Page 72 of Secondhand Smoke

“Dude, how old are you?” Aidan said, and headed to clock in.

Behind him, Mercy laughed. “I take it big sis was grateful.”

“Very grateful.” And he was leaving it at that.

The laughter died away as Mercy grew more serious. “Hey, Aidan?”

He didn’t respond; he was going to be told whatever it was anyway.

“You know you can’t treat Sam like you do all the rest,” his brother-in-law said with that patented Cajun-wisdom tone that always accompanied his “sage” advice.

The thing about Mercy’s advice, though – when he wasn’t driving nails under people’s fingernails or being a total goof, he could be a truly wise man. The greatest contradiction of personality the MC had likely ever seen.

Aidan turned so the guy could see the seriousness of his expression. “I know that. Believe me.”

Both his brothers looked at him with something like pride.

But then Merc had to ruin it. “Our little man, all grown up and courtin’ schoolteachers.”

“Fuck you both.”

Fourteen

Smokey’s Family Diner was a confused restaurant. A freestanding building that had previously been a Shoney’s, it was a diner, yes, but also a buffet. Someone had repainted the interior in smoke gray and Tennessee orange, and the walls were plastered with UT memorabilia. The bakery cases up in the front were full of pom-poms, footballs and old photos. The food was mediocre and despite the paint and décor, the place just had an outdated feeling; when you were inside, you sensed the restaurant’s impending failure. It wasn’t a favorite among the Dogs, and that’s why Greg had picked it, knowing there was little chance they’d be seen.

Aidan walked in at twelve-ten, purposefully late, and spotted Greg in one of the orange-and-white-striped booths near the back, away from the buffet and the windows.

“I’m meeting someone,” he told the hostess. And judging by that someone’s total composure, the tables had turned since their last official restaurant meeting. Gone was the pale, sweating, shaking Greg from Stella’s, way back during his wannabe Carpathian days. The man waiting for him now wore clothes that fit – shirt, jeans and leather jacket – and his color was normal, his expression stony and hard to read.

With a sensation like a stone landing in his gut, Aidan realized he’d deeply miscalculated three years ago, when he’d assumed someone like Greg could never serve as a threat. Dimly, he wondered how many times in his life he’d made that mistake, and how badly it was going to haunt him in the future.

He slid into the booth and Greg greeted him with a nod. It was some consolation to see the bruise on Greg’s face, the blossoming shadows where Aidan had ground his face into the dirt.

“You’ve got a little something,” Aidan said with a smirk, touching his own face.

Greg’s smile was humorless. “You’re not gonna charm and joke your way outta this one, Aidan.”

Aidan sighed and slumped back in the booth. His shoulder was sore from wrestling Greg last night, and from what had come later with Sam. He’d skipped breakfast and the smell of whatever greasy shit they had at the buffet was making his stomach growl. “Okay, I don’t have the patience for your bullshit. What do you mean by ‘this one’?”

Greg had a plate of French fries in front of him and glanced down at it, dragging one through a puddle of ketchup. “This war.” His gaze flicked up, the way his chin was tilted giving him an uncharacteristically sinister look. “This isn’t like the last war. My new boss is nothing like my old boss.”

Aidan rolled his eyes – and his gut clenched. He affected bored when he said, “Wasn’t what happened with your last boss enough to convince you to get a nine-to-five and lay off trying to be a gangster?”

“That would make you the pot, and me the kettle.”

“Yeah, no. That would make me the guy set to inherit his old man’s club, and you just some idiot loser who makes bad friends.”

“Bad friends like you?” Greg wasn’t letting any of this get under his skin. He had control now. Poise.

“That wasn’t personal, just business.”

“So is this.” Greg reached into the pocket of his jacket and withdrew a folded sheet of computer paper that he slid across the table.

Aidan didn’t want to touch the thing, but he schooled his features and unfolded it, tilted it toward the light.

Dear Mr. and Mrs. Teague,

I know we’ve never met, but I’m a good friend of your son’s, from back in school. I’m real sorry about what he’s going through, and I want to let you know I’m here if you need me.

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