Ride Steady (Chaos, #3)(55)

Joker couldn’t see my bedroom suite, which also took up the entirety of space in my tiny bedroom, especially with Travis’s crib and changing table shoved against a wall.

I’d even gotten the comforter and sheets. All that was magnificent, elegant, even regal.

As it would be.

I’d picked the comfy sectional.

But Aaron’s mother had chosen our bedroom furniture.

Plus I had the storage unit my father paid for (saying he needed it for his stuff but I’d been there, he had two boxes stored there, the rest of the space was taken with the leftovers of my marriage). It held my dining room table and the guest bedroom furniture from one of our four guest bedrooms.

Something I intended to sell should I have needed to.

Now I didn’t and would be able to use it (or most of it) when I moved into Tyra’s house.

More lucky.

“See the * left you with somethin’,” Joker muttered.

“Nickel,” I snapped.

He looked at me, ignored my snap, and stated, “Thinkin’ we need more than a coupla trucks.”

“That would be useful,” I confirmed. “I also have a dining room set that it would be great if you retrieved from my dad’s storage unit.”

“We’ll take care a’ that,” he stated, and instead of nodding, shaking my hand, wishing me a good night, handing me my son, and walking out the door, he walked toward my kitchen, around the bar, and to the fridge. He then asked, “Thoughts on dinner?”

I stood where I was and stared at him. Then I stared at the fridge door when he mostly disappeared behind it.

I was still staring when he straightened, looked down at Travis, who was studying the wonders of the inside of the fridge with rapt baby attention, and asked, “Spaghetti?”

Travis looked up at him and replied, “Guh.”

“Yep. Sounds good to me,” Joker replied, disappeared behind the fridge door and came back out with a package of hamburger meat. His eyes came to me. “Skillet?”

“Uh…”

“Dah!” Travis declared.

Joker looked to him then at me. “When does he eat?”

“Now.”

“You do him. I’ll do spaghetti.”

Okay.

What was happening?

“Um… Joker—”

“Drop your bag, Butterfly, and get your kid,” he ordered.

“Are you having dinner with me?” I asked.

“Yeah, after I cook it,” he answered.

I didn’t know what to make of that so I asked, “Why?”

“Why not?” he asked back.

I had no answer to that.

Fortunately, he gave me more.

“I’m here. It’s dinnertime. You need to eat. I need to eat. You feed your kid. I’ll make shit to feed you.”

I liked the idea of dinner with Joker. What I wasn’t so sure about was why Joker wanted to have dinner with me.

Maybe he was just being friendly.

Maybe he was just hungry.

I didn’t ask.

Instead, I shared, “I think the tally now is eight-five cents.”

He shook his head and then he gently shook my son as a message to me.

“Get your kid, Carrie.”

Carrie.

Three people called me that

But it started with Althea.

When she was little, she couldn’t say Carissa and instead said Cah-ree-ree which morphed into Carrie.

My parents called me that back then too.

When we lost Althea, they stopped.

No one had ever shortened my name to Carrie again. In fact, except for calling me “honey” sometimes, “beautiful” others, and “baby” when we were having sex, when he stopped calling me Riss ages ago for whatever reason, Aaron had had no other sweet nothings or cute nicknames for me.

The return of Carrie should have brought up bad memories. Maybe even hurt.

But it didn’t.

No, I liked Joker calling me Carrie.

“Babe, kid,” he said impatiently.

I jumped to, got rid of Travis’s bag and my purse, moved into the kitchen, and grabbed my son.

This commenced both Joker and I moving around, me putting Travis in his highchair and getting his baby food ready and Joker taking off his jacket, tossing it on a stool, then opening and closing cupboards, grabbing stuff, and starting to get our dinner ready.

I pulled the highchair around to the stools, sat on one, and started feeding my son.

I did it while also watching Joker. So I saw him season the browning meat with salt, pepper, and dried basil. I also saw him peruse my meager spice collection like he was looking for something.

“What do you need?” I asked.

“Red pepper flakes,” he answered.

“I don’t have those.”

He turned to me. “Don’t like a kick?”

“I do. I just…” I shrugged. “Actually, I just eat what I eat as long as it’s fast. I don’t spend time on it because I don’t have that time or the energy.”

There was that, of course, but also dried red pepper flakes cost money and were unnecessary, thus they were not in my cupboard.

His jaw flexed and he shut the door on the spices.

I concentrated on feeding Travis, who was banging his fists, one that had a set of humongous plastic keys in it, against the highchair tray.