Eight

EIGHT

B efore I went to sleep, I had these fleeting visions of waking him up in the morning with a blowjob, kissing him all over, and of course, taking him over and over as he called my name. And they had all tumbled through my brain quickly because I didn't even remember closing my eyes. The next thing I knew, Lang's phone was pinging like he was receiving eight thousand text messages, and then my phone started ringing.

Sitting up, not altogether awake, blinking and bleary, I watched as Lang grabbed the shorts I'd been wearing the previous night, pulled out my phone, and answered, which he did all the time. I did the same with his, as we both knew the other's code.

"What?" he groused at whoever was on the other end. "Why are you blowing up my phone and calling Del when?—"

He listened a moment.

"What?"

I tried to focus, but my eyes weren't doing that yet. I finally got the right one to work, so I closed the left.

"How?" Again he listened. "No, sorry, what I meant to say was, why?"

More listening, and I thought, since he was only talking now and then, maybe I would go on and lay my head back down.

"No," he ordered, his voice changing, so I knew that was for me. "Get in the shower."

I shook my head.

"Hold on," he ordered into the phone, then to me, "I have stuff you can wear, there's a new toothbrush by the sink on the left, and everything else you need is in there. You'll smell better than normal."

I flipped him off.

"There are things I want on your face, on your body—don't shake your head at me. You are a grown-up," he scolded. "Sunscreen and you need to be far better acquainted."

Throwing the covers off, I got out of bed, heading for the bathroom because I needed to pee. "I'll go home and?—"

"Look at me."

When I turned, he was scowling. "You will not go home."

"I can meet?—"

"My father," he said flatly.

His father? I was glued to the spot to hear more.

"Yeah. You heard right. I said my father."

"I'm sorry?" I took a step toward him.

"Apparently, he's at my mother's house."

"Wait." Was I still asleep? "What?"

"Yeah," he rushed out. "I guess he rolled up to the front door with his new family and wanted to speak to her."

"New family?"

Getting out of bed, crossing the room to me, he hit the speaker button. "Del's here too, T. You got us both."

"Which I will ask about when I see you, but right now, I'm on my way to Mom's. Aunt Viola is almost there, and she has Aunt Tracy and Aunt Julie with her."

Meaning, Etta's sisters showed up to support her during this surprise visit from her ex. I was happy about that. I didn't know much about Lang's father other than the fact that after his parents got divorced, the man was nowhere to be found.

"Why is he there?" I asked Talia. "Did he tell her?"

"I don't know. All she told me was that he was there with her and to call my brother."

"Why did she call you and not me?"

"We were on the phone when he knocked on the door. I was telling her what happened to me last night, and I was asking if Ethan and I could come by."

"You're taking Sharpe to meet our mother?" Lang asked far too loudly.

"Yes, I am."

"You met the man yesterday."

"But we stayed up all night talking."

"I think I'm going to throw up," Lang warned me, and I snatched my phone from him.

"We just woke up," I told Talia. "We were on a case and didn't get home until three."

"Well, it's ten now, so you two need to take the world's fastest showers and get the hell over to Mom's."

"Hold on," I told her and put the phone on mute before meeting Lang's gaze. "Do you want me to go with you, or would that be too much?"

"Since when do you not go with me whenever I see my mother?"

I squinted at him. "Let's agree that this is different. It's your father."

"It's not different to me."

"Okay, then," I said, smiling.

"Don't start acting weird now and second-guessing normal things."

"I won't," I promised. "And I know I haven't brushed my teeth yet, but c'mere."

He walked into me and wrapped me in his arms. "Best wake-up in the morning ever."

"Yeah, it was." I gave him a hard squeeze and a quick kiss. "Let's keep doin' it."

"Deal," he said softly.

I unmuted my phone. "Okay, sorry. When do we need to be there?"

"Now," she insisted. "And were you asking Lang if he wanted you there?"

"I was, yes."

"Jesus Christ, Del, why would you even ask such a stupid question?"

"Yeah, Del," Lang said, grinning at me. "Why would you?"

I shook my head at him.

"Lang always wants you there," Talia went on, working herself up. "I want you there, and most importantly, my mother wants you there. I will bet you money right now that she will want to hold your hand."

"What're you talkin' about?"

"At church when we all go, or whenever we're all in the kitchen talking, she always reaches for you. Have you never noticed that?"

I looked at Lang, who nodded. "You better not be going anywhere for Christmas or New Year's because she'll be heartbroken."

It was a lot, and I was both happy and overwhelmed.

"I too would be heartbroken," Lang uttered, meeting my gaze. "Holidays are for family, which you have, yes?"

"Yes," I concurred.

"And that has nothing to do with us," he explained, and Talia had to be slightly confused if she was giving this her full attention. "That has to do with how we—meaning me, my sister, and my mother—all feel about you."

"How do you feel?" I asked, staring into his eyes.

"I think I made that clear last night."

"I would like to be reminded, please."

"We'll be there as soon as we can," Lang told Talia, then ended the call and cupped my cheek. "You're very needy this morning."

"Yes," I granted, still holding his gaze.

"Okay, so it turns out, I don't love you as one does their best friend. I'm in love with you."

"You are?"

He grunted.

"How do you know?"

"How do I know?"

I nodded.

"Well, see, when I'm with you, I feel the need to touch you, and hear you laugh, and have every drop of your attention on me."

"You do?"

Quick lift of his eyebrows to tell me he did. "And even more telling is that when we're apart, I think about you the whole time and count how long it will be before we're back together."

The sigh made me sound lovesick, but that was all right since I was. "That's pretty good."

"Well, it was messing me up until I figured it out."

"Which is why you were still datin'."

"Yeah. I'm not proud of that but I… I didn't know what to do."

"When did you figure it out?" I asked, ignoring his comment because I understood. We all retreated into the known when faced with something new. Change was never easy.

"I had it mostly done over the last month or so, but then last night, when you walked into the restaurant with Talia, I was like, finally, I can calm down. I don't have to wonder what you're doing anymore because you're right beside me."

"I knew before that."

"And yet, you said nothing," he pointed out.

"I was scared."

"Which was dumb."

"Yes," I conceded, having trouble getting the words out.

"We're both a little dense," he said, drawing me close. "Don't tell Kage."

"Yeah, no. That'd be bad."

He kissed me then, morning breath and all, and it was a good one, doing what all Lang's kisses did, lighting me up inside like a pinball machine, all flashing lights and whistles.

We stood there, wrapped around each other, lips locked, when my phone rang. It took four rings for me to untangle myself enough to answer.

"Yeah?" I responded breathlessly.

"Why are you two standing around having a talk about Christmas?" she asked, sounding so very annoyed. "Who cares? We have months to discuss that to death. You need to meet me at Mom's house ASAP!"

"Why are you yelling?" Lang asked her. "Are you worried our father means to do some kind of bodily harm to our mother, because I have to tell you, that doesn't seem likely and good luck trying. She's scrappy."

"And has many weapons scattered around the house," I reminded him.

"Yeah. See?"

"No, I'm not concerned about that."

Something occurred to me. "You said he brought his new family? Are you worried she's gonna be sad about that and needs emotional support?"

"Yes to that one!" Talia answered firmly. "Now will you two hurry the fuck up!"

"Our mother is one of the strongest people I?—"

"She still needs backup, Lang," she insisted.

"Okay, fine . Though I'd like to point out that she didn't actually call me, so one wonders?—"

"Lang!"

"That was loud," I commented.

He groaned and then said to her, "Showering now, okay?" and hung up.

We looked at each other a moment.

