Page 40 of Property of Tacoma
As he walks away, I take a slow sip of my beer, letting my eyes wander around the clubhouse. It’s different from the clubhouse in Jacksonville.
It’s much bigger and more lived-in.
There’s history in these walls.
The clubhouse back home feels like a frat house on most days.
A place for the guys to drink and hook up with the sweetbutts.
This place feels almost... homey, despite the pool tables, bar, and the obvious stripper pole on the small stage in the corner.
The aroma of tomato sauce and garlic wafts through the air, making my stomach growl. The lasagna Roxy’s making smells incredible.
I haven’t had a home-cooked meal in ages—unless you count the frozen burgers the guys throw on the grill back at home.
“Miss Foxy!” Saylor comes racing across the clubhouse, her dark ponytail bouncing behind her. “Grandma says dinner’s almost ready!”
Her enthusiasm is infectious, and I can’t help but grin at her. “That’s great. I’m starving.”
“Me too!” She grabs my hand, tugging me off the barstool. “Come on, you have to sit next to me.”
I let her pull me toward the long tables that have been pushed together in the center of the room. The setup reminds me of those big Italian family dinners you see in movies—the kind I’ve always secretly envied.
Growing up, dinners were usually me and Pops, or me alone with a plate left in the microwave while everyone was off handling “club business.”
“You can sit here,” Saylor announces, patting the chair beside her. “And Jagger’s gonna sit on your other side. Right, Jag?”
Jagger, who’s been helping set out plates, rolls his eyes at his sister but doesn’t contradict her. “Whatever, squirt.”
Before long, the clubhouse is filled with the sound of chairs scraping against the floor as everyone takes their seats.
The tables are crowded with bodies—Tacoma at the head, his officers spread out among the other members.
It strikes me how different this is from what I’m used to.
The Saints get together for cookouts occasionally, but nothing like this—nothing that feels quite so much like a Sunday dinner.
My eyes find Tacoma, and my breath catches at the intensity in his gaze.
He’s watching me, those blue eyes fixed on my face like I’m some puzzle he’s trying to solve.
Roxy emerges from the kitchen, following her husband who’s carrying a massive dish of lasagna that smells like heaven.
He gently places it on the table as Roxy calls out, “Dig in, everyone!”
There’s no hesitation as plates are passed around and food is loaded up.
The room fills with appreciative murmurs and the clinking of silverware against plates.
“This is amazing, Roxy,” Bash says around a mouthful of pasta.
“Best lasagna in Florida,” Journey adds, half his plate already empty and eyes glued to the dish like he’s ready for seconds.
“Thanks for cooking, Ma,” Tacoma says, his deep voice carrying across the table.
I take my first bite and nearly moan out loud.
The flavors are perfect—rich tomato sauce, creamy cheese, perfectly seasoned meat. “This is incredible,” I tell Roxy, who beams with pride.
