from here.”
Mortician and Stretch strolled from the kitchen, carrying plates heaping with food. Digger barreled behind them, Little Man secure in the baby carrier Christopher always used to keep his hands free, and bouncing against Digger’s chest.
His dark gaze landing on Logan, Mortician crashed to a halt. “Aww, fuck.” He shoved a piece of fried ham into his mouth and growled a few more curses. “We outta fucking daddies that need fucking up, so we have to move on to granddaddies, huh?”
Logan drew in a deep breath and craned his neck to glimpse Little Man, Christopher’s son. “I come in peace.”
Mortician shoveled some eggs and hash browns into his mouth. “You gonna end up pieceful, all right. As in pieces of your fucking ass scattered all over the fucking place. You suddenly turning up undead is the quickest way to get you real dead.”
“What do you want?” Johnnie snarled. Mortician’s quips brought a semblance of sanity back to him. “If you’re coming to cause trouble because Christopher is gone—“
“Big Joe summoned me. He said Christopher’s on his honeymoon and it was time I met my great-grandson.”
A great-grandson who filled the space with a steady stream of babbling, unaware of the currents of hate. Just lost in his baby world, his noise increasing whenever Digger stopped eating to talk to him.
“What the fuck, Lowman?” Mortician paused to belch. “You getting messages from the fucking grave now?”
Logan’s gray eyes widened. “What are you talking about?”
“Big Joe’s dead,” Johnnie explained, studying his grandfather’s reactions. The man was all kinds of awful, but he wasn’t a fool. Unless he really thought Big Joe was still alive, he wouldn’t have left Columbia and risk all the money he got every month. “He’s been dead over two years now.”
“That can’t be.” He held his head and squeezed like he wanted to tear out what little hair he had left. “I have letters in my bag. He paid for the airplane ticket. He—“
“He is dead,” Val muttered.
Excellent at tuning out anyone who didn’t say what he wanted to hear, Logan ignored Val and pointed at the patch identifying Johnnie as the vice president. “Who’s running the chapter? This is where it all started. This—“
“Christopher’s the president,” Johnnie said with a smirk, satisfied when his grandfather lost all his color.
“Payback’s a motherfucker,” Mortician called, swigging down a beer. “And when a motherfucker is called Christopher, another motherfucker named Logan might be in serious shit.”
“What do you want?” Johnnie repeated, over his shock enough to move with nonchalance, as he walked to the bar. Digger joined him and sat next to him on the stool.
“Jo, Jo, Jo,” Little Man chanted before shoving half his fist into his mouth.
“Give him to me,” Johnnie said, making a face at the little boy. Excited babbling was his reward.
“You want the carrier?”
“Nope. Don’t have time to play nanny today.” Johnnie took Little Man and sat him on the bar. “Hi five,” he instructed, holding up his hand.
Little Man raised his hand—the one dripping with baby spit—and placed it against Johnnie’s.
“He looks just like Christopher,” Logan commented. He’d moved next to Johnnie.
No one answered.
“I swear I got a letter, Johnnie,” he continued. “From Big Joe. He was the one who orchestrated my disappearance ten years ago, so I thought—“
“You thought wrong,” Johnnie interrupted. “As I recall, the last time Boss saw you he wanted to shoot your ass off because of—“ He paused. None of them had known what had turned Boss against Logan. They’d assumed it was over Christopher since his name had been flung back and forth between the two men so much during the argument.
The door opened and a brief moment of sunlight glimmered into the room.
Johnnie glanced over his shoulder and did a double-take as his redhead loped into the room,
Mortician and Stretch strolled from the kitchen, carrying plates heaping with food. Digger barreled behind them, Little Man secure in the baby carrier Christopher always used to keep his hands free, and bouncing against Digger’s chest.
His dark gaze landing on Logan, Mortician crashed to a halt. “Aww, fuck.” He shoved a piece of fried ham into his mouth and growled a few more curses. “We outta fucking daddies that need fucking up, so we have to move on to granddaddies, huh?”
Logan drew in a deep breath and craned his neck to glimpse Little Man, Christopher’s son. “I come in peace.”
Mortician shoveled some eggs and hash browns into his mouth. “You gonna end up pieceful, all right. As in pieces of your fucking ass scattered all over the fucking place. You suddenly turning up undead is the quickest way to get you real dead.”
“What do you want?” Johnnie snarled. Mortician’s quips brought a semblance of sanity back to him. “If you’re coming to cause trouble because Christopher is gone—“
“Big Joe summoned me. He said Christopher’s on his honeymoon and it was time I met my great-grandson.”
A great-grandson who filled the space with a steady stream of babbling, unaware of the currents of hate. Just lost in his baby world, his noise increasing whenever Digger stopped eating to talk to him.
“What the fuck, Lowman?” Mortician paused to belch. “You getting messages from the fucking grave now?”
Logan’s gray eyes widened. “What are you talking about?”
“Big Joe’s dead,” Johnnie explained, studying his grandfather’s reactions. The man was all kinds of awful, but he wasn’t a fool. Unless he really thought Big Joe was still alive, he wouldn’t have left Columbia and risk all the money he got every month. “He’s been dead over two years now.”
“That can’t be.” He held his head and squeezed like he wanted to tear out what little hair he had left. “I have letters in my bag. He paid for the airplane ticket. He—“
“He is dead,” Val muttered.
Excellent at tuning out anyone who didn’t say what he wanted to hear, Logan ignored Val and pointed at the patch identifying Johnnie as the vice president. “Who’s running the chapter? This is where it all started. This—“
“Christopher’s the president,” Johnnie said with a smirk, satisfied when his grandfather lost all his color.
“Payback’s a motherfucker,” Mortician called, swigging down a beer. “And when a motherfucker is called Christopher, another motherfucker named Logan might be in serious shit.”
“What do you want?” Johnnie repeated, over his shock enough to move with nonchalance, as he walked to the bar. Digger joined him and sat next to him on the stool.
“Jo, Jo, Jo,” Little Man chanted before shoving half his fist into his mouth.
“Give him to me,” Johnnie said, making a face at the little boy. Excited babbling was his reward.
“You want the carrier?”
“Nope. Don’t have time to play nanny today.” Johnnie took Little Man and sat him on the bar. “Hi five,” he instructed, holding up his hand.
Little Man raised his hand—the one dripping with baby spit—and placed it against Johnnie’s.
“He looks just like Christopher,” Logan commented. He’d moved next to Johnnie.
No one answered.
“I swear I got a letter, Johnnie,” he continued. “From Big Joe. He was the one who orchestrated my disappearance ten years ago, so I thought—“
“You thought wrong,” Johnnie interrupted. “As I recall, the last time Boss saw you he wanted to shoot your ass off because of—“ He paused. None of them had known what had turned Boss against Logan. They’d assumed it was over Christopher since his name had been flung back and forth between the two men so much during the argument.
The door opened and a brief moment of sunlight glimmered into the room.
Johnnie glanced over his shoulder and did a double-take as his redhead loped into the room,
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