"You look good in the mornin'," I complimented him.

"You're ridiculous in the morning," he assured me, but his smile told a different story. He liked me noticing that he was gorgeous twenty-four seven.

"I'll use the guest bathroom so we can shower at the same time."

"This is not what I imagined," he grumbled. "I had a whole other scenario in my head."

"Oh yeah? Did you wanna soap me all up?"

"What? No."

I grinned at him.

"Maybe."

Chuckling, I left the room.

"I want you back here," he called after me. "There is stuff?—"

"That needs to go on my body, I know."

"Or in your body," he said sulkily.

"That was super pervy, man," I shouted over my shoulder.

"So the fuck what!" came the bellowed reply.

Yeah. I liked us together already.

Once I was clean, which I did in record time, I was back in his bathroom, both of us in towels, standing in front of the huge mirror over his sinks. It was quite evident that neither of us had gotten enough sleep. Perhaps we went to bed by four, I hadn't checked, and four to ten was six hours, so it sounded like it should be enough, but we both needed more. So much more.

"We look terrible," he told me. "I wish we had more time because I have eye patches that would fix our bags."

I turned to him slowly.

"What?"

"The fuck is an eye patch?"

"You know, you put it under your eyes, and it plumps the skin and gets rid of the bags and smooths out the wrinkles."

"I'm sorry, what?"

"Oh, baby, I'm gonna open your eyes to all kinds of things a man in his early thirties should already know."

"This is like Kohn askin' me what kind of moisturizer I use, isn't it?"

"Yes. Exactly like that. Now turn this way."

I did as directed, allowing him to slather my face with something, then dab under my eyes with something else, and then he pumped something into my hand.

"Put that all over your face and neck," he said as he opened a tub of something and started smoothing that all over his body.

"You're gonna be all slimy."

"No, it's going to absorb like everything you put on your face."

And he was right. My face wasn't sticky like I thought it would be.

"Why do I need all these different things?"

He sighed. "Listen, if you're not down to?—"

"I didn't say that," I rushed out. "I only wanna know why."

"Because I want you to take better care of yourself so you look and feel good for a really long time."

"So you won't be embarrassed of me."

"No," he said sharply, glaring at me. "I—this has more to do with your father than anything else."

He lost me. "What?"

He leaned against the counter. "See, sometimes, when I think about it, about the abuse you suffered at the hands of that man, the urge to fly to your hometown and beat him senseless, leaving him passed out and bleeding in the street, becomes nearly overwhelming."

"It does?" I was stunned.

He nodded.

"And I don't know why," he said, dropping his hands and quickly crossing his arms, "but for some reason, it usually happens in the morning when I pick you up or we meet for breakfast. I'll notice you enjoying something, like really savoring it, and I'd think, look at him smile, he's so beautiful…how could anyone ever even think about hurting him?"

I was about to reach for him when he took a breath.

"Then we'll go outside and I'd think, I'm sure that piece-of-shit father of his never told him to put on sunscreen. Never mind that it helps keep your skin young, not like leather, but more importantly, it protects you from getting cancer."

"You think about all that?"

"Yeah. All the time," he admitted. "And sometimes the rage gets me, you know?"

I did know. I had felt the same way for years. But after I met Lang, everything had changed, even that. Outside of therapy, I didn't think about my father much anymore.

"Sorry to bring that shit up."

"No, don't be. I'm surprised though." I reached out and slipped my hand around the side of his neck to ease him forward, close to me. "You're not a big believer in violence."

"I know," he mused, smiling at me with red-rimmed eyes.

As a rule, in his personal life, Lang did not believe in bloodshed unless it was warranted, unless an individual was placed in a life-and-death situation. It was why he was such a wordsmith. He'd learned early how to outmaneuver bullies and had been able to talk his way out of every single one of his playground disagreements before they escalated. He truly believed that in every situation, a compromise could be reached.

In his professional life, he knew that at times, like in the early morning, that Ian had to shoot those men before they murdered others. It was pure luck that they had not taken the lives of any civilians, and in that situation, there was no other choice. Lang understood that. He would have also understood if Ian had ended up killing them to protect civilians. He'd taken lives as a homicide detective and had hoped not to as a marshal. I was the same, but in the middle of a firefight, protecting yourself and others, those choices could be taken from us. And while that was the job, it didn't make it any easier to deal with. And yet…he had revealed the desire to unleash all his anger on my father for past transgressions that would never be committed again.

"You can't ever do that, you know," I said, smoothing my thumb along his jaw.

"Yes, I'm aware," he mumbled, gently bumping his head down on my shoulder. "But don't think I'm criticizing you or?—"

"No. I didn't." I wrapped him in my arms. "You just wanna take care of me."

"That's right," he rasped, clearing his throat so his voice came back.

"Well, I like that," I confessed. "I've never had anyone wanna do that."

"Yes, I know," he said, sounding sad.

I needed to fix that. "But you know I'm not some stray, right?"

Instant scowl, which was good. "How the hell are you a stray if you belong to me?"

It was an excellent point, and I grinned lazily.

"Oh, I see what you did there," he said, nodding. "That was pretty good."

I shrugged.

"So listen," he began, sounding all serious. "I don't have anything for your hair, and I'm sorry about that. We'll get you something to keep over here."

"As well as whatever you want me to use at home?"

He squinted at me. "Or, we can keep everything over here."

I crossed my arms. "Is that right? You're just gonna move me in already? That fast?"

"Is it fast?"

I nodded.

"So you want us to date?"

"Shouldn't we?"

"Haven't we been doing that?" he asked, squinting at me.

Fair point. We'd been inseparable, other than during his dates or my hookups.

"I mean, I know why you had sex with all those guys."

"There weren't that many," I said defensively, realizing that with the towel still wrapped around my head, I probably looked ridiculous.

He scoffed.

"No, really."

"The only difference between us is I date. There is food involved and nice restaurants, drinks, and many times a movie, or a play, or a concert, or a sporting event."

"Is there? Are we sure about that?" I was skeptical.

"You, on the other hand," he plowed on, ignoring me, "go home with someone to screw, or take them back to your place and screw, and that's it. You don't even validate parking."

"You're funny," I said, turning to leave the bathroom.

"You're not done," he told me, passing me a bottle of lotion. "That stuff isn't moisturizing enough for me, but it'll work for you until it starts getting cold. Then we'll have to get you something heavier."

"Heavier?"

"To lock in the moisture on your skin."

"Are you kiddin'?"

"Why would I be kidding?"

"I don't know anyone who?—"

"Yes, you do. You know me, you know Kohn, you know Malik, you know Miro. Men take care of their skin and their hair the same way women do. Don't be so closed-minded, and like I said, I'm the guy looking out for you."

Yes, he was. "If I do all this and stay pretty, you'll keep me around?"

"It's my place, as your partner, to make sure you take care of yourself in all ways, but yes, this will keep you pretty, and I like looking at you, and I don't want you to get skin cancer, so we're doing all this, every day, from now on."

"Am I also to understand that you would prefer I do it from this bathroom and not the one I have at home?"

"That apartment is not a home. It's a roomy closet at best. Its only claim to fame is that it has a very nice view from the bathroom."

He wasn't wrong.

"So yes. I would prefer if you brought your clothes over here. We can put your name on the deed with mine, and there's a closet waiting for you. And guess what, your bike could go on the wall with mine on the bike hooks in the storage closet and not in the middle of your floor with the ironing board."

"The ironin' board also serves as a table."

"Oh, I know. I've seen it."

"I…it wasn't permanent. I figured I'd get a house."

