Disclaimer: I do not own Sons of Anarchy. I do, however, own Marlowe and any other OCs that appear in the 2 Sons Universe.
A/N: Fourteen reviews! THANK YOU! THANK YOU! THANK YOU!
Your detailed reviews have really made my and WebStar's day! Getting feedback from readers is very important to my muse and it gives me a warm fuzzy feeling when people like the work and appreciate all the time and effort that goes into telling this story.
As promised, I'm posting another chapter today and I really hope you guys are going to like it. I look forward to reading your reviews and as an added incentive, I will post a THIRD chapter this Friday—just my way of thanking you all for being so special to me. You are getting this close (½" between thumb and index finger) to the meeting of Jax and Marley!
Many thanks, Harlee
Bakersfield, CA – Saturday, April 17, 2010
It was a surprisingly warm spring day when the hot, but breezy winds coming down the I-5 S blew Happy Lowman's ass into Bakersfield.
Coming down the wide stretch of highway, the sun was relentless as it beat down on the biker, its bright rays blocked by the dark protective riding glasses he wore. The blustery warm breeze provided no relief as sweat poured down Happy's back. After a long fourteen months in prison, however, he was relishing the freedom of being on the open road once again. Just him, his kutte, and his ride.
The run to Bakersfield was his first real opportunity to put some miles on his bike since his release and Happy was thoroughly enjoying getting reacquainted with his beloved Dyna. Of course, that is, after he spent a significant amount of time letting his dick get reacquainted with some Club pussy. With the cream of the SAMCRO crop locked up, the pickins' had been limited to mostly hang-arounds and Prospects and the croweaters had been chomping at the bit in order to get their hands on him and Tig.
Getting stuck running interference for Clay, Jax and Opie as they eluded the pigs on their way to rendezvous with Putlova, Happy had to put a temporary hold on getting his freak on. Afterward, however, all bets were off as he made a beeline back to the lot and dove face first into the welcome home pussy buffet over a year in the making.
Watching Happy with his arms full of croweaters, Herman Kozik had grinned wryly. "Don't go breaking your dick, brother. You still need to be able to ride."
"Oh, I'm gonna get plenty of riding done, bro," Happy growled through an evil smirk as he kneaded a plump ass encased in tight black leather pants. "These bitches are tired of making do with your California beach boy ass. They need someone to remind them what a real man tastes like."
Kozik shook his head, his response short and succinct. "Bite me," he smirked back as he flipped Happy the bird.
"You must have me confused with Tigger," Hap replied as he headed towards his dorm. "Catch you later, Kozy. Way later." The two croweaters he was hauling back to his room, a redhead and a blond, squealed with delight, eager to put an end to their fourteen-month Happy drought. Where the Unholy One lacked in romance and making small talk, he more than made up for in stamina and skill.
After his private party, Happy spent the next few days stripping down his bike, giving it a thorough cleaning and tune-up before reassembling it. Now, his ride was roaring like a fuckin' lion, intimidating the hell out of anyone who crossed its path.
Having lived the Life for so long, being cut off from what made him a biker was nothing new for Happy, who knew that making a return trip to the Pen was always a possibility. However, whenever he got out of the joint, Happy always had a newer appreciation for the life he had chosen for himself and, even though he always missed ridin', fuckin' and fightin' while locked up, it was the family he left behind in Bakersfield that he missed the most, which was why as soon as he got some downtime, he headed straight home.
Although it had been his intention to make a quick run to Bakersfield as soon as he was released, Club life had interceded and almost a week had passed. Opie's wedding on their first day out, bloody retaliation against the ROC, and numerous Club upheavals—the last of which had a huge impact on his life—had kept Happy preoccupied and prevented him from making it down to see his mother.
Taking a quick glance down at the right side of his kutte, Happy couldn't read the upside down words at the speed he was travelling but he knew they were there. After all, he had sewn on the patch that now sat proudly above the one that identified him as an Unholy One himself.
Happy had been a member of the Club for nearly 20 years and when he had patched in at 24, joining the Club that John Teller and Piney Winston had built had never been about getting rich, making a name for himself or even becoming an officer. It was the brotherhood and sense of family that had drawn him in. Over the years, Happy had managed to make a name for himself anyway, being dubbed the Tacoma Killer by his SAMTAC brothers, commemorating a number of gruesome deeds he had handled on their behalf. As a result, over the years, Happy had developed a reputation known throughout all the charters as one willing to do whatever was required, without hesitation, for his blood brothers. Doing some heinous shit had earned him not only the privilege of being patched as an "Unholy One", but had earned him the respect of his brothers and the fear of everyone else.
Now, he had been given the privilege of serving his Club and his President as Sergeant-at-Arms and, yet as proud as he was that Jax had seen fit to place that kind of trust in him, Happy couldn't help but feel for the brother he had replaced. As the road brought him ever closer to Bakersfield, Happy thought about his conversation with Tig after the wild party to celebrate the Club's new leadership.
