Page 81 of Thug

He removed his cowboy hat, rubbed his sun-spotted head with his hand, and then put the hat on. He tugged it down tight. “Be honest with her.”

“But. There’s things that—”

He raised his brows. “Things you can’t talk about?”

I nodded. “Yes, sir.”

“Then, don’t talk about ‘em.” He took a sip of whisky. “Big difference between lying and not speaking. You an outlaw, Son?”

I laughed. “I suppose so.”

He grinned. “Welcome to the club. How long you been with this gal?”

“We’re just starting out.”

“She knows you’re an outlaw?”

“She does.”

“Be honest with her up front,” he explained. “Tell her that there’s things you won’t be able to talk about, and that she shouldn’t ask. If she can’t respect that, she’s probably not going to do anything but cause you problems. If she can accept that there’ll be bits and pieces of things she’ll never know, she’s a keeper.”

Being in Gray’s presence provided me with a sense of relief that I had never known. My time away from her was becoming increasingly difficult. I yearned to be in her presence and find the solace she provided. Not knowing our future was weighing heavily on my mind.

I walked to the other side of the island and took a seat. “Most of the men I run with don’t have women in their lives,” I admitted. “They think a woman complicates matters.”

He turned his head to the side and gave me a narrow-eyed glare. “They’re damned fools,” he said. “A man burdened with grief can find no grace in the absence of a woman’s touch.”

I recited what he said, mentally. “I like that. Who said it?”

He raised his glass and grinned. “That’s a Cactus Jack original.”

I cradled my glass of whisky and considered where I should start. Considering what I’d learned, I felt comfortable that Jack was a man I could trust. Gazing blankly at the golden scotch, I began.

“I run with a group of men that form an organized group. We’re criminals in the eyes of the law, but by your definition, we’re outlaws. We have a set of rules and regulations we adhere to, and we call them bylaws. We all ride motorcycles together.”

“Sounds like a motorcycle gang to me.”

I had no idea if he knew what one was. “I didn’t know if you knew what one was.”

He pushed the brim of his hat up high enough to expose his eyes. He scowled. “I might be old, but I’m not an old idiot. The Hells Angels, Outlaws, and those Mongols were riding this part of the country long before you graced this earth with your presence.”

“Well, we like to call ourselves a club—”

He burst out in laughter. He set his whisky aside and flapped his arms. “If I called myself an eagle, do you think I could soar?”

“The government labeled us a gang. We call ourselves a club to spite them.”

His gaze narrowed. “But you know what you are?”

“We do.”

“You fellas rob banks?”

“No, Sir.”

“Planning on it?”

“No, Sir.”