Page 80 of Thunder's Reckoning

THE SMELL OFeggs, bacon, and burnt toast hit me before I even stepped in the kitchen. Mornin’ at the clubhouse never been quiet, chairs screechin’, forks clinkin’, somebody bitchin’ the coffee’s too strong while a prospect laughed like he owned the place. A couple of the boys sat hunched at the counter, eyes red as hell, shovelin’ food like they was tryin’ to hold on to it.

Fiona set another plate of them mouthwaterin’ biscuits down in front of ’em — that woman could bake her way outta any trouble.

Josie was at the stove, sleeves rolled up, lettin’ Malik stand on a chair to flip pancakes. Kid’s tongue stuck out in that serious way kids get when they’re tryin’ not to mess up. Both hands on the spatula, Josie guidin’ him like they was runnin’ the world. Every time he landed one halfway decent, he smacked his back and hollered “chef,” and the kid lit up like somebody lit a match in him.

Zara sat at the table with that stuffed bunny tucked under her arm, brows all scrunched up like she was studyin’ her eggs harder than a math problem.

And Sable — Christ. She was leanin’ on the table, hair twisted up into a messy knot, wearin’ one of my old T-shirts that barely skirted the top of her thighs. When she looked up and caught me in the doorway, that soft little smile tugged at her mouth, and just like that, the racket around us got muffled, like somebody turned the world low.

That look done me in proper.

“Hope you hungry,” she said, noddin’ at Josie and Malik. “They been busy.”

“Always,” I grunted, leanin’ my shoulder against the frame and takin’ it all in. This — whatever this was — felt too clean for my kind of life. Too easy. Like somethin’ you didn’t get to keep. Still, hell if I wasn’t clingin’ to it anyway.

We shoved in at one of the long tables, all elbows and crumbs. It was messy as sin, Malik droppin’ his fork twice, Zara complainin’ her toast was “too brown,” and me burnin’ my tongue on coffee that tasted like old oil. One of the brothers limped through moanin’ about a scrap last night, a sweet butt stumbled past in yesterday’s heels fussin’ about a lost charger. But settin’ there with Sable and them kids, I wouldn’t have traded it for quiet and order if you shoved money in my face.

Plates cleared, most of the noise dyin’ down, Sable leaned in close. “You got plans today?” she asked.

“Thought I’d run down to the garage. Talk to Gearhead ’bout that custom build we got brewin’.”

Malik’s head snapped up, eyes hittin’ me like stars. “Can I come?”

I paused. Kid usually stayed back, kept to hisself. This here was brave.

“Yeah,” I said, grin tryin’ to crawl out. “Yeah, you can.”

Zara pouted, arms crossed. “That ain’t fair.”

“You and me’ll do somethin’ tomorrow,” I promised.

Sable kissed her on the crown. “We can go for a walk by the water.”

Zara scrunched her nose, then melted into a smile, her face turnin’ whole damn near like her momma’s. “Okay.”

The ride to the garage didn’t take long; ten minutes or so. Malik hung on tight the whole way, little hands clutchin’ my sides like he was afraid the world might shake him loose. I kept the throttle easy, let the wind do the talkin’.

Gearhead was bent under the hood of some old Chevy when we rolled up, grease streaked up his forearms. He gave us a nod without liftin’ his head.

“Brought good company,” I said, jerkin’ my chin toward Malik.

“Prob’ly better conversation than you,” Gearhead muttered, never missin’ a beat.

Malik grinned.

I showed him round the shop, bikes, tools, the sharp tang of oil and hot metal hangin’ in the air. He asked quiet questions at first, then got bold. When I let him heft a wrench nearly as big as his arm, he held it like it was treasure. Careful. Respectful. Kid got steadiness in him, same as his sister got fire.

Later we sat on an old tire out back, away from the hum and the radio. He played with a stick, scratchin’ patterns in the dirt, and I drank from my water bottle.

That’s when he said it, small and thin.

“My real mom… she used to be nice like Sable.”

I didn’t answer. I just kept lookin’ at him, let him know I was listenin’.

“She was pretty. I don’t remember her voice too good, but she used to sing sometimes.” He twisted the stick between his fingers. “Papa Gabrial… he said she was bad. Took me away from her.”

His voice broke. “He killed her.”