Colton (Cerberus MC #14) - Marie James Page 0,40
want to leave, but the three beers in my system keep my ass planted on the bar stool. It doesn’t appear anyone is ready to head out, and that means I’m stuck until they are. Just because my night is ruined doesn’t mean I’m going to do the same for someone else.
“Everything okay?”
“Yes,” I answer Cannon. “Having a good night?”
“Always a good night,” he answers, drawing Rivet closer to his side.
I tried kissing this man when they were in the middle of figuring what they meant to each other. Of course I didn’t know that was going on because they were keeping their private lives private, but not once has she looked at me with jealousy. It’s something I’ve always been grateful for. Drama at the clubhouse isn’t an anomaly, but I’ve never wanted to be in the middle of it. As I watch her look up at Cannon like he’s the best thing on the planet, I realize she isn’t jealous because I was never competition for her. I don’t know if it’s because she’s so sure about herself or if she knows I’m just not good enough to be loved by anyone.
And of course I blame Colton for the self-depreciating attitude because I never felt this way before him.
I swipe the now label-less bottle from the table in front of me and turn the thing up.
Chapter 17
Colton
“What are you doing?”
“What do you mean?” Mom asks, once again looking around me to the driveway.
Rick chuckles and walks past us into the house.
“Just you two today?”
I frown. “Like always. Expecting someone else?”
She shrugs, turning her disappointed face around and following my son into the house. “More like hoping.”
“Did he bring her?” Dad calls from the kitchen.
Instead of going in there to face an inquisition, I take my ass to the living room and turn on the television.
“They’re talking about Sophia,” Rick helpfully offers as he plops down beside me with a soda in his hand.
“I know who they’re talking about,” I mutter.
They pulled this shit the Sunday after they met her at my house, as well as every family meal after. I knew it was coming, and for the first time since high school, I thought about not showing up today.
“Just you two?” Dad asks, walking into the living room, wiping his hands on a dish towel.
“Don’t sound so disappointed.” I don’t pull my eyes from the television. The car insurance commercial is more interesting than a repeat of this conversation.
“Lunch is in five minutes. We expected you sooner,” Dad goads, but he isn’t going to get a rise out of me.
I may not have stayed home to avoid this, but I’ve been coming later and later each week in an attempt to lessen the time spent with them, wondering why I once again showed up alone.
“Better go wash up,” Rick says, slapping my thigh and deserting me with my old man.
Ten minutes later, because Dad’s time management skills aren’t the best, we’re settling around the dining room table with a full spread in front of us.
“Nice,” Rick says, rubbing his hands together like he’s never seen food before in his life and he’s overwhelmed with the selection.
“Are you feeding him regularly?” Mom asks as my son reaches for a bowl of mashed potatoes.
“Every meal is like this.” Rick piles the potatoes high before reaching for the platter of baked chicken. “He probably has worms or something.”
My son is no longer affected by our joking. Like clockwork, this also happens every week. We all smile, watching him load his plate up. At thirty-five, I know he’ll be my only child and as the only grandchild, neither my parents nor myself take this young man for granted.
“Did Sophia have other plans today?” Mom asks with a smile as she passes the potatoes to me.
“I don’t know what Sophia’s plans were today, Mother.”
She scoffs at the formal designation, but she either doesn’t take the hint that I don’t want to have this conversation yet again or she doesn’t care.
“We liked her,” Dad offers.
“I know.”
“She seems very smart.”
I take a deep breath. “She is.”
“Very mature—”
“She’s twenty-one.”
“—for her age,” Mom continues. “Twenty-one?”
My eyes lift to hers. “Yes. She’s still in college.”
“I thought she was in a graduate program.”
“Nope, undergrad.” Maybe this will be enough to put an end to these conversations.
“Her age really isn’t an issue,” Dad adds.
“But she’s probably not ready for something serious,” Mom interjects.
“I’m not ready for something serious,” I mutter around a mouthful of potatoes.
“She’s definitely not ready to be