Page 18 of Moonlit Temptation

“She was always listening. She still is,” I murmur.

Her eyes are glassy, like she's on the verge of tears. The sight trips my waterworks wire, and like a reflex, my eyes start to fill.

She runs her index fingers underneath her eyes and blinks a few times while looking toward the ceiling. “Shit, I'm sorry. Enough about me. Tell me how it went for you.”

I waft my hand in the air, as if I can physically brush away her worries. We walk side by side down the hallway toward the rear exit. “No way, you're not getting off that easy. I wanna hear all about your new bakery soon.”

She bumps her shoulder into mine. “Of course, but stop deflecting.”

I exhale and chance a glance at her. “Her house.”

Her hand flies out in front of me and she stops instantly. “What?”

“Yep.” I scrunch my nose a little to keep the smile threatening in check. It feels weird to be this happy about Nana Jo's will. I'd rather have her.

“No shit,” she whispers, all wide-eyed.

“She left me Magnolia Lane and everything inside. It's already in my name, I guess.”

She tosses her arm across my shoulders and pushes open the door with a flourish.

I inhale the fresh air, letting the sun soak into my skin. It feels good, like the beginning of something exceptional.

“Welcome home, cousin.”

9

SILAS

I spinmy black baseball hat around from the back to the front, grimacing at the feel of the soggy material.

Shit. Now I needed a new air conditioneranda new hat. Probably.

“Tune, order whatever you have to and get that fucking air conditioner fixed, yeah?” The air conditioning stopped working six hours ago, and it's fucking hot as hell in here, even with all the bay doors open.

“On it, boss.” Tune nods and goes into the office in the back of the garage, presumably to source parts or a whole unit. He's a good kid, shit at singing though. The guys dubbed him Tune, as incan't hold onebefore he even patched in.

“See you assholes Monday.” I tap the top of the doorframe twice before I walk through it and head toward the clubhouse. I try not to keep the guys too late on a Saturday if I can help it. Thankfully, all the garages have been running smoothly. Which usually means shit is going to go south soon.

But not today, so for now, I'm out.

A small chorus is my farewell, a mixture of grunts and a couple laters. If my old man were still here, he wouldn't let their grumbles slide. He never could remember that this was a brotherhood, not a fucking personal army to do his bidding.

He'd mistake their words as disrespect and not for what they are: a garage full of men who've been sweltering in the brick oven we call a garage.

Mutual respect isn't something my old man ever mastered before he met his maker. That motherfucker would pick a fight just because it was a Tuesday afternoon.

He unleashed his pent up rage on anyone who breathed wrong. And Raymond St. James had enough rage to fill six lifetimes.

He grew up in theboys will be boysgeneration. And if it weren't for my ma, my brother and I would've probably grown into replicas of him.

Angry, bitter, and quick to violence.

To the club, he was the President of the Rosewood Reapers. A title he took literally, reveling in delivering the ultimate price for those who wronged the club.

But to us, he was Pops. Some mutated version of what he thought a father should be around the house, and the Prez around the club.

The man made more than his fair share of mistakes, but there's a standout moment in our relationship. One single decision he made that was entirely selfless. Some of the old timers even called it self-sabotaging, second-guessing his right to lead the Reapers.

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