She was in a club chair, Shy sitting on the arm.

Tyra also was in a club chair.

Tack was standing, keeping an eye on a “motoring” Playboy.

Good father.

Good grandfather.

I looked to Tabby, thinking it was sweet she went around my foray into porn.

“Kind of. I’d like to be a filmmaker,” I told her before taking a sip of beer.

“What’s the difference?” Tyra asked.

“Now, I do some weddings, birthday parties, anniversaries. Other events. Not my favorite, but it pays the bills.” Or did. “I also do videos for local bands. Some stuff for companies. Vloggers. I get to be more creative with those so those are better. But I’d like to make films. I have a script, I think it’s good. I just need to get organized. Find some funding. Maybe do a teaser trailer and—”

“You have a script?” Rush asked.

I looked up at him. “Yeah.”

“What’s the script?” he inquired.

I shrugged and muttered, “Just something I put together. Before I get serious, I’ll need a real screenwriter to take a look at it. It’s rough. It needs cleaning up.”

“Baby, you wrote a movie?”

I sat in the chesterfield and stared up at him.

Diesel.

Mad.

Molly.

Diane (when she was alive).

Amy.

Paul.

Essence.

Maybe a little bit from some other friends.

I would get it from all of them.

Easy.

But I’d never had the kind (or amount) of pride I saw in his face aimed at me.

It felt really good.

And he hadn’t even read the thing.

My parents and Gunner never looked at me like that. Not even when I won an award in high school that had my teacher telling me I should try to get into UCLA film school, sending in the video I made of our cheerleading squad and how hard they worked to get to state with my application.

“It’s rough, Rush,” I whispered.

“You finish it?” he asked.

I nodded.

“Most folks don’t type that first letter, Rebel. You finished it. That’s fuckin’ cool,” he replied.

“What’s it about?” Tyra queried.

I tore myself away from basking in the glow of Rush’s handsome, admiring face and looked to his stepmom.

“It’s about a band. Kinda like The Commitments, except set in Denver. They’re a rock band with a female lead. Very Blue Moon Gypsies, except the lead falls in love with one of the guitar players. It’s a romance with heavy elements of women in rock and the music industry, and band dynamics and dysfunction. But it’s funny, I hope. And has a message, I hope. And unlike The Commitments, it has a happy ending.”

“Cool,” Tabby whispered.

My phone rang again.

I shifted a bit so I could open my bag and look in.

It was Diesel again.

“Maybe you should get that,” Rush said.

“It’s rude,” I told him.

He gave me a look.

I read his look, pulled my phone out and pushed up out of the couch, saying, “Sorry, my brother’s calling. I’ll just be a second.”

Setting my beer on a coaster on the coffee table, I took the call, put the phone to my ear and moved to the other side of the room that had a dining room table over which hung a huge chandelier made out of what looked like crystals formed from ash.

It was awesome.

“Hey, D,” I answered quietly.

“Where are you?” he asked irately.

I stopped by the table, surprised at his tone. “What?”

“Where are you? Right now?”

Right now?

“I’m out to dinner,” I told him. “What’s going on?”

“Where at dinner?”

Where?

Why did he want to know?

“Diesel, what’s going on?”

“Where, Rebel?” he bit out.

“Is everything okay?” I asked.

“Where the fuck are you?” he clipped.

Whoa.

What was this about?

“I’m at dinner,” I snapped. “Now is everything okay?”

“Tell me where you fuckin’ are, Reb,” he demanded, and my back went straight.

“Where are you?” I asked.

I didn’t get his answer because my phone was slipped out of my hand.

I turned stunned eyes to Rush who was looking at me with my phone to his ear.

“This is Rush, Rebel’s man. What’s happening?” he said into the phone.

There was a pause.

Then, “Yeah, that’s what I said. Now what the fuck is happening?”

Another pause, a nod.

Then, “Unh-hunh.”

Pause and his eyes swept from me.

Uh-oh.

Rush was an eye contact guy.

This could not be good.

“Yeah,” he said to the dining room table, then he gave an address that I was pretty sure was the address where we right then were. “Right. Later.”

He took the phone from his ear and looked back at me.

“Your brother is coming over,” he declared.

My voice was three octaves higher when I asked, “From Phoenix?”

“No. He’s in town.”

In town?

Diesel was in town?

No, this was not good.

Generally, I’d love a visit from Diesel.

With his tone, I was thinking this one would not be enjoyable.

I just couldn’t imagine why.

“I—”

“Babe, I think you probably should have told him you went undercover as a CI,” he said.

Oh my God.

My internal organs stopped functioning.

“He knows?” I pushed out.

“He knows,” Rush informed me.

It was a near screech when I asked, “How does he know?”

“We didn’t get that far. But to say he’s pissed is a pretty mammoth understatement.”

Oh shit.

Oh my God.

Diesel knew.

Oh shit.

Oh my God.

He couldn’t come there.

Not at all, but not pissed.

I’d barely said a few words to Tabby. I hadn’t had the time to win her over yet.

And now my brother was coming over, from Phoenix, and he knew I’d been a confidential informant for the police.

Definitely yes.

This was not good.

“He can’t come here,” I said.

“Too late,” Rush replied.

“But, Rush—”

“Babe, you should have told him.”

Oh no he didn’t.

He didn’t get to make this decision.

“Give me my phone,” I demanded, holding out my hand.

He didn’t give me my phone.

He said, “It’s not gonna stop him.”

I put my hands on my hips. “I can’t believe you gave him the address.”

“Tab did something like you did, she didn’t share, I found out, I’d want the address.”

Was he crazy?

“Rush, you don’t know Diesel.”

“I’m gonna meet him pretty soon.”

God!

“This is not good,” I snapped.

Our discussion was interrupted when two boys rolled into the room, wrestling, kicking and shouting, “She’s gonna be my girlfriend!” and, “No! She’s gonna be mine!”

Rush and I turned toward the fray to see Tack sauntering over to his sons.

He separated them by means of curling his fists in the backs of their tees, dangling them in the air for a second, then planting them on their feet but holding them apart, yes, with his fists still in the backs of their shirts.

“We do this shit in front of company?” he growled.

“Cutter’s a loser,” Rider declared.

“Rider’s a jerk,” Cutter declared.

“We do this in company?” Tack repeated, his voice now deadly.

Hmm . . .

Tack might be a great dad, but he had his limits and they were short.

“No,” Rider pushed out.

“No,” Cutter mumbled.

“We act this way in your sister’s home?” Tack kept at them.

He got two grumbled, “No”s.