Page 89 of Falcon’s Forever

“It’s forty pounds.”

“Thirty at most,” he argues.

I raise my eyebrows. “Want me to call Knox?”

Digger lets go immediately. Rook snorts and takes another drink of his coffee.

“That man has the whole club terrified,” Rook says.

“Let him near you with a needle and see how brave you feel,” Digger mutters.

We walk toward the garage together, and for a minute, nobody talks. Then Digger clears his throat.

“Falcon, you don’t have to keep apologizing.”

“I apologized once,” I tell him.

“You’ve checked on me about fourteen times.”

“That’s not apologizing.”

Digger gives me a sideways look. “Kind of is.”

Rook keeps his eyes forward, smart enough not to get in the middle of it.

“You got hurt on a run I was supposed to be overseeing,” I say.

“I know.” Digger adjusts his grip on the smaller toolbox. “But my mistake doesn’t stop being mine because you made one too. I swung first. Rook told me not to, and I did it anyway.”

“Nice to know something I said penetrated,” Rook comments.

Digger ignores him. “If you’d been there, I still might’ve swung.”

“Probably,” I admit.

“Definitely,” Rook adds.

“So we both learn,” Digger says. He shrugs like that settles the whole thing.

It kind of does. I stare at him for a second. “Christ. Knox should check your head again.”

“Fuck you,” Digger mutters.

Rook’s eyebrows go up.

Digger glances at him. “Respectfully.”

A short, real laugh escapes me, and both of them grin.

Inside the garage, Hustler is sitting on a stool with his shirt pushed up while Knox presses two fingers into the bruising along his ribs.

Hustler nods toward me. “Tell him I’m fine.”

“He isn’t fine,” Knox says without looking up.

“I can breathe,” Hustler argues.

Knox gives him a flat look. “Congratulations on achieving the minimum requirement for life.”