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I hope no one can see what’s happening over here.
Lee ends up ordering so much food for us that it takes two waiters to bring it all out. We have ahugegrilled chicken Caesar salad that we split—which istwelve dollarson its own, by the way, plus an extra six with the chicken added; loaded supreme nachos—fifteen; five-cheese mac and cheese–eighteen; and a shrimp po’boy—sixteen.
And since I really did want the burger and fries, he ordered that for me, too.
“Now I see why everything is so expensive,” I say, gawking at all the plates in front of us. “These portions are huge.”
He nods and helps himself to some of the mac and cheese first. “I want my guests to feel like they’re getting what they’re paying for when they come here.”
I cut the po’boy in half and smile. “You love what you do.” It’s more of a statement than a question.
He nods. “I do.”
“And killing people? You love doing that, too?”
I’m only half serious, but he doesn’t crack a grin.
“I did at first,” he answers honestly, “but then I grew to resent it.”
“So why do you still do it when you have all this?” I gesture around the restaurant.
He takes a bite of the mac and cheese and considers his answer for a moment. “Because I’m good at it.”
His answer gives me chills. I can relate to that, feeling content in a situation because it’s all you’ve ever known, and probably all you will ever know.
“So, you’ll never quit, even though you have the hotels to fall back on?”
He shakes his head. “Death has been ingrained in me since I was a teenager. It’s hard to just walk away from this life. I left my motorcycle club thinking I would be free from this, and instead I found myself with my boys.” He runs a hand over his beard contemplatively. “Now that I have my brothers, I couldn’t imagine walking away from them.”
“Would Ezra be mad if he knew you wanted to leave?”
Lee considers his answer for a moment before answering. “Ezra wants me to be happy.”
“He thinks you’re happy with the Eastlake Syndicate, so that’s why you stay.”
He nods and takes a bite of the mac and cheese. His love for his friends touches my heart, but I can tell this is a hard topic for him, so I decide to change the subject. “How did you end up doing what you do? And working with Ezra?”
Something dark passes over his face, but then it’s gone before I have a chance to ask him what’s wrong.
“I was practically raised by a motorcycle club,” he starts. “My father’s abandonment was hard on my mom, and she found comfort in his fellow club members. They were violent, angry, and depraved, but they offered us a sort of safe haven when we needed it most. Johnny, my mom’s boyfriend, was brutal. He was prone to violent mood swings that left the house in complete shambles. I had seen him at his most debased self, and it scared the absolute shit out of me. Fucker didn’t have any compassion or humanity, except for my mom and me. He treated me like I was his blood, and my mother like a queen. She was so happy with him that she could always look past his…interests.” He shakes his head as if to rid away the bad memories.
“Something tells me I don’t want to know what thoseinterestsare,” I say, scrunching up my face in disgust.
He nods in agreement. “You don’t. Johnny was the one who taught me how to kill. I’d seen him do it so many times without even a second thought that it just became second nature to me. He relished in the screams and cries of his enemies. He had no hesitation putting a bullet through someone’s skull or torturing a man to get what he wanted. I became desensitized to it all. With no biological children of his own, I was the heir to the kingdom he created. I followed in his footsteps and carried out the bloodshed and carnage he was best known for.”
My eyebrows rise. I know I shouldn’t be surprised, but I am. Even though I know what he does with his time, it’s just surprising to hear him say it, and to be so honest about it. Every time I think how hard it is to imagine him being so deadly, I remember back to the first time we met when he unloaded an entire gun into a man’s body. He’d done it without hesitation to save my life, without fear of repercussions, because he knew there wouldn’t be any.
“So, what about your mother? Where is she now?” I ask, sipping on my sweet tea.
Pain shadows his face, and I instantly wish I hadn’t just asked him that.
“Lee, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to—” I start, but he cuts me off.
“It’s okay. You didn’t know.” He grabs his glass of bourbon and downs the whole thing in one go, gritting his teeth at the taste.
When he’s finally ready to talk, he looks down at the table, seemingly lost in thought. “My mom was my everything. She was beautiful and warm, and way too young when she died.”
The food begins to turn tasteless on my tongue. “Can I ask what happened to her?” I whisper.
