Page 38 of Colt
“Nothing.” I followed him. “She’ll have a sign made.”
“Already ordered it.” He said it like that was the most natural thing in the world. “For the door.”
“She should.” I looked around. “You did good, Dutch.”
He made a sound that wasn’t quite modest and wasn’t quite smug. “Legitimate’s the future. Montana’s not forever.” He glanced at me sideways. “Louisville contract goes through, we’re big time.”
I nodded. That conversation was coming. I’d be ready for it when he decided I was ready for it.
We were still standing in the doorway of the office when Betty called me.
“Luca got in a fight at school,” she said without preamble. “I’m at my cardiologist appointment—nothing serious, just a checkup, but I can’t leave. Lilac’s at work and isn’t answering her phone. Can you—”
“I’m on my way.” I was already grabbing my keys. “What happened?”
“Don’t know yet. The school just said he threw the first punch and they need someone to pick him up.”
Luca. Who’d looked at me like I was the enemy from day one. Throwing punches at school.
“I’ll handle it,” I said. “Text me the address.”
Fifteen minutes later, I was walking into Millfield Elementary with my leather cut on my shoulders and probably looking like every parent’s worst nightmare. The secretary’s eyes went wide when I approached the desk.
“I’m here for Luca James,” I said. “His grandmother called me.”
The secretary’s eyes swept over my leather cut and tattoos, her expression guarded. “And your name?”
“Colt Spencer. I’m his father.”
Her eyebrows rose slightly—probably not many leather-clad bikers showed up for school pickup. She turned to her computer, clicking through screens. I watched her scan what must have been the approved pickup list, her finger trailing down the monitor.
“Ah. Yes, here you are.” Her tone shifted, becoming more professional and less defensive. She pulled out a clipboard and slid it across the counter. “I’ll need you to sign in. Name, time, and which student you’re picking up.”
I signed where she indicated, and she took the clipboard back, glancing at my signature before reaching for the phone on her desk. She pressed a button. “Principal Hernandez, Luca’s guardian is here.” A brief wait, then: “Yes, ma’am.” She hung up and looked back at me. “Down the hall, second door on the left. Have a seat outside. She’ll call you in when she’s ready.”
I found Luca sitting in a plastic chair outside the principal’s office, his arms crossed, his face stormy. There was a red mark on his cheek that would probably bruise, and his knuckles were scraped raw.
He looked up when I approached. Surprise flickered across his face, followed by embarrassment. Then his expression went flat again. “Grandma sent you,” he said.
“She did.” I lowered myself into the chair beside him. “You okay?”
“Fine.”
“That bruise on your face says otherwise.”
“You should see the other kid.”
Despite everything, I felt a surge of pride. Wrong, probably, but there it was. “Want to tell me what happened?”
“No.”
“Fair enough.” I leaned back in my chair. “I’ll hear it from the principal anyway.”
We sat in silence for ten more minutes before the door to Principal Hernandez’s office opened. She was a middle-aged woman with a no-nonsense expression that reminded me of my third-grade teacher—the one who’d kept me after school more times than I could count.
“Mr. Spencer?” She looked at me, then at Luca, probably seeing the resemblance. “Please come in.”
The office was small and cramped, filled with inspirational posters about kindness and respect. I sat in one of the chairs across from her desk; Luca took the other, slumping down like he wanted to disappear.
