... I didn’t know what I would do.

I also went to Hugo, a badass tattoo artist at Badd Motha Ink, and had him create a design that takes up the entirety of my left chest.

All with Sutton’s name right in the middle, visible for the world to see.

A week later, I made the drive again.

And I sat out on my bike for two hours this time when the gate moved, and Sutton came out, threw her hands in the air, and growled, “What fucking now?”

I grinned and then walked my bike in again.

Once I dismounted, I grabbed one of the black saddlebags.

Then I followed her inside.

Walking to a table, I began pulling stuff out of the black saddle bag.

First came out her property kutte.

Followed by the box that held her ring.

Next, the marriage license form.

Followed by the adoption papers.

Then I pulled out her set of keys. One to my house, one to my truck, one to the garage, and one to my room at the clubhouse.

Then I gestured, “Everything on the table is yours. I am yours. Maisie is yours. Forever.”

Then she crossed her arms over her waist and whispered, “Nothing’s changed, Irish. Nothing.”

I nodded, “Everything has changed. My eyes are wide fucking open, baby. Fucking wide.”

“And that woman?” she asked. Hatred in every word.

Then I repeated the same words to Sutton that I had told my brothers because I knew them by fucking heart.

“Six years ago, Cynnamin was violently attacked. And ever since then, she has had a kink of sorts. She hates it, but with help, she’s learned to deal with it.”

I took in a breath, “Cynnamin enjoys telling someone what to do while they say no. She called me one night, crying because she had a man in her bed, and he told her no, and she didn’t listen. So, I offered to be that person for her. We don’t touch ever. She just tells me what to do with my body while I say no. I feel likeI owe her. You all know I bounced around from foster home to foster home.”

She didn’t react.

“What I didn’t tell you was that I hate, and I mean I hate, fucking sweet peas. They look like puke when they are overcooked. And one night, in one of the foster homes, I refused to eat them. The man didn’t like that. Cynnamin covered my body when the man started to beat me. She took the beating that was meant for me. Had she not done that, I would have been seriously injured, I was seven at the time and she was thirteen.”

Tears welled in her eyes, at what I said. But she didn’t open her mouth, nor did she make a move to pull me into her arms as she had done so many times before.

And why wouldn’t she?

Because every time she did that, I was the dumb fuck that pushed her away.

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