He nodded. "Houses are nice. I think they're really good for people who have time to mow a lawn and check insulation and have a dog."

"Yeah."

"At the moment, though, we get sent places to work task forces and transfer witnesses, and it's normally done quickly, without warning."

"True."

"So, then, maybe a condo where someone else comes in and changes air filters, and fixes the water heater, and the garbage goes down a chute and not to the curb is the way to go."

I shrugged.

"As an intermediate step, then, perhaps a cozy apartment with enough room for me to read and you to watch a game, or vice versa, might be a better idea."

"Yeah. Might be."

"Good," he said, then tipped his head at me. "Make with the lotion. Heaven forbid we get yelled at again by one of the three people we're both afraid of."

"I'm not afraid of your sister."

He stared at me like I had antlers.

"Most of the time," I amended.

"Yeah."

"Who are the other—oh, your mother and Kage."

"Obviously," he said indulgently. "And by the way, you look really good in just a towel."

"So do you," I called after him.

His husky laughter was nice to hear.

"There are a lot of people here," I remarked, surprised, as he looked for a parking spot down the street from his mother's house. His usual place, right in front of her home, was not available, and neither was anything else on either side. "I don't really get why that is."

He shrugged. "Everybody liked him."

"Your father?"

Quick nod before he got out of his Lexus, and I followed suit, both of us standing on either side, looking at each other instead of moving.

"So, then, once they heard he was over here, people simply started comin' by?"

"I suspect so," he replied grumpily.

"You never talk about him."

"No," he said, and left it at that.

"He's a musician, right?" I prodded, trying to get him to talk.

"Yeah."

"That's interestin'." I sounded lame.

"Why is it?"

"I dunno. It's not. I'm surprised at all the cars is all. I had it in my head that he was persona non grata, you know? I mean, the way your mother tells it."

He was waiting.

"I'm a bit shocked that there are people here who would still want to see him after the way he treated her."

According to Etta Ross, her husband came home one day and told her he couldn't be married anymore. He went on to say that he couldn't be a father to Lang and Talia either because he had to go on the road. It all had to do with his dream of being the second coming of Miles Davis. He could not be the successful musician he wanted to be if he was tied down to a wife, kids, and a mortgage.

"Yeah, well, that was only part of the story, and I only heard that version when I was much older. When I was little, to protect our feelings, she made it sound much more important."

"The reason he left, you mean?"

He nodded.

"Like he left to pursue his dream."

"Which he did, but that wasn't the only reason."

"When did your mother tell you the whole story?"

"Once me and Talia were older, when we were both teenagers, she figured we could understand what really happened."

"Which was?" I prodded him because he wasn't talking fast enough for me.

"That it wasn't a wife and kids that were the problem, because he already had another daughter when he left us…it was what my mother expected of him."

"And what was that?"

"Security."

"As in?"

"As in she needed him to have a steady job with a dependable paycheck. She wanted to build a life and that meant day-to-day work that he simply couldn't comply with."

"Not how he was wired."

"That's right. He had to go on the road, that's what musicians do and that's no place to raise a family, moving from place to place."

"It's not," I said with a shrug. "And your mother is far too practical to ever even consider somethin' like that."

"Correct."

"Which makes sense and all but––" It had taken me a second to parse what he said but I finally figured out what tripped me up. "Wait. Did you say he had a daughter when he left?"

"I did."

"So he couldn't be a father to you and Talia, but he could be a father to another child of his?"

"Yes, because his girlfriend—now his wife—took her daughter with him on the road."

"You're implyin' that if your mother had simply followed after him, then they would still be together?"

"Well, there is the whole cheating piece to consider, and the child he had when he was still married to my mom."

"Right."

"But despite all that, look at the turnout. Everyone still likes him."

"Probably because your mother, who does not like to share her private business, never made him the villain."

He grunted. "Very true."

"Accordin' to Talia, your mother told everyone the split was amicable because she didn't want people talkin' about her not bein' able to keep her husband. Your mother's a very proud woman."

"She is."

"But because of all that, she let it be okay that your father visits here after all this time and brings his second family around."

"Yep," he said, sounding tired suddenly.

"I'm sorry," I soothed him.

"It is what it is," he said with a shrug.

I squinted at him.

"Yeah, fine, that was as lame as your it's-interesting-he's-a-musician comment."

"I'm leavin'," I announced, turning to head down the sidewalk.

"No, no, wait," he said, chuckling, darting around the car, slipping in front of me, moving to bar my path when I feinted left, then right. "Come on, I'm sorry."

I crossed my arms.

"In other news," he began, taking hold of my biceps, "you look really good in my white linen shirt, tan chinos, and wingtip boots."

Hard to keep scowling at him when he was smiling at me. I could feel my face heat.

"You look really good," he apprised me, his voice thick, guttural. "And I really appreciate you coming with me."

"You're welcome," I managed to get out, and when he leaned in to kiss me, I eagerly closed the distance.

His lips slid over mine so perfectly, like we'd been kissing for years instead of not quite yet a full day. When his hands went to my hips, holding on, his fingers curling into the belt loops of my pants, making sure I couldn't move, I realized again how much I loved his possessiveness. When no one had ever wanted you, finding out your best friend did was heady stuff.

"I'm sorry you had to wear your side holster because I have the other," I told him.

"My shirt's covering it. I'm fine."

He had a white T-shirt on under a long-sleeve shirt, the back of it camouflaging the holster pretty well. He'd rolled up the sleeves, showcasing powerful forearms, and the jeans he was wearing were sinful, absolutely molded to his legs and ass, letting everyone see how beautifully the man was built. I had a hard time looking away.

I realized I'd been checking him out, looking down his body, when I lifted my head and met his gaze. His grin was wicked and heated his eyes.

"Knock it off," I warned him.

"I feel the same," he said with a sigh, kissing over my jaw. "Maybe there won't be enough chairs and you can sit in my lap."

I cleared my throat. "First, don't tease, and second, if you need to tell your father that all I am is your work partner, I understand. It's brand-new with us, and I don't want you to feel uncomfortable or?—"

"I appreciate that," he said fast, like he was glad that was settled, hitting the button on his smart key to lock the car before starting up the sidewalk.

When he tipped his head but didn't reach for me, I felt cold all of a sudden. It was stupid to regret my words—offering was the right thing to do; he needed to see his father without any other pressure—and yet, I felt untethered.

The clothes that were not mine weren't helping. His shirt, his pants, his underwear for heaven's sake, his socks, and shoes. I was covered in the man and yet unclaimed.

At the gate, I was going to tell him to go on in, I'd follow in a moment, but so many people called out greetings to him, and I didn't want to bolt and look weak, or worse, make him come after me. I was his partner, after all. I needed to always have his back.

He held the gate open for me, and when I went through, he was there, beside me, and his hand was in a familiar spot, the small of my back. I realized that was normal for us. He'd always guided me places, steered me, touched me constantly. I had to wonder if he knew.

I took the stairs quickly, and since I was in front, when I reached the screen door, I opened it and held it for him. Normally, he was a stickler about doors. He liked being the one to usher everyone through, including me. Mostly me.

"Thank you, sir."

It was nothing, but still, I felt flushed with just that much of his attention. I was thrilled that there were people there to greet us, two of his uncles clasping his hand and pulling him in close for that familiar clench before it was my turn. One after another, around the room he went, talking to more of his cousins, everyone smiling at me, the older men taking my hand as well, the younger ones greeting me with a hug. We'd spent so many Sunday dinners together already, as well as Easter. If Lang showed up, I was in tow. I'd told him many times that it was fine, I could stay home, but always, he was insistent that I should be at his side.

