Page 32 of Death's Deal

“Don’t be like that. Let me see.” Wetting the towel and taking his hand in mine, I gently rub it across the damaged skin.

I know Quinny well enough—or at least I used to—he’s brooding and contemplating the situation. It’ll take him a lot to wrap his head around this. I expect that. I wouldn’t expect less.

“I want to know all about him. What’s his whole name. What does he like to do? Is he a hothead like me, or a pain in the ass like you?”

I smile. “He’s like you sometimes.” Wriggling my eyebrows, I grin. “My dad would say he’s a pain in the ass like me, but it’s because he hates to admit Tris is anything like you.”

He gives me a devilish smirk. “I bet he hates being reminded his grandson is anything like me.”

Pulling all humor from the moment, I share, “I wasn’t allowed to speak of you. I had to swear I wouldn’t talk of you, or...”

“Or what, Toni?”

“Or he would’ve sent Tristan for adoption.”

Worrying his lower lip, he asks, “That’s why, isn’t it? Martin would’ve made you give up my son? He threatened you to comply?”

“Yeah. He found out the week before the trial I was pregnant. Up until then I had been adamant I wouldn’t help him. That I was siding with you through it all. Once he figured out I was pregnant—with your baby—that changed everything.” Pulling the cloth off, looking at the scraped skin, a few small beads of blood pool up.

“Do you have Band-Aids?” I ask. Quirking a brow at my request, before he answers, I laugh, “I get it. Big biker. No need for something as sissy as Band-Aids.”

Softer, without attitude, Quinny steps away, leans on the opposite side of the kitchen, against the counter, and asks, “So, what’s his whole name, Toni?”

“Tristan Quinlan Morriso.” With a smile, I add, “His nickname is Little Crow. I’ve called him that since he was just a baby. I couldn’t give him your last name, as it would have him asking too many questions, and after the way you dealt with me, the last thing I wanted was for him to show up on your doorstep and be turned away by a growling biker. I figured it was best to keep him off your radar after you’d told me to fuck off so many times.”

Uncrossing his arms, the previous tension melting off of him, with his stress falling away, he asks. “So, who does he think his father is then?”

“A man I once loved in high school. I told him he died. We’ve kept with that story all along.”

Snickering, he laughs out loud. “Who did you tell him it was?”

I can just imagine who he thinks I told Tristan it was. “Do you remember Parker Jackson? The kid who died in an accident a few weeks after Boyd’s birthday party? Him.” I picture him. His brilliant blue eyes, the sandy-blond hair, his thick frame, tall stature, and his happy-go-lucky attitude. He died in a motorcycle crash on the PCH during a rockslide that took five other cars and occupants with them. He was the running back on Quinny’s team.

Watching as Quinny processes everything, knowing I had chosen a boy from school who he knew and cared for, I hope he can understand my predicament.

“I liked PJ. He was good shit. If you had to choose someone to tell him, he’s not a bad guy to choose.” He walks to the fridge, pulling free a pack of bacon and a carton of eggs. “Are you hungry?”

“I am.”

Taking out a tinfoil covered pan from the freezer, he adds, “While I feed you, tell me about Tristan.”

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