Page 28 of Thick

He raised his spoon. “I told you.”

“What did you do to it? It’s…” At a complete loss for words, I gazed down at the bowl of creamy caramel peach goodness. “It’s…”

“I halved two peaches, cooked them face down in a skillet for a few minutes, and then flipped them over. Then, I added a little brown sugar. The heat rising from the skillet melts it. Add the ice cream and the whipped topping, and voila!”

“This ice cream doesn’t taste like it’s good for you.”

“It most certainly is.” He leaned forward. “One of the editors for GQ went on a ten-day Halo Top diet. He was in his late twenties, and he was physically fit when he started. He ate five pints of ice cream a day, and nothing else. At the end of the diet, he’d lost fifteen pounds, two percentage points of body fat, and an inch and a half off his waist. At the end of the article, he measured his chest, and he’d gained two inches of muscle mass.”

I took another bite. It was better than the first. “Seriously?”

“After I read the article, I decided I better try it. It’s good, isn’t it?”

Previously, I’d starved myself from all sweets on every diet I’d been on. Eventually, my sweet tooth got the best of me. I then binged on them, always gaining three or four pounds in a matter of days. At seven points, I could eat the peach ice cream delight every day and not worry about a thing.

“It’s better than good.” I lifted my spoon. “This will be my new nightly snack. Seven points of heaven.”

I savored the fruity ice cream treat, becoming more skeptical of the points total for the dessert with each bite. After I’d finished, I grabbed my phone and walked into the kitchen.

Using my Weight Watchers points app, I scanned the ice cream’s empty container. Andy was right, a cup was only four points. Then, I scanned the brown sugar. Much to my surprise, Andy was right, again. I didn’t have to look the value of the peach up; unaltered fruit was zero points.

I decided I was wrong about the heroes in Tate’s books. If the dessert I just devoured could be as satisfying as it was, and only seven points, anything was possible.

Anything at all.

Chapter Twelve

Tate

Crip had briefed the entire MC on the raid of the dope house. As we prepared to leave, the detective who had been meddling in the club’s business stuck his head in the shop’s open door and yelled for Crip to come outside.

I turned toward Smokey. “What in the fuck is that asshole doing here at one o’clock in the fucking morning?”

“The prick keeps showing up,” he said. “Personally, I think he’s loyal to Crip.”

I was shocked by the statement. “Why do you say that?”

He looked at the detective and then at me. “Fucker came by here the other day and was talking to us about MS-13 tagging places, and I noticed he had a SEAL tattoo just like Crip’s. Hell, they might have served together for all I know. Never been one to trust a cop, but it looks like he’s got our best interest at heart.”

“Crip said it himself,” I said. “A cop’s a cop.”

“I’m not saying I trust the prick. I’m saying I think he’s loyal to Crip.”

“He makes me nervous.”

He shrugged. “If it wasn’t for him, you’d still be locked up.”

It was a good point. Still, I felt he was sticking his nose where it didn’t belong. “A cop’s a cop.”

It appeared Crip and the detective were in an argument. Crip’s shoulders were back, his chest was jutted out, and his nose was mere inches from the detective’s. I couldn’t hear what he was saying, but I didn’t need to.

Crip was pissed.

“Looks like he’s getting ready to smack that motherfucker,” P-Nut said.

I started to feel nervous about everything. There was nothing good that would come from having a cop mysteriously stop by on the night we were going to raid a drug house. Just as I began to mention my concerns, Crip turned away from the detective and walked into the shop.

Every man stared back at him with concern in their eyes.