Now, he made sure I was following him, and when I got caught up, talking to his cousin Derrick, whom I'd always liked—he worked for ATF, so we had a lot to talk about—Lang took hold of my bicep and tugged gently.

"I'll be back," I promised Derrick and got a smile in return.

"I told you he's weird," Lang said under his breath, leading me farther into the house.

"He's really nice. We played darts downstairs two Sundays ago, don't you remember?"

"Why would I not remember that?" he asked curtly.

I would have said something, asked what irked him, but he was about to see his father, whom he hadn't seen since he was eight and Talia five, so I let it go.

"Finally," I heard Talia gasp, and then she was there, arms around my neck.

"Where's Mom? Is she cowering in the bathroom?" Lang asked, teasing her. "Distraught downstairs in the basement?"

As we'd suspected, there was no emergency, as his mother was in no need of emotional rescue. But that didn't mean Talia wasn't. From the look on her face, I could tell something was very wrong.

"What happened?" I asked, my happiness at seeing her instantly replaced with dread because evidently, she felt like she was drowning in whatever was going on and needed to grab hold of me and hang on for dear life.

"His daughter, my half sister. I just met her," she whispered into my shoulder. "She's not even a whole year younger than me. That means her mother and Mom were pregnant at practically the same time."

I had no idea what to say.

"You knew he cheated," Lang reminded her. "This is not news."

"No, it's not."

"You knew he had a daughter when he left. Mom told us."

She pursed her lips.

He took a breath. "But knowing it is one thing though, and meeting your half sister is another, right?"

"Yes." She struggled to get the word out.

I hugged her tight, and then the three of us retreated to a quiet corner in the living room, overlooking the backyard. Everyone else congregated in the front room, talking loudly, watching TV, but it was evident we needed to talk about this uninterrupted. Lang put his arms around both of us and kissed her cheek.

"I don't know why I care," she said, her voice betraying her as it cracked, little stutters of breath making her tremble. "I knew he had a child, but I thought––"

"The child was new at the time of the divorce," Lang stated.

"Yes." She deflated, sounding both sad and tired. "It was so long ago, but we're almost the same age, and I—I wasn't expecting that."

Glancing at Lang, I noted the furrowed brows, his clenched jaw, and felt the simmering rage right there below the surface. And I knew he wasn't angry for himself. He was hurt for his mother and sister, which made it so much worse.

"I liked it better before I knew the truth," Talia continued. "It was almost heroic that he left us for his dream, that he would not compromise what he believed in his heart. I respected that and somehow that made it all right. Easier."

Lang coughed softly. "Maybe his daughter's mother?—"

"Selah. Her name is Selah. That's your stepmother's name. Your half sister's name is Jasmine," she told him.

"As I was saying," he began again, "apparently Selah didn't mind being on the road with him, taking their daughter all over. He was playing a lot of clubs before he left—that's probably how they met."

"Are you making excuses for what he did?"

"How did you get that I'm making excuses for him from anything I just said?"

She was quiet, holding his gaze, and he stared right back. To anyone who didn't know them, it would have looked bad, like they were both ready to explode and rain carnage upon one another, but in fact, a lot of their conversations worked this way, this silent communion between close siblings.

"Sorry," she finally said.

"Me too," he muttered, taking a breath.

"Tell me what you meant."

"That having a home wasn't a priority for him. He had to go on the road to fulfill his calling," he reminded her.

"Yes. As musicians do." She sounded not quite sad, but it was close.

"That's right."

"But Mom," she said, picking up the thread, "and this house, our house—it's her safe place."

"And you know her," he said, exhaling, putting an arm around his sister's shoulders. "There's no way she doesn't keep us in school. There's no scenario where that could have ever been an option."

"That's right, you're right."

"Plus, she had a job she loved at the school district, and so no, she wasn't about to give up her dream so that Duke Webster could follow his."

Talia nodded.

"She wanted everything to be steady and secure for us. That's how she is. She's a rock, and that doesn't mesh with a nomadic life, living in motels and dragging her kids around the country."

"So really, even though there was clearly another woman, fact is, he left because he needed a different life," she concluded, taking a breath, her face suddenly looking better. Her light was back, all because her brother made her see the truth of the matter without sentiment or sadness.

"And a different kind of family," I chimed in. "They're different kinds of people, he and your mother. I'm sure they're both a heck of a lot happier apart."

"Precisely," Lang affirmed, smiling at me, taking hold of my chin for a moment before giving his sister a gentle squeeze.

"Okay." She took a breath. "It's been a long time. I need to let it go."

"People are funny about time," Lang told her. "They think if enough of it passes, you shouldn't be angry anymore, or hurt, or in pain. But that's crap. Time doesn't heal all wounds. Some of them are too deep."

She nodded furiously.

"But listen," he said hoarsely. "You got Mom, you got me, and you got Del. You're not losing any of us, Talia Jean."

Her faint chuckle over Lang using her middle name was good to hear, and when she leaned back, taking a deep breath, then releasing it, her mother was suddenly there with a box of tissues.

"We will not cry in front of these people," Etta commanded all three of us. "We will hold ourselves up until they depart."

"And when will that be?" Lang asked her, sounding pained.

"I suspect after they eat and visit a bit more." She slipped her arm through mine. "Also, your father wanted to see you and introduce you to his family."

"Why are they here?"

"His youngest son, Maynard, has been accepted to Juilliard, and their whole family is taking a road trip together."

"From where?"

"New Orleans."

"What family?"

"Duke, Selah, and their four kids—Jasmine, Ford, Drea, and Maynard."

"How old is Maynard?"

"een," Talia answered. "He's going to be a freshman. How old do you think he is?"

"That's quite the gap in ages."

"Why do you care?" Etta asked him. "And Selah was thirty-two when she had him; only a year and some change older than your sister is now, son."

"That's true," Talia said, leaning into her brother.

"Wait now," Lang said, squinting at his mother. "How do you know how old she was when she had Maynard?"

"Because I can do math," she stated matter-of-factly. "Selah was twenty-five when I first met her at one of Duke's shows, and Jasmine was four at the time. I remember feeling ancient despite being merely eight years older."

"What show?" Talia wanted to know.

"I went to hear him play after I heard he moved out of his parents' house and in with her. That night, Selah introduced herself to me."

"He was cheating on you with her, and she had the balls to come talk to you?"

"I found it liberating, actually," she said with a sigh. "I had already served him with divorce papers, and that night I felt so good, so free. I could finally wash my hands of him knowing I'd done everything within my power during our marriage to make it work. We wanted two very different things, two very different lives."

"You didn't care about the cheating?" Talia asked. "Because I would definitely care about the cheating."

"Oh, I cared, that's why he was living with his parents in the first place."

"So there were other women besides Selah? He was cheating on both of you?"

"That's not important. Dredging up ancient history is not good for the soul."

"Yes, but?—"

"What is important is that I was working full-time, and with the raise I got at the beginning of that year, I was confident I could take care of the two of you myself as a single mother."

"So you didn't need him."

"That's right. And he hated doing anything but his music, so that all worked out. The last time I saw him at the club, that night with Selah and Jasmine, hearing her tell me that she supported his dreams, I knew that both of us were getting exactly what we wanted."

I exhaled sharply, and she turned to me. "You have something to say?"

"You're a saint, that's what I have to say."

"Oh, I agree," Talia chimed in.

Etta chuckled. "You're all a bit biased to my side of the tale. I'm sure Duke and Selah's children believe their parents' story is very romantic."

