Page 69 of Colt
“Leave it,” Dutch said. “He’s been working up to that for weeks.”
So I stayed where I was. Watched through the window as Holden caught up with Lilac in the lot. He wasn’t smooth about it. He stopped a few feet away and said something short, his hands in his pockets. She went still. I couldn’t read her face from this distance. He said something else, something that looked like it cost him, and looked down at the gravel. She was quiet for a moment. Then she nodded, once, and said something back.
Holden walked back inside without looking at me.
“What’d you say?” I asked when he passed.
“Nothing that concerns you.” He picked up a pool cue. “You teaching these kids to play or what?”
I watched Lilac through the window a moment longer. She stood by her car with her keys in her hand, head down, thinking. Then she got in and drove.
“Who’s winning?” Holden leaned against the pool table, watching Luca line up a shot.
“Luca’s got the lead.” I grinned. “Kid’s got better aim than half the prospects.”
“That’s not saying much.” But Holden was smiling. He crouched down next to Knox. “Hey, little man. You want to try something?”
Knox looked up, curious. “What?”
“See that ball by the corner pocket? If you hit it just right—” Holden positioned Knox’s cue, adjusting his grip. “—you can sink it and set up your next shot at the same time. It’s called playing position.”
Knox listened intently, his face scrunched with concentration. He took the shot—and missed, the ball bouncing off the rail.
“Almost.” Holden didn’t seem disappointed. “Try again. A little softer this time.”
I watched my brother—my hard-as-nails, take-no-prisoners brother—patiently teaching my six-year-old how to play pool, and I had to look away for a second.
“If you’re brothers,” Knox said, frowning at the table like he was working out a math problem, “does that make you my Uncle Holden?”
Holden went very still. “Guess it does, if you want it to,” he said gruffly.
“Cool.” Knox turned back to the table. “Uncle Holden, show me again?”
Over the next hour, the clubhouse transformed. Handful taught both boys a new card trick—“advanced level,” he claimed, though I saw him simplifying it when they struggled. Glitch let Luca look at his computer setup, explaining what all the screens were for in terms a six-year-old could understand. Even Dutch stopped by, staying long enough to arm-wrestle Knox-letting the boy win, of course-and compliment Luca’s pool stance.
“They’re good kids,” Dutch said, standing next to me while the boys destroyed Handful at cards.
“They are.”
“They’re yours.”
I looked at him. “What do you mean?”
“I mean they’re Spencer through and through. That stubbornness, that protective streak, that way they study people before trusting them.” Dutch shook his head. “They’re your sons, Colt. Anyone with eyes can see it.”
“I missed so much time—”
“And you’ve got a lifetime to make up for it.” Dutch clapped me on the shoulder. “The club’s behind you, brother. Whatever you need. Those boys—they’re family now. Our family.”
I watched Knox celebrate a winning hand while Luca tried to figure out how Handful had cheated. Watched my brothers laugh and joke with my sons like they’d known them forever.
“Family,” I repeated.
“Damn right.” Dutch’s voice was firm. “And we protect our family. Always.”
Bea arrived at four.
She did that sometimes—home sessions, she called them, where she came to the environment instead of pulling the boys out of it. Let them show her their world instead of asking them to translate it into play therapy in an office setting.
