Page 302 of Devil’s Disciples

“I agree.” He turned down the music and stood. “I know you’re not here to talk music. How’s the girl?”

“Abby? She’s great, thanks.”

“Didn’t wreck the car, did you?”

“Nope.”

I crossed my arms and looked around the room. “Bought a ring.”

“I’m guessing it’s not a clunky sterling silver set-up with a skull on it, is it?”

I laughed. “Nope.”

“You’re proposing to her?”

“Planning on it.”

“It’s a good feeling. Committing to a woman you love. I proposed to Andy on Christmas morning.”

“Do you have any regrets?”

“About becoming engaged? Hell no.”

“No,” I said. “About how you did it? On Christmas morning?”

He shook his head. “No. Why would I?”

I shrugged. “I don’t know. I’ve been carrying this ring around for three or four days and can’t seem to find the right time to give it to her.”

He chuckled. “Sounds to me like you’re having second thoughts.”

“Not at all,” I said. “I just don’t want to do it at the wrong time, and I don’t want some cliché bullshit attached to my memory of it. Or, to hers.”

“Not at Christmas, then?”

“Nothing against you, Brother, but no.”

He stroked his beard. “Do it at a time that’s natural. You know the feeling you get when you just feel like kissing her? Like, out of the blue?”

“Yeah, it happens all the time, why?”

“Give it to her at one of those times,” he said. “It’ll feel natural. Or, in one of those moments when you’re laying in bed admiring her. When she does something cute. When she, and you, are least expecting it. It’ll feel natural. Who gives a fuck about the story that’s attached to it. Do it for you, and for her, not for the story you’ll tell about it later.”

I nodded. “Good point.”

“Everything else okay?” he asked. “Is she still sick?”

“She’s better. Fucking oysters.”

“Didn’t bother me. Cash puked out his butt for two days. Must have been some bad ones in there. Hell, he flew them in from Louisiana, fresh. It’s not the Goose’s fault.”

“Not blaming him,” I said. “Just one of those deals.”

He studied me for a moment, and then grinned. “Finally lifted that ass of yours off that wallet.”

“What?”

“Other than building that fucking Mustang, you haven’t spent a dollar since high school. Took you thirteen years to build that car. As far as I can figure, that’s five hundred bucks a month, give or take. Hell, that’s the interest you’re receiving off our first job. You don’t even own a house, you rent one. You’re so tight, you squeak when you walk.”