For the life of me, I can’t see why Missy thought my family was so great. They practically went on like she wasn’t there. My family wasn’t going to change because of her presence, but it wasn’t like they rolled out the welcome wagon either.
“I wish I had a big family like yours. Sisters or brothers. It must have been so neat growing up with all of them,” she gushes.
Not in the fucking least. I love my brothers, would kill for them and die for them, but there was nothing neat about growing up with six brothers. Half the time I wanted to kill one of them.
As the third oldest, I was sort of the mediator between the older brothers and the younger. While Wyatt has the whole, do it because I’m the oldest and I said so, I was the one that tried to hear them out and get the other side to listen. Shit drove my crazy.
However, I don’t tell Missy all of that. It’s not something I’ve ever shared with anyone. Truth is, that’s the second reason why I think I am the way I am. My need for control comes from my role as the third son.
I’m not quite the middle child, but I have my own issues. I’ve never lacked love or attention from my parents, but I have always had a sense of responsibility and I take my responsibilities seriously. Always have, always will.
I grunt to myself. And that’s why I’m here in this situation. I can’t walk away without making sure Missy is okay. It’s starting to feel like a character flaw on my behalf.
“Want to head to your place?” Missy pulls me from my musing, reaching to run a hand through my hair.
I nearly cringe. Reaching for her hand, I place it on my thigh to keep her from doing it again. The last thing I want is for her to have roaming hands.
Although, when she locks her fingers through mine, I see the mistake I’ve made. I glance at her and she’s smiling more than she has all night. I’m not trying to deepen this connection she thinks we have.
My goal was to get her back to a healthy place and gently break things off with her the way I’d planned before finding out about the pregnancy. Too bad goals aren’t always met. “I have a bounty I need to head out on. Dad handed it over before we left,” I answer her question.
It’s the truth. I do have a guy to track down. Some shit show with parents that cut him off and now he’s on the run, skipping bail.
“Oh.”
I sigh, hating the disappointment that starts to roll off of her. She was just on such a high. The last thing I want is for her to digress.
“Maybe next time.”
The words are out before I think better of them. It wouldn’t be my first mistake tonight. Mistake number one was calling her my girlfriend in front of her.
“Maybe I can come along to Sunday breakfast. Now that your family has met me, it would be good for them to get to know me more,” she says, the excitement returning to her voice.
This is my point. I couldn’t not call her my girlfriend. If I would have brought Missy home as a friend, there was no way I was making it through the night without an interrogation. I don’t bring “friends” or Subs home to meet my family.
I totally took a chance with the girlfriend title. It was my hope that they would think she meant enough to spare an ounce of her feelings—this time. And here, she wants to go back.
“I don’t know about that. I’ll be busy for the rest of the week. I don’t know if I’ll be going. If I do, I’ll be popping in real fast and heading back out, so Mom doesn’t kick my ass.”
I’m going to kick Brax’s ass for mentioning Sunday breakfast in front of her.
“Oh,” she says, the chipperness in her voice dies down.
I’m grateful when the exit for her place comes up. I turn off and we make the rest of the ride in silence. When I release her hand, she crosses her arms over her chest.
Pulling up in front of her place, I turn the car off. She turns to me and stares for a beat. Why do I feel like I should get out of the car and let her have it?