Page 46 of Bones and Ashes

That news.

Her reaction to it.

My witnessin' of it.

I plant my hands on the granite on either side of the sink and stare into the drain. It feels wrong to miss her, but I do.

And this missin' stuff, it comes with a lot of guilt about how indifferent I was to her constant attention and presence.

And now here I am, standin' in her house, about to have dinner with her fractured family, holdin' a sudden realization that things stopped bein’ OK a long time ago.

I look back at the mirror. Note the lines startin' to form around my eyes. The weariness not so hidden in the blue. The beard that needs trimmin' that will probably never get trimmed.

This is who I am now.

Outlaw.

When I come out of the bathroom, Cash is waitin' for me. Sittin' in a burgundy leather wingback chair, one ankle propped on one knee, elbow leanin' on the armrest like he's just relaxin'.

I stop in my tracks. Unable to not notice the difference between us. I'm wearin’ my club jacket because I didn't wanna leave it upstairs. Patches all over it. Badlands center patch ridin' my back like a brand. Skulls. Ride badges. Rally pins from towns I barely remember bein' sober in. The leather's creased and stained and it smells like road tar and cigarette smoke and the kind of loyalty you can't wash out.

My jeans look like they've spent the last ten years in the dirt—because they fuckin' have. Knees blown white. Thighs worn thin. Stains I couldn't name if someone paid me, ground so deep into the denim they're part of the fabric now.

My boots are scuffed so bad the leather over the steel toe caps is gone. Bare metal catchin' the light like a wound that won't close.

Everything about me says road.

Says cell block.

Says I don't belong in this hallway, in this house, on this side of the property line.

Cash looks like he just walked off the set of fuckin' Yellowstone. Crisp white shirt, pressed so clean it hurts my eyes. Stetson sittin' on the side table next to him like it's got its own goddamn throne. Hand-tooled and polished boots. Belt buckle catchin' the light, proclaimin' him a champion of some deadly sport with a bull or a horse. His jeans are worn, but not dirty.

Everything about him says land.

Says legacy.

Says I belong in this chair, in this house, on this earth, and you don't.

And the thing is, he's not even tryin'. That's just what money looks like when it's been in the bloodline long enough to get comfortable.

The other irritatin' thing about Cash Ashby is that… it's not fake. He's not playin' cowboy, he is one.

If I had caught him this mornin', he would've been dusty and dirty. Wearin' yellow leather gloves that have been used so much, the yellow wore off. Used so much, they're molded to the shape of his hands.

But it's dinner time now.

And the Ashby's are the kind of people who change for dinner.

"Were you waitin' on me, or somethin'?" I ask.

He points to the wingback opposite his. "Have a seat, Legion. Let's talk."

I don't move. I simply narrow my eyes. "Talk about what?"

"It's clear," he says, "that you're here to stay. So I figured… it was time to actually get to know one another."

I can't contain the scoff. "Is that right?"