Page 46 of The First Cut
“Don’t forget the kids.”
“Jesus fuck. Hannibal’s a dad. It gets me every time.” Conan chuckles.
Inigo grins. “I feel for the kid that wants to take Hannibal’s daughter to prom.”
I freeze, a scowl slipping over my face. I know what teenage boys get up to at prom. “Over my dead body. Or his.”
They all laugh, the assholes.
“Somehow, I think you’re going to be a better dad than you realize.”
“I hope for Millie and the baby’s sake, that’s true.” I sigh, rubbing my face. “I’ve gotta go. It’s already gonna be a long drive.”
“What about your bike?”
“Gonna get one of the guys to haul it up in the back of the truck.”
“Alright. Stay safe. We’ll come to visit when things settle down.” Blade slaps me on the back as the others give me nods.
I jog to the truck where Lola's waiting, throw my pack in the back, and climb in. “You ready?”
Lola's gripping the edge of the seat, her eyes on the gate.
“As I’ll ever be.”
“Lola…”
She looks at me, her large eyes damp with unshed tears. “I’ll be okay. I’m just tired. I think I’ll sleep for a little bit, if that’s okay.”
“Go for it. Shit.” I jump out of the truck when I realize I still have my cut on and lay it on the back seat.
Looking over at Lola as she settles her head against the door, I strip off my hoodie and ball it up before climbing back in. “Here use this so you don’t get a stiff neck.”
“Thanks.” She takes it from me as I start the truck and indicate for Hoops to open the gates.
“I feel kind of sad for you.”
“What the fuck for?”
“You’re leaving your home. A place where your family is, your clinic, hell, almost all your things are here. And if we hadn’t passed those three as we were leaving, nobody would have even said goodbye. These are people who you’d kill for and yet nobody came to say goodbye?”
I bite my lip, oddly pleased that she’s pissed on my behalf.
“What I give you, they don’t get. I’m not a nice guy, Lola, and they know it. Even if events didn’t play out the way they did today, planning a leaving party for me would’ve been akin to inviting people to a funeral. People are scared of me, and that’s the way I like it.”
“Then they could have thrown a ‘yay he’s leaving party,’” she grumbles.
I can’t help it. I laugh, which feels weird, though genuine.
“Why are you different with me?” she asks after a few minutes.
“Because I want to be.”
It really is as simple as that. I won’t change who I am for her—I couldn’t if I tried—but I can adapt. She’s like a splinter buried under my skin, burrowing a little deeper every day, and in a perverse way, I like it. The deeper she gets, the harder it will be for her to dig herself out.
“Get some rest. We have a long drive ahead of us.”
“Can I ask you a favor for when we get there?” she asks softly as she arranges the hoodie between her head and the glass.