"Well, I don't know about that," Talia said grumpily. "But I can say this: she may be eight years younger than you, but she looks eight years older."

"That makes me happy," I told her.

"Yeah, me too," Talia said with a grunt.

Etta shook her head at us. "That is not godly."

"No, it's not," I teased her. "May I ask you somethin'?"

"Certainly."

"Is his first name really Duke?"

She chuckled. "No, that's a nickname, but it's his stage name, so everyone calls him that. His real name is Edward Lee Webster."

"So, then, Ross is your maiden name?"

"It certainly is. I changed it right after the divorce was finalized and my father was more than a bit pleased to have me take his name back."

"Yes, he was," her sister Viola said with a smile as she stepped in beside us, putting her arm around Talia's shoulders. "That's why Julie and I didn't take our husbands' last names when we got married. It made Daddy so happy when Etta changed hers back."

"I gave Lang and Talia the choice, but they both wanted to have the same name as me, so that made sense."

"So there are Websters in there," I said, pointing to the front room, "but only Rosses out here."

"That's right," Viola concurred, nodding. "I feel very good about that."

"I do too," Talia said, her voice back to sounding like herself, no longer wobbly. "I can't wait for you to meet Ethan, Mama. He should be here soon."

Lang grunted. Loudly.

"Uh-oh." Viola chuckled. "There's a story there."

"Is there something wrong with Ethan?" Etta wanted to know.

"Yeah, Langston ," Talia drew out his name, staring daggers at her brother. "Is there some issue you're having with Ethan?"

"Hypocrite," I coughed.

"No, ma'am," he said to his mother, crossing his arms.

"You see that?" Viola motioned to him, looking at her sister. "Arm crossing signifies a closing off. He's no longer open to other people's thoughts on this matter."

"I love that you're going back to school to get a degree in communication and marketing," Talia told her aunt.

"Thank you."

"I don't love it," Lang groused.

I bumped him with my elbow. "Be nice."

"Are you certain you have nothing to say about Ethan before he gets here?" Etta asked pointedly.

"Yes, ma'am." Lang clipped the words.

"And is there anything you would like to say to me about this man here, whom I love and adore, and who I can't help but notice is wearing the shirt your sister got you for Christmas?" She posed the question to her son.

"Is it really?" Talia had no idea, and she'd apparently bought it for him.

"It is," Etta apprised her daughter.

To have an encyclopedic memory like that was impressive as hell, as well as scary.

"Oh, well, now, he's wearing your clothes, is he?" Viola prodded Lang. "That's a sign of possessiveness. It's like a king clothing his knights in his colors."

"This is so fun," Talia told her brother.

"Is it?" he snapped at her.

"For me? Absolutely."

He threw up his hands.

"What do you have to say for yourself?" Etta asked her son.

"That yes, we're an us now. You can keep him, he's yours."

I looked at him.

"And that was a stupid thing to say outside," he told me. "We're doing this, you and me, and I'm not afraid to let anyone know, including my father. And you should go tell Derrick that darts is all you're ever doing with him," he ended loudly.

"What?" I was so confused, but Etta was ready to give me a hug, so I bent so she could wrap her arms around my neck and hug me. I squeezed her back, having wanted nothing more than to be claimed by the woman who was, to me, the benchmark that all other mothers should be measured against. She had made me understand what selfless, boundless devotion and love looked like.

"So, do you plan to put a ring on his finger?" Viola inquired because she pushed; that was her way. "Is that what you're telling us?"

"We're gonna live in sin first and see how that goes," he told her, shaking his head.

Her cackle made everyone smile. It was infectious.

"Hold up, you didn't know Derrick was into you?" Talia asked me, her face telling me she was worried. "You missed him bringing you all that dessert?"

I glanced at Lang.

"He kept going up and down the stairs with the beers for you too."

"Yeah, and I had to keep hiding them. You know I don't drink that cheap?—"

"Why do you think I didn't tell him to take the stuff we brought?"

"That's diabolical," I told him. "And not godly at all."

"You're not his to ply with alcohol," he told me, pointing at himself and mouthing the words, " You're mine. "

He was very possessive, as I knew, and me planning to go back and talk to Derrick had not made him happy in the least. And since he couldn't snap at Derrick, he'd snapped at me.

"I don't like Derrick," Lang told me.

"That's not true," Etta scolded her son.

"I don't think you're using the word godly right," Talia told me, cackling.

"Young lady," Etta began.

"What's going on in here?"

Turning, I understood instantly where Lang got his height, his broad shoulders, wide chest, and his fine, chiseled features. His eyes, though, that deep, dark, alluring brown, and his smile, those had come from his mother, because there was no semblance of warmth emanating from the man in front of me at all.

"Langston," his father said, offering him his hand. "How are you?"

"I'm well," he replied with the same voice he used for fugitives we apprehended, clear and precise, without a trace of warmth. He took his father's hand but didn't do the lean-in he'd done in greeting with most of the men in the house, except Derrick. "And you, sir?"

"Can't complain," he said with a smile that didn't touch his eyes. "Come sit down. I'd like you to meet my family."

"Certainly," he assented at the same time Talia's breath caught.

"Oh, look who it is," I groaned softly, and Talia whacked me really hard in the abdomen.

"Owww," I gasped, bending over. "Jesus, Lang, who taught her to hit that hard?"

He chuckled and was beside me fast, his hand on my back. "You gonna live?"

"Sharpe is here," I told him, looking at the man from my new bent-over perspective. "Does he know it's Saturday? Look at him."

"I think I have that same pair of shoes."

I could not stifle my snickering.

"Not a word."

It was a party, so probably no one had even thought to ask if the man who looked like he should be walking a runway belonged in this house. "I'll bet you no one even inquired about who he was here to see."

"He's dressed too nice. Why would they?"

Straightening up, I noticed all the women Sharpe passed turning to look at him, as well as Derrick, that traitor, who did as well. The thing was, though, when he saw Talia, his smile did some crazy thing to his eyes, and he looked at her like he'd won the lottery.

"You know," I admitted, watching her rush over to him and seeing the way he took her hand, after kissing it, and tucked it into his arm, "I haven't known him that long, but…does he look different to you?"

"No," Lang said sulkily.

"Don't lie. You can see it the same as I can."

"Who is that?" his father asked.

"That is the guy who's dating your daughter," Lang grumbled.

"And you don't like him? He's no good?"

"He's a player," Lang answered. "But he's also a fellow marshal, so perhaps we should extend him the benefit of the doubt."

"I'm sorry, what?"

"He's not talking to you," Etta explained gently. "He's talking to his partner there. Both he and your son are federal marshals."

"You went into law enforcement?"

Lang was too focused on his sister and Sharpe to notice anything else.

"He's talking to you, son." Etta nudged Lang.

"What?"

She used her finger to gesture at his father.

"Oh, yes. I did," he answered. "I was a cop first, patrolman, moved up fast, made detective, but I was more interested in hunting down the bad guys, not trying to figure out the why of it all."

"Plus, you like kickin' down doors," I chimed in.

"I do like that," he cracked wise, nodding, and then his gaze returned to his father. "This is my partner, in all ways, Delroy McCabe."

Duke offered me his hand, and we shook briefly. From the lack of questions, I was guessing that his father didn't catch what Lang meant. That was fine with me. I had a strong feeling I would never see this man again.

"I understand you live in New Orleans. What do you do there?"

He regarded Lang oddly, as though he wasn't sure what he meant. "I'm a musician."

"Do you travel the country, play different places? I apologize, I don't know much about the lives of musicians."

