Page 39 of Coach
“Oh, Itotallylike woodworking,” a pretty blonde who was in town visiting family, claimed. She was leaned over the island, her low-cut dress making some of her assets nearly spill out.
“Oh yeah?” I asked. I was trying to be present. It wasn’t like me to completely avoid parties. Sure, I often showed up late, cut out early, or took breaks. What can I say? No matter how manyyears I had to make up for from being locked away, I was about at my fill of partying.
I was at the place where I was looking at my older club brothers, the ones who had women they loved, who were starting families, creating foundations for the future, and I was envious.
“Yeah, you know… drilling… screwing… all very interesting,” the blonde said.
It was safe to assume this woman wasn’t the future mother of my children.
But was that enough reason to excuse myself, to walk away?
I’d barely spoken to a woman in days. I hadn’t taken anyone to bed in weeks.
The interest just wasn’t there.
But was that healthy?
To be waiting on a woman who didn’t seem to be thinking about me?
“Sweetheart,” Saint said, running a hand across the woman’s back. “My brother wants to talk to you.”
“Oh, okay,” the blonde said, happy to give her attention to a more willing recipient.
“Thought you looked like you needed an out,” Saint said, reaching for a cold mozzarella stick off a tray on the island.
“Appreciate it.”
“So, is this what I have to look forward to?”
“What?”
“Getting jaded as fuck and not wanting to take a woman up on her offer to go drilling?”
“When I first got out, I took every willing woman to bed too,” I told him. “I never thought it would get old either.”
“And yet a beautiful woman was standing here talking about screwing you, and you looked bored.” He turned back, watchingthe woman latch onto Syn. “To be fair, I think Syn needed the attention more than you did.”
A dark cloud moved across Saint’s face. I could practically hear his thoughts. About the years he’d been away, unable to protect his brother as their old business went to hell. About how the only way Syn felt safe was to literally live in a storage unit, cut off from the world just as much as Saint had been while locked in a cell.
When he had sacrificed himself in the hopes of freeing his brother, there was no way Saint could have imagined how much Syn would still need to suffer. This time, all alone.
“He’s settling in,” I assured Saint.
Sure, Saint got lucky with a decent parole officer, but he had to technically keep an apartment in town for check-ins and inspections. He made it clear to us that if we couldn’t find and bring in his little brother, he had no intention of joining the club. So he’d settled in a bit at his apartment. But there wasn’t room for Syn, so he was in one of our rooms instead.
“Settling in or living his life?” Saint asked, glancing back at me. “I think we both know there’s a big difference.”
“He was in that storage unit a long time. It’s going to take a while to readjust. Took me over a year to get off the prison schedule. Shit was so ingrained in me.”
“Still wake up thinking I hear the fucking buzzer every morning.”
“And that fucking droning voice on the intercom,” I agreed. “He’s eating his meals with us. He’s taking women to bed. He hasn’t really hit the town yet, but he hasn’t been here that long. Baby steps.”
“Yeah,” Saint agreed. “I’m gonna go take that redhead off his hands,” he said before walking off.
Turning, I made my way toward the back of the building, pausing to grab a gun, then moving outside to get some air and do a quick scan of the grounds.
I was maybe only five feet outside the back door when I heard it.
