Page 13 of Danger Close (Mourningkill #3)

Shameless

Teri

Greg ordered me a second beer. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d had more than one drink at dinner.

Emboldened by the fermented wheat, I confessed my situation because I was certain I’d never have anyone else to tell.

I skipped the details of the fight between me and Cobra, of course.

But I admitted to fainting after realizing that a man I hadn’t seen in almost thirty years was standing before me!

Then I woke up here, in Mourningkill, to go to my daughter’s wedding.

That I did not have a wallet or phone, and hadn’t asked for it back.

“I promise I will pay you back,” I promised.

He waved me off.

“In the words of the bard, ‘neither borrower nor lender be’.” He shrugged. “If it was good enough for Shakespeare, it’s good enough for a pleb like me.”

He pushed the beer towards me, a tender smile on his face.

“A young man who knows Shakespeare?” I couldn’t hide my smile. “So far we have discussed Socrates, Siddhartha, and Carl Jung. You are certainly a unique young man, Greg.”

I imagined that his barn loft apartment would be filled with worn paperbacks by the great philosophers.

“Dont forget Hypatia,” he said with a nod. “She doesn’t get near enough credit in philosophical discussions.”

He had surprised me by naming many female philosophers: Mary Wollstonecraft, Hypatia of Alexandria, and my personal favorite, Simone de Beauvoir.

Greg looked around the tavern, as if searching for a familiar face.

“Are you looking for someone?” I nudged his foot with my own, drawing his attention back to me.

His polite smile returned when a young waitress came with a beer bottle. She was pretty enough, but he was prettier. But I did wonder if he would try to hit on her if I wasn’t occupying this seat.

“Not really,” he said, taking a drink of his beer. “She wouldn’t be here.”

“Ah!” I said, delighted. “A paramour?”

He chuckled, his green eyes sparkling as he looked at me with a boyish grin.

“Nah.” That word should sound horrendous, like a donkey breying. But when he said it, with his rural charm, it was charming. “She’s not interested.”

“Oh?” I said, skeptically, letting my eyes lazily run down the parts of him I could see above the table.

He was effortlessly roguish. Very unkempt, but quite rugged.

His face was something to marvel at, even though he hid much of it behind a two-day old stubble.

His jaw was sharp, his nose straight, and while it was large, it wasn’t unattractive.

His brows were prominent, and his eyes—well, they were the perfect hunter’s eyes with a positive cantal tilt. Deep set and serious.

The boy should be put on the cover of a magazine.

“Is she not a fan of classical philosophy? Does she find your talks of Hypatia dull?” I smirked. “Though, with your looks, I don’t even think that would be a deterrent.”

Greg threw his head back and laughed, his Adam’s apple bobbing. It was a fantastic sight.

The food arrived, and I looked at the greasy American meal, picking up the knife and fork to cut the massive cheeseburger in half.

He dug right in, grabbing the burger with one hand, and then slopping ketchup to a miniscule, open space on his plate with the other.

“Your table manners may need some work,” I said without thinking. “But I doubt that would put off a young lady, given the rest of your packaging.”

He paused mid-bite, his eyes going from me to the burger, then back again.

He straightened, put down the burger, then sheepishly picked up a French fry with two fingers as he sheepishly said, “Sorry.”

“Don’t stop eating on my account,” I said, waving a knife at him. “I’m sure you could commit murder and still be considered loveable.”

He blushed but smiled, picking up his burger again.

“Truly, I don’t mean to be so critical. Sometimes I speak without thinking.” I wasn’t sorry for being honest. But I was sorry for the way my honesty came out. “If a man like you can’t get the person he wants, then there’s truly no hope for the rest of us.”

Why did I think of Cobra at that moment? His hard eyes, his scowl, the way his hand had rested on my thigh.

“Mrs. Guerro, you’re trying to seduce me, aren’t you?” he joked, with a twinkle in his eye.

“Oh,” I said, pawing at the air to tell him to stop his joking. “It’s cruel to tease an old woman! Have some respect for your elders!”

Greg laughed, leaning back in his chair. “You know, you’re not what I expected.”

“And what did you expect?” I posed with my chin on my knuckles, my elbow on the table.

“I don’t know. Horns, maybe?” He shrugged. “A wicked stepmother-type. I’ve heard Trinity talk about you, and this wasn’t the picture it conjured.”

I tensed, then forced myself to relax. With a practiced smile that I’d once reserved for photographs—the kind that didn’t wrinkle the eyes—I shrugged.

“I can’t say I’m surprised.” Hurt? Yes. Surprised? No. “My daughter and I have never seen eye to eye.”

“My mom and I didn’t either,” he said, his eyes narrowed. “But my mom’s not like you.”

He looked at me, his mouth partially open, as if he hadn’t completely expressed his thought, and I was more than happy to wait for him to tell me more.

“Every time you say Taz’s name, you light up. Then you get sad.” He took a drink, and I followed suit, just to fill in the brief pause in our conversation. “You wouldn’t be so conflicted if you didn’t love her.”

“Your mother didn’t love you?” How could someone not love this boy?

“She loved herself,” he said with a degree of honesty that one didn’t often find among young people. “She loved me as an extension of herself.”

I felt for him. I understood him.

“That was how my father loved as well,” I said quietly.

He’d beaten my mother bloody when she was not the appropriate extension of himself. I learned to be perfect in a way my mother never did. I was pretty and unobtrusive. A proper young lady. I endured his cruelty with golden silence. That was what made him happy until the day I left Nantes for Paris.

I was a terrible mother. But I loved Trinity—stubborn, strong, intelligent, and lost as she might be. She was no more an extension of me than a falcon in the dive was an extension of a caged canary. Where I was bound by clipped wings, Trinity was always able to soar.

“I’m sorry,” I said, quietly. “When your parents do not love you as they should, it can be very painful.”

With a cheeky little smile, Greg raised his bottle in the air in a toast, “To loveless parents!”

We clinked glasses, and I offered another toast.

“ Mourir d’amour, vivre de haine ,” I whispered, and sipped my drink.

Greg lifted a single brow, waiting for a translation. “Help me out here, Mama Guerro. I barely passed Spanish at the Defense Language Institute. I have a feeling French would be way past anything I could get through my thick skull.”

I chuckled at the little nickname – Mama Guerro. Well, if I had any doubts of this boy’s intentions, I suppose that cleared things up. I would remain Mrs. Guerro, and not Mrs. Robinson.

“It means ‘Dying from love. Living for hate’.” I explained.

“Is that what you’re doing?” he asked, like a therapist trying to get me to talk.

I rather liked that about him. I wondered why Trinity had chosen the terse one, and not this gentle soul instead.

“I suppose,” I said, quietly, trying not to look too deep into the answer. Not now. Not when I was barely holding myself together. “When there’s nothing else, hate is as good a reason as any to keep breathing.”