Duke nodded. "Selah and I own a small club on Frenchmen Street where I play nightly. She manages the place, and Ford plays with my band, as well as several others. Drea does promotion and marketing, and Jasmine is the odd one out. She's a lawyer in her second year of practice at a law firm she joined after she graduated."

"So other than Jasmine, it's a family business."

"Yes, it is," he said with a chuckle. "Now, I would love to have you come meet my family if you would."

I could tell Lang was torn; I could read it all over his face. His mother could as well.

"May I speak to my son a moment?" Etta asked her ex-husband.

"Of course," he said, then smiled at Lang. "We're right over there."

Once he left, Lang took his mother's hands in his.

"Yes?" she asked him with a warm smile.

"That man owes you years of child support that could have really helped."

She shook her head. "We're not living in the past."

"I know that, but…how can he come back here, after walking out on you, and us, his children, and think we'll be fine with everything?"

"Because we are," she said, reaching up to put her hand on his cheek. "The three of us thrived together, did we not?"

He nodded. "We did," he whispered, his voice going out on him for a moment as he leaned into her palm. "It's funny because he wasn't really here even before he left."

"No, he wasn't," she conceded. "But that was my fault too."

"What are you talking about?"

"I was certain that seeing you, holding you, would make him into a father, a provider, and the kind of husband I needed, but that wasn't fair to him. He loves music, and that could never change. He had to use that skill, that love, to support a family, and I was not willing to wait for that to come to fruition. Selah was then, and is now, a much better partner for him."

"And you?" he asked her.

"Me what?"

He turned to me for backup, and I cleared my throat.

"Oh no, what?" She sounded like she was getting ready to head off something terrible.

I said, "We were thinkin' that, you know, fifty-eight is not old at all."

"Fifty is the new thirty," he told her.

"I don't think I like where this is going."

I smiled big, and so did Lang.

"What did you do?"

"Aunt V!" Lang called loudly.

Viola excused herself and was across the room quickly, taking hold of Etta's arm. "Did you get the wonderful news that your darling son is sending us on a cruise?"

"On a what?"

"An over-fifty Christian singles cruise," Viola announced excitedly. "Lots of eligible gentlemen who all go to church. We're going next month."

"I don't want to do?—"

"Julie's coming, and Bonnie, and Anna."

Instantly Etta was excited and alert. "Anna's coming?"

Anna Kimura was Etta's best friend in the world. She was moving back to Chicago in November to be close to her son, and Etta. I suspected, having met Anna, that Etta was the bigger draw. Her son, Craig, whom I'd met at the same time, was a bit of a pompous ass. But in my limited interactions with guys who worked on the stock market, traders, financial analysts, and planners, most of them were.

"She is," Lang confirmed.

"Maybe I'll take a moment now and go give her a call."

"Come on." Viola pulled her along, and it was cute how fast they left the room together.

I gave Lang a gentle bump with my shoulder. "You made her very happy, but did you consider how you'll feel if she brings someone home with her?"

"It's time. I hope she finds someone and falls madly in love. She deserves it."

"Yes, she does. Now go over there and meet your father's family while I go get somethin' to eat."

"No, no. I need backup."

"I'm sorry, sir. I'm off duty," I informed him.

"No such thing," Lang stated, hand on the small of my back as he did his usual and steered me through the crowd toward his father, who stood up from the table as soon as he saw us approaching. I hadn't paid much attention earlier, but his burgundy suit was absolutely stunning with his glossy black wingtips. In contrast, his wife, Selah, gave off a far more bohemian vibe with her linen palazzo pants, oversize blouse with a tank top underneath, and gladiator sandals. Drea dressed much the same, her long tunic top blending in well with her wide-leg capris. But whereas Selah had her long hair styled up with a headwrap, Drea wore hers in butterfly locs.

"Your hair is beautiful," I complimented her.

"Oh, thank you," she said as we shook hands and she held on a bit too long. "My father said you're a marshal like Langston, that you're actually his partner."

"I am. It's my job to watch his back when he kicks down the doors."

We met Ford then, Duke's second-born son after Lang, and then Maynard.

"Congratulations on Juilliard," I told him. "That's amazin'. I hope you love New York."

"Have you been?"

"Once very briefly to transfer a witness. I'd like to go back, though. It's nice that y'all are drivin'. That'll be a fun trip."

Duke walked away then to say hello to someone who'd called his name.

"Your family has been very welcoming," Selah told Lang. "Most of all, your mother. I didn't remember that about her." She stared at him as she spoke, and I felt like she wanted him to say something.

"What is it that your mother is always tellin' us?" I prodded him.

His gaze locked with mine for a long moment, and then he looked back at her. "My mother says that everything happens for a reason. She calls it God's plan."

Selah nodded.

"Well," he continued, "I don't know about God, but certainly the universe knows what it's doing."

"What do you mean?"

"My mother could not have made a life with a musician. Far too many variables. She likes things planned. Bills paid on time, the mortgage, money put into a 401(K), and of course, a community of people around her built over years."

Selah listened to him.

"What you did before you got the place in New Orleans, being on the road," he rumbled, his voice as warm as his eyes, "no, ma'am, not with her kids."

"It was very hard in the beginning, but now we have a home base, have for the last ten years, so that's been great."

"Good. It's clear you and Duke were meant to be, and so my mom made her peace with him going. It doesn't mean she's unhappy you're only visiting," he finished with his wicked grin that made everyone, even Selah now, stare at him in open-mouthed wonder.

It happened to him a lot. He bespelled all kinds of people in the course of a day. I knew. I was the one walking beside him, having to remind people to chew, or put down the coffee cup, or not walk into a wall.

And yes, without question, Selah's children were very attractive, but Talia was a goddess, and her brother, whom I was head over heels for, was stunning. And with Lang, what added to his allure was the easy charm and how special you felt when you had all his attention. Maybe Duke was like that too, or had been once.

"Well," she said, a bit breathless, which could've been strange since she was, after all, his stepmother, but since they had no relationship, she was simply a woman in momentary thrall to the virile man in front of her. "We have to be on the road soon. I'm so glad to have met you and your sister."

He couldn't say I feel the same or the feeling's mutual or any other prosaic thing one said in response because it would have been a lie. Lang tried hard to never be insincere because it bothered him when people were fake with him. So instead he murmured, "Thank you," because being polite was always good manners.

Duke returned then, and motioned behind him. "I had my old friend Charlie come on by to say hello. Do you remember him?"

Lang smiled. "Remember him? Del and I just went to his grandson Tito's class when they had their career day to talk about being marshals."

"Yes, you did," Charles Blanchard said. He was one of Etta's oldest friends, along with his wife, Denise, who I noticed was standing with Talia and Ethan, and he slipped around Duke and hugged us. "You were a big hit, boys," he praised us. "My grandson was very happy, and I was his hero."

"You have grandchildren?" Duke asked him.

"He has seven," Lang told his father.

"With another on the way," he happily informed Lang. "Where's your mother? I need to tell—there she is. I'll be right back, Duke."

We all watched him cut across the room to reach Etta, and then Lang and I refocused on his father.

"It's strange to be here and be out of touch with everyone."

"I'm sure it is, but thank you for stopping by," Lang said, and I heard the sincerity in his voice. His father must've too, as evidenced by his smile. "You don't necessarily know you need closure until you're suddenly on the receiving end of it."

Duke looked like he was about to say something.

"It's funny," Lang mused.

Duke stared at his son and then nodded. "Yes, it is."

