wanted to keep looking at him. Like I was making up for lost time. “New beginnings.”
A slow smile spread on Jazz’s face, a little lopsided from the swelling in his jaw. He tapped his glass against mine. “Cheers. To new beginnings.” We drank, and Jazz sighed with relief—from the alcohol or the conversation, I wasn’t sure. “Some things don’t change, though.”
“Yeah? Like what?” I asked.
“Your right cross is still weak as fuck,” Jazz said, rubbing at his jaw.
I shoved his shoulder affectionately. “I only give you as much as you can handle.”
“Yeah, that’s what you think.” Jazz laughed. “God, it’s good to be home.”
I squeezed his shoulder and nodded. I couldn’t respond around the sudden tightness in my throat. Because he was more correct than he realized. Home wasn’t here in Monterey, or Elkin Lake, or the ranch in Texas.
Home was each other.
4
Tex
Jazz didn’t ask for any clarification on where exactly we were going; he seemed content to let me lead the way—which I was happy to do. God, it felt good to be back on the road with him again, to hear the familiar roar of his engine behind mine and see his serious expression in my side mirror as we navigated the traffic of the two-lane highway.
He’d seemed a little… tense, at the diner, for lack of a better word. But who could blame him? Going from prison right back into the real world was an adjustment. I’d never been in the clink for more than a couple of nights, and that was bad enough. I couldn’t imagine what it would be like after three years. I wasn’t sure what he needed to feel comfortable again—and I definitely didn’t know how to ask.
But I was grateful I’d thought to tell Blade we’d take a day or two to return. It’d be chaos as soon as he got back—there was a lot to catch up on, and I was sure the inner circle would want to talk to him about the circumstances leading up to his incarceration, make sure that he was going to be solid from here on out. Part of me wanted to protect him even from that. He’d paid his dues already. If I had it my way, we’d just put all this behind us and continue on like it’d never happened. But I knew that was impossible.
We rode toward the coast, taking a winding side road toward Monterey. It was a mere ninety minutes outside of Elkin Lake, but it felt like a different world, and it was an old haunt of ours. We rode into the beachfront town—still fairly busy even in the late months of the summer season, already settling us into fall—and I led us straight to the parking lot of the Silver Gull Inn.
“Come on,” Jazz said with a huge grin as he hopped off his bike. “You didn’t.”
“In fact I did,” I said, tamping down a smug smile.
The Silver Gull had been a dump when we first stayed there, and it was a dump now. But it had a long, rickety boardwalk that led right to the beach, cheap-ish rooms, great views, a couple bars nearby, and management still let you smoke on the narrow balconies. Despite its water-stained ceilings and disreputable clientele, I loved the damn place.
It always reminded me of summers with Jazz, when we’d scraped together enough money for a few nights sharing a bed in the Silver Gull—or when we hadn’t, and just roughed it on the beach because Jazz couldn’t go a season without diving into the waves at least once.
He loved the ocean so much I thought he must’ve been a dolphin in his past life. I figured he’d missed it while he was locked up. And from the gleeful, nearly childlike expression on his face and the way he raked his fingers through his thick, dark hair, I was pretty sure I was right.
I checked us in and led us to our separate but adjoined rooms that shared a narrow, dangerously decrepit balcony overlooking the Pacific. I dropped my bag quickly on my bed, and then knocked on the door between the rooms.
No answer.
If we were ten years younger, I’d’ve kicked the door in and crashed into the room with a pilfered bottle of scotch, demanding Jazz drink with me until we were dizzy with it, and then go push each other into the waves. But we weren’t those kids anymore. Jazz was still Jazz at his core, I was sure—still funny, and