Hank tilts his head back and laughs. It’s a big belly laugh and has always reminded me of Santa Clause. Or maybe that’s because Hank has been the town’s Santa my entire life. The parade? It’s Hank. Pictures at the firehouse? Hank really is the only option.
The door opens and I turn to see Lorraine Martin stroll in. She doesn’t even look Hank’s way, and I have to smother a grin. But then her eyes lock on me and light up in a way I’ve learned means she’s up to no good.
“Uh-oh, lad,” Hank pipes up, “she has that look about her.”
Nana, which is what I’ve called her as long as I can remember, gives Hank a withering look. “And what look would that be, brother of mine?” The words come out sweet as pie, but it doesn’t take a genius to hear the threat in her words.
I almost let a chuckle slip out. The two of them picking at each other is nothing new; it’s been going on their whole lives. Considering they’re both octogenarians, pretty much everyone has a story about the two of them griping at each other.
Hank never understood what his brother-in-law was thinking when he became a biker, but Lorrie was happy and was treated like a queen. Not just by her Old Man, but all the old timers.
He’s always been family and he always will be.
“The one that says you’re up to something, and it probably involves a man’s love life. A love life no one wants you getting involved in,” Hank teases his sister.
Nana rolls her eyes and flaps her hand in Hank’s direction. “You’ve never known a damn thing. Not once in your entire life,” she snarks at him.
“Are you here for your car, Nana?” I step in between the two of them because I know if I let them really get going then I could be here for a while.
I catch her glare and have to stop myself from taking a step back. She purses her lips and looks at Hank like she’s assessing whether it’s worth ignoring me in favor of arguing with him. When her shoulders slump, I know she’s going to ignore her brother.
“I do need my oil changed,” she tells me, but it’s begrudgingly.
“And you just happen to have the perfect girl for our boy here?” Hank belly laughs again.
Nana hisses, “It’s not Christmas, St. Nick.”
When Hank laughs again, Nana makes a slashing motion in the air and turns away from him completely. She steps closer to me and holds out her keys. I don’t hesitate to take them from her and grin down at her.
“I’ll get your oil change done quickly, Nana,” I promise her.
“I know you will, but I wanted to talk to you about something else.”
My eyebrows shoot up while Hank barks out, “See? This is what I’m talking about. She’s on the hunt for a love story because she’s bored. If someone would just give her grandchildren, maybe she wouldn’t meddle so much in everyone’s lives.”
Nana huffs out a breath but keeps her eyes on me. The man can’t stand to be ignored. I can already see that he’s on the verge of losing it.
“What do you want to talk about?” I’m not even curious, I’m just trying to buy some time to figure out how to get out of whatever scheme or match she’s concocted.
“I believe I’ve met the woman you’re meant to be with. Your Old Lady,” she says it like she’s practically holding a trophy in her hands.
Internally I cringe because there is only one woman meant to be on the back of my bike. And I don’t need Nana’s help finding her. I’m not sure I want her help with making her mine.
“Nana,” I start to say, unsure of how I’m going to finish the sentence considering I don’t necessarily want to advertise my intention of going after Graycie.
“You don’t even know who I’ve found,” she cuts in, not giving me a chance to figure out what to say. “What if she is perfect for you? I just have a feeling, you know? I knew Patsy was the one for Warden, but I didn’t say anything back then.”
Yeah, I’ve heard this before. Many times.
And, conveniently, who can really refute her? If she never said anything, how would anyone know if she really did know?
“I knew about my son and Vera, too,” she points out. Again. “If my grandson would listen to me, he’d be happy as a pig in mud too,” she grumbles under her breath, but I catch it.
I almost snort. Her son, Jackal. But she has never called him by his road name unless another chapter or club is in the building. When it’s just us? Never. The woman can wield a wooden spoon, if she needs to.
“I don’t need your matchmaking resume,” I tell her.
“Are you giving me lip, Turner Garner?”