Lang exhaled and then gave his father a pat on the arm, the motion completed before he could take hold of his son's hand.

"You should visit us in New Orleans," Duke offered, probably thinking, at that moment in time, that he wanted a bridge. It was one of those things people did when acquaintances, estranged family members, or even old friends were standing in front of them. You thought, yes, we'll reconnect, and it will be great. But it never was.

With my friends from college, it was different. We could go six months, a year without talking, and then someone would remember to pick up the phone, and we'd be right back to the closeness in seconds. Every time it worked like that. But those were specific instances of bedrock friendships forged in time, pain, love, and respect. What Lang was in right now…it was not that.

Lang and his father had nothing in common but blood, and I knew, with my own family that were biologically related to me, that those ties did not bind. People were always telling me—mainly my therapist, Dr. Butler, about my own family trauma—that nothing was ever really over and that relationships of all kinds, especially with family, could always be resurrected. And I always replied with a simple question: why? Why would you want to? What could a relationship like that truly give you?

I remembered Etta telling me that after Duke left her, she had made an appointment to see his parents to speak to them about their medical backgrounds and about any genetic diseases, anomalies that ran in their family. She had two children, so she needed to know about anything that could affect them. So really, Duke couldn't even help Lang with answers to questions down the road. His mother had already taken care of that.

"That was amazingly thorough of you," I told her.

"When you become a parent, you have to put them before you in all ways. His parents had always struck me as cold and distant, and I had no desire to see them ever again once their son left me, but I needed answers, so I went there."

"Impressive."

"No. Necessary," she corrected me.

"They didn't have any stipulations for givin' you answers?"

She chuckled. "No. Before Duke left, they only saw the kids at Christmas when they came by to drop off gifts. Once he was gone, I never heard from them again."

"Are they still alive?"

"I don't know. They moved away years ago, and I didn't care enough to ask anyone where they'd gone."

"Because they had nothin' to do with your family."

"That's right," she said with a sigh, taking hold of my hand like she always did when we were sitting together at the table. "You know, I read somewhere that people who didn't want to be parents are absent grandparents. I believe that."

So did I. It translated for me in the way my mother's family never showed up for me or my brothers. We only had one parent, and luckily, we were all through with him. It was why I had no interest in reaching out to anyone. Ever. And if that meant I was irreparably broken, that was fine with me. Let sleeping dogs lie seemed like the best course.

"And I don't mean people separated by distance, but those who live right across town like my ex-husband's did. They had no interest in him, so why would they care about my children? There was never any connection that I could see in that family."

It made sense to me.

Now, looking at Lang's profile as he regarded his father, I was fairly certain he felt the same sense of disconnect. What value did Duke bring to the table that the man I loved would either want or need? The time for love and guidance and teachable moments had long since passed. And of course, we could all use more people who loved us, but at the cost of intrusions into our lives or mandatory card sending at Christmas? What was the point? From where I was standing, I didn't see the purpose of drawing Duke Webster back into Lang's life, but I was hardly the arbiter of good familial relationships.

"If I'm ever out that way, I certainly will," Lang said gently. "Now if you'll excuse us, I have to check in with Mom, and it looks like Mr. Blanchard is on his way back."

Lang tipped his head at me, and the two of us passed Mr. Blanchard on our way to Etta, who was talking to Viola, Talia, and Sharpe.

"I need to have a quick word with Lang," Talia told our colleague, then stepped in front of us. "You didn't do something stupid and give Duke ," she said snidely, drawing out his name, "your phone number, did you?"

"No. Of course not. But why are you making fun of the man's name?"

She huffed out a breath. "Fine. You're right, and for no other reason than you shouldn't make fun of anyone's name."

"That's right."

"Because you weren't going to say, I shouldn't make fun of his name because he's your father, were you?"

He made a face as though that was a ridiculous notion.

"I didn't think so."

They were quiet a moment.

"I bet you wouldn't have made fun of his name if his last name was Ellington," he said, grinning at her.

"No, sir, I would not."

"Just so we're clear."

She shrugged.

"You seem angry."

"It's the whole him having a daughter a year younger than me and the implications of that. I was a bit thrown. I'm working through it."

"Or, conversely," I offered, "you could go ahead and forget it."

"How can I forget?"

"He doesn't mean forget. He means let go," Lang clarified. He was good at that, translating what I said to others.

"How?"

"What's the point of holding on to it?" Lang asked. "When will you see him again?"

She crossed her arms.

"He left us. And as good with everything as Mom is, as great as Duke's life turned out with Selah, the facts don't change with time. He abandoned his first family, and we had to sink or swim without him."

"We're both excellent swimmers," she said hoarsely, her voice cracking a bit. She was trying to be so strong but it was a lot for a Saturday afternoon.

"Because our mother made certain we were."

"Yes." She sighed, cupping his cheek for a moment.

"So really, since you're not going to visit there, what are the chances of you seeing him ever again?"

"True."

"That was my point about lettin' it go," I told her. "What's the purpose of bein' mad? It's a lot of energy that you can use for somethin' else."

She tipped her head sideways, studying me. "You're smarter than you look."

"That's rude," I told her, then looked at Lang. "Your sister is rude."

"Yes," he concurred, smiling at me, then looking back at her. "And why would I give him my number?"

"Sentiment? New beginnings? Forgiveness? Epiphanies? Closure? I don't know. I have no idea. What I do know is that I don't need a father. I have you. And in fantastic news, from all that Ethan's said, his father is glorious, so if we get married, I'll assimilate him like the Borg."

It took me a moment to process that because first, I was very hungry and my blood sugar was dipping. Second, she used a Star Trek reference, and third and finally, what the hell? "What the hell?" I repeated what was in my brain.

She was chuckling.

"That was painfully nerdy," I lamented, "and again, are you kiddin'? Do you think maybe we could know the man a full twenty-four hours before we start pickin' out china patterns?"

"I just…really like him."

Reminding her that everyone liked him was not going to get me anywhere. "Great. All I'm sayin' is let's tap the brakes and revisit this topic again next Saturday," I said, then suddenly jolted as my memory kicked in. "Saturday," I repeated, realizing something.

"Fine," she muttered. "You don't have to beat it into the ground."

"He's not," Lang said, squinting at me. "He remembered something."

I nodded.

"So you're not giving me crap?" she baited me.

I put my arm around her. "No. I was rememberin' that we have a date tonight," I said, looking at Lang.

"Who has a date?" Her voice went low. "Not Ethan."

"Technically, yes, but I'm sure he's gonna bail to spend time with you."

"Aww." She sighed happily.

"What date do we have together?" Lang asked me.

"Think now of somethin' you've wanted to do for three weeks."

"That I've wanted to do?"

I nodded.

"Give me a hint?"

"We're playin' poker," I said flatly because I didn't give hints.

"Oh," he whispered happily, his whole face lighting up. "Doyle's poker game."

"It's gonna be terrible," I muttered.

"What is?" Sharpe asked as he joined us.

"I love playing poker," Talia reminded me under her breath.

"You do?" Ethan asked excitedly because she hadn't said it softly enough. "I was actually invited to a game tonight. Would you like to go with me?"

"No," Lang and I said at the same time.

"Stop," she warned us, swatting me in the abdomen even harder than she had earlier. "You'll scare him."

"Will you quit doin' that?" I whined as I bent over.

"If the lady wants to play poker, you let her. Besides," Sharpe apprised us, "Miro and Ian are having a party as well. It's not just a poker game."

"No one will have a good time if she goes," I informed him. "She's really good."

"And she cheats," Lang was adamant. "A lot."

