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"Thanks," I mutter, pouring us each a finger of scotch. “And that’s accurate. But Emily’s been helping with that. And Yolanda, too.”
“There’s an Emily and a Yolanda? You’re really setting up home here, Hunter. Gone and built yourself a harem?”
“Yolanda’s just a babysitter. Besides, she’s ancient, she’s one of the ol’ ladies’ grandmothers, and she might just be tougher than you or I put together.”
Diesel wiggles an eyebrow. “So is she single?”
“You’re welcome to try, but make sure you’ve made your funeral arrangements beforehand. She’ll eat you alive, brother.”
“So what does that make Emily?”
I hesitate. I know Emily thinks she’s ready, and she’s tougher than she gives herself credit for, but telling Diesel about her is just another step towards bringing her into my world. It’s something I said I’d do — ain’t no way around it when you tell someone you love them — but that doesn’t make it any less scary. “Babysitter, too. And something more. A lot more. She started out just helping me with Charlie, and fuck, I needed her. I was more lost back then than I am now. Since then, though… things have changed.”
“So, not only are you a single dad on a mission to avenge your brother’s death, you’re now fucking the babysitter? You’re just making all the fun decisions lately.”
I bristle at how dismissive he sounds. “You need to modulate your tone regarding Emily, Diesel. It’s more serious than just fucking.”
He breaks out into a grin wider than the Pacific Ocean, then wraps me in a hug. “For real? Holy shit, I’m so happy for you, brother. Maybe she’ll make you less of a hardass.”
I push Diesel away, trying to keep the smile off my face. "Alright, alright. Enough with the touchy-feely shit. We've got work to do."
Diesel nods, his expression turning serious. "Right. So, what's the plan? I assume you didn't call me here just to babysit and drink scotch."
I take a sip of my drink, savoring the burn. "No, I didn't. Babysitting isn’t all drinking scotch and singing ‘Ring of Fire’ to a baby. I know there are some of Moretti’s guys in town. They’ve been harassing Emily, which, obviously, I can’t fucking allow. What we need to do is start turning over stones, see what scumbags turn up. Once we find out who’s responsible, we make sure they can’t hurt anyone else."
Diesel's eyes light up with a familiar gleam. "Now we're talking. When do we start?"
"Soon. I need to make arrangements for Charlie, see if Yolanda can take him for a few days. And I have to figure things out with the Twisted Devils. I’m still working that angle to get in, get the extra protection and put down some roots, but that’s up in the air.”
“So what are we doing until then?“
“I said babysitting wasn’t all drinking scotch, hanging out, and singing Johnny Cash, but that doesn’t mean it isn’t sometimes.” I pour another round and raise my glass. “Cheers.” I take another sip of scotch, feeling the warmth spread through my chest. "Diesel, I love her. Emily. I love her in a way I didn't think was possible for someone like me."
Diesel's eyebrows shoot up. "Whoa, Hunter, that's heavy. You sure about this?"
"As sure as I've ever been about anything." I lean forward, my voice low and intense. "And I need to make things safe here. For Charlie. For Emily. No matter what it takes."
"What exactly does that mean, brother?" Diesel's eyes narrow, searching my face.
Without breaking eye contact, I reach for my sidearm and place it on the table next to our glasses with a dull thud. Then, never looking away from Diesel, I pull up my pant leg and draw the smaller pistol from my ankle holster, setting it beside the first.
"It means I'll kill every motherfucker who threatens them. I'll burn this whole goddamn town to ashes if that's what it takes to keep Emily and Charlie safe." My voice is a growl, my words dripping with venom and determination. "I've never wanted anything like I want this, Diesel. A family. A home. And I'll be damned if I let anyone take that away from me."
“So we find these threats and we kill them all?” Diesel says.
“We kill them all.”
In the other room, Charlie begins to cry.
Chapter Thirty-Five
Emily
“Are these wipes flushable?” The question hits me just a second before a pack of wet wipes hits the counter in front of me.
I look up from my computer screen — where my research paper sits stubbornly unfinished, moving with all the speed of a two-legged tortoise — and see Harper grinning at me. Sophie’s beside her, sucking on a lollipop.
“No. Wipes are never flushable, despite what they might say on the package. They cause major problems for cities. Have you ever heard of fatbergs?” I say.