"Like I believe that," he said, smiling at her. "I'm sure she's simply an excellent player."

"Thank you for taking my side," Talia cooed.

"Always," he husked.

"Can you two go stand over there?" I told them, pointing away from me.

"Talia Jean," Etta scolded her daughter as she came up beside me. "What have we said about putting hands on other people?"

"Mother, both Del and Lang insinuated that I cheat at cards."

"So, then, why was Del the only one on the receiving end of violence?"

"Yeah," I complained.

"Because if I hit Lang, he'll hit me back."

"You would hit a woman?" Sharpe asked, sounding appalled.

Lang gestured at her. "That's a sister, not a woman. Big difference."

Etta scowled at her children as I straightened up. "Neither of you should even be contemplating putting hands on the other," she tutted. "I raised you better than that."

They both said "yes, ma'am" at the same time my phone pinged, as did Lang's and Sharpe's, telling us we had a message from our office.

Checking, I found two memos. The first one said that Adam Fullerton, who had been in charge of the equipment we carried—comms, guns, batons, everything we needed to communicate and defend ourselves—had been terminated. He'd been on administrative leave since Lang and I had started in Chicago, due to his lack of oversight on many different pieces of equipment. It was an important job, as at any given moment everything that went out the door with me on a daily basis had to be counted on to save my life. Fullerton was being replaced by Deputy US Marshal Jalisa Tate, who was transferring in from New Mexico. Kage had included her very impressive résumé for us all to see.

"He only shows us the résumés when he likes the person," Sharpe grumbled. "That means he handpicked her for the job and she's gonna be completely by the book."

"Isn't that a good thing where our equipment is concerned?" I asked him.

"You won't think so when you're dropping things off every five minutes that you know work perfectly."

It sounded tedious.

The second memo was solely for me and Lang. It was from Becker, reminding us that our reports were due by five on Sunday.

"Why is he sendin' a memo?" I asked Lang. "He knows we're gonna do it. We haven't missed a report yet."

"It's probably just procedure," he commented.

"Did I miss something?" Sharpe asked.

I shook my head. "No, we owe Becker a report from the situation at the apartment house early this mornin'."

"Apartment house?" He squinted at me. "You had another situation after picking up Mosbach?"

"Yeah," Lang answered him. "We had an interaction with a gang at?—"

"That was you two out there with Doyle and SOG at those apartments downtown?"

I nodded.

"So two tactical situations in one night? A fugitive capture and a civilian save that resulted in a raid?"

"Yeah."

"Impressive. You two are moving up in the world."

"At the moment, I would rather be asleep."

He smiled at me. "Who sent the memo? Was it Ching?"

"No," I replied. "Why?"

"Ching always sends his reminders out super fast. That's his Marine Corps training. Oorah ," he said, chuckling. "That's why he and Kage have always gotten along so well."

"Super," I groaned. "But no, it was Becker."

"Having known Chris Becker far longer than either of you, I can safely say that he is not, in fact, questioning that you will get it done, he's merely reminding you. Trust but verify, which is one of Kage's rules of life as well."

"Well," Lang said, "it's not due until tomorrow, but since we might see him at the party if we go, then?—"

"Oh, we're goin' to the party," I told Lang, who turned to me.

"We don't have to. I know you're beat."

"So are you."

"True," he conceded. "But there'll be other parties."

"But this is the first time all of us newbies and transfers have been invited to play poker. He's openin' his circle, so we should make sure we show up."

"And bring food," Sharpe suggested. "Or alcohol. Either is good."

Lang didn't look convinced. "I think?—"

"Except don't bring margaritas in a can or wine in a box. Ian hates both of those. And I'm not going to repeat what he said those taste like because it's gross and horrifying."

My phone and Lang's pinged again then, and we were informed that we were not going to Vegas on Monday but were instead to oversee the collection of human remains that had been found near the Kennedy Expressway in the Bucktown neighborhood.

"I wonder why we're not goin' to Vegas."

"Maybe Kage doesn't trust us enough. I understand the hacker worked for whoever took over when Grigor Jankovi? left Vegas for Boston a few years ago. Maybe the hacker is a bigger deal than we thought."

"More likely it's the opposite and not a big deal," Sharpe chimed in. "It's probably an easy routine transfer that he'll give to another team. The human remains, however, that could be related to the Venezuelan gang you tangled with last night that's been turning up here and in other cities, or it could be related to something else, like"—he glanced at Etta and Talia—"you know."

We did. We all did. So far this person, or persons, had killed two men, both high-end escorts, and were disposing of them in pieces. The reports given to news outlets had downplayed the heinous nature of the crimes, relating words like human remains instead of body parts and skin, bone, and muscle covered in various fluids. If Kage wanted a team of his marshals there, along with CPD and the medical examiner to look over the crime scene, it meant he was prioritizing these findings.

"Interesting that he'd choose us," Lang stated, glancing at Sharpe.

"I don't think so," he replied. "You and McCabe have shown yourselves, like Richards and Baylor, to be a strong partnership as well as both good marshals separately. He needs to get you guys ramped up to investigator status so he can ship you out, like he does me and White, Dorsey and Ryan, and Callahan and Redeker to other parts of the country, plus have you supervise cops and other agencies on site."

"I hope that's what he thinks," I told him. "But whenever I see him, he looks at me like I'm a dumb"—I looked at Etta—"idiot."

Sharpe chuckled. "It's his default. But at least he doesn't yell like Ian."

I nodded. "I can do without the yellin'."

"Well, speaking from experience, I can tell you that when Kage does yell, you'll hear it wherever you are in our office. He's not loud often, but when he is, it's like an air siren."

"It's because he's so big."

"Funny," Talia said with a smile. "Having met Hannah, I thought he was probably a smaller man."

"Oh no." Lang chuckled. "He's got to be, like, six-four, and he's just massive."

"Like heavy or…"

"No," Sharpe said, chuckling. "Like covered in muscle. He could snap me in half if he wanted."

I nodded. "Yes."

"That's so interesting. Not what I pictured at all. Tell me about him."

I didn't want to do that, but it looked like Lang and Sharpe were ready to tell her stories. From Lang's hand on my shoulder, he wanted me to stay there as well. So I cheated—I looked at Etta and sighed. Loudly.

"Love?" She sounded so concerned.

"I'm sorry, but I'm about to pass out. I'm so hungry," I said as pitifully as possible.

"Oh my goodness," she said, taking hold of my arm. "Did you have breakfast?"

"No, ma'am." I whimpered a bit. "Your son didn't feed me."

Her glare at Lang made him groan.

"Are you kidding me?"

My stomach growled then which was perfection. I couldn't have planned it any better.

"My poor baby," she soothed me, though I didn't need soothing, just food. "Come with me, love. We'll fix you a big plate with some biscuits that I put away for you."

"There are more biscuits?" Talia asked her mother.

"For Ethan, so he sees I can feed him," she said, beaming at the man who was smiling at her. "And for Del because you all know he's my favorite."

"Oh, for heaven's?—"

"No," she chastised her son. "My Lord, Lang, it's almost one in the afternoon and you have not fed this man."

"Mother, I am not his keep?—"

"Are you not? Tell me if you're not." She glared at him for good measure.

I tipped my head and arched an eyebrow at him.

"I am," he grumbled, and when she turned back to me, as I was still looking at him, I caught his mouthed threat. " I'm going to murder you. "

I scoffed.

He would have come after me, but Talia caught his arm, trying not to laugh.

"Ethan, sugar, come on," Etta called over her shoulder.

And he moved quickly because he was not a stupid man.