Charming, CA – Tuesday, April 13, 2010
Making his way through the piles of sprawled bodies littering the Clubhouse, Happy, wearing nothing but his boots, a pair of jeans and his kutte, stepped outside into the bright light of day. Surprisingly, despite considerable effort on his behalf, his hangover wasn't bullet-in-the-head-worthy. Nonetheless, Happy wanted some fresh air despite the fact that the stale smell of liquor, weed and pussy permeating the Clubhouse always made him feel right at home. Stopping just outside the Clubhouse door, he saw Tig, sitting on top of the picnic table seemingly staring out into space.
That they needed to talk was a no-brainer and Happy figured that, with the lot quiet and empty as it was still early, there was no time to do it like the present. Hey, if shit got out of control, they could always hop into the ring right behind them and get the healing started. It wouldn't be the first time and, if it happened, it wasn't likely to be the last either.
Sauntering over, Happy held out the open pack of cigarettes and offered one to Tig, who took one without comment. Taking one himself, Happy lit his smoke and tossed Tig the lighter so he could do the same. He took a seat next to Tig and the two brothers sat in companionable silence for a while before the former-SAA finally spoke.
"Last night, that was an interesting turn of events," Tig said as he blew out a trail of smoke.
"Yeah," Happy allowed. "It was." His dark eyes met his brother's fiercely blue ones. "You gonna be okay with that?"
Tig shrugged. "Don't really matter if I am or not. It's a done deal now, and I know why he did it," he sighed, referring to Jax. "But I guess if somebody had to take my patch, I'm glad it was you, bro," he said as he gazed directly into Happy's eyes. "I really mean that shit."
Seeing his brother's sincerity, Happy nodded. "I know you do, brother, and I ain't replacing you. Nobody could ever replace your crazy ass 'cause you know I draw the line at biting shit, right?" Happy grinned and Tig snorted with a measure of pride.
"Yeah, you were always a bit girly about putting your mouth on another man. First rule of defense, use what you have available, so biting is totally fuckin' permissible and not a bitch move. I don't know why you don't get that shit," Tig complained as Happy laughed, the sound a cross between a chuckle and growl.
Finally stubbing out his cigarette, Happy slapped a hand on his brother's back. "All this change for the Club, it's a lot at one time, but I got to believe that Jax has the Club's best interest at heart. Even if," he wrinkled his face in disgust, "the boy insists on wearing sneakers instead of proper boots."
At that the two bikers eyed each other's footwear. Tig had on a pair black leather steel-toed riding boots he had custom-made in Encino. Happy's may have been a bit worn—what he liked to call "broken in"—but they were stylish as fuck, black leather embossed in a decorative python pattern. Both men grunted their approval at each other's gear.
Tig ran a hand through his unruly hair and eyed his brother. "Look, I know the MC's his legacy and shit, but I've been handling shit for this Club for years—" he shrugged halfheartedly. "I just feel like I got spit on and told none of what I've done is worth dick in his eyes."
The fact was that, while Tig had always appreciated his ability to think outside the box, there were times where he wondered whether Jax had the stones to make decisions in an instant and do what was needed for the Club. Like his stepfather, to really get bloody. Tig's relationship with Clay had spanned decades and the two were really very much like brothers. Although Clay had put on a good show convincing the table that stepping away from the gavel had been an easy decision to make, Tig knew otherwise.
"Bro, I wouldn't take it as a personal attack. Every man at that table has something to contribute, so just let your actions show that you support the Club and stand by your President," Happy advised. "With the Cartel deal weighing heavy on the MC, we can't let internal beefs distract us. That happens, mistakes get made, shit slips through the cracks and people die."
Tig nodded in agreement. "I hear you, brother."
"So we good?"
Tig made a "pffft" sound through pursed lips. "Get the fuck outta here, bro. You and me, we'll always be tight, you know this."
"Good, 'cause I'm gonna need your ass as back up while I'm gone," Happy revealed.
Tig raised an eyebrow. "Where you going?"
"Clay got word from the Irish last night. Kozik and Miles are heading up to Canada to pick up the merch and bring it down. With no insurance money to rebuild the warehouse, Jax and Clay are still working on securing a new storage site, so Jax asked if I could do the Club a solid," Happy explained. "I'm heading home for a few days to square shit away, but I don't like leaving my Pres unprotected. While I'm gone, I'm gonna need you to watch his back."
Tig stroked the hair on his chin and shook his head wryly. "Brother, I know you were there last night. The last place Jax wants me is behind him."
"Shows what little you know, asshole. Not only did he clear it, but he said it was a good call."
The disbelief was heavy in Tig's voice, "Really?"
"I ain't shitting you, bro," Happy replied soberly.
Well, maybe I am just a little.
As a matter of fact, it hadn't been at all easy convincing Jax that Tig would be all that willing to begin with. Happy figured that, in this situation, what either brother knew or didn't know wouldn't hurt either of them. Jax needed to know that Tig was still solid with the Club and Tig needed to have his ego stroked after the hit he'd suffered the night before. He could see by the now-relieved look in Tig's eyes that he had been right.
"If that's what Jax really wants, you know I'm there, Hap."
"He does. Just be the brother he already knows," Happy advised, "but pull back on the bat-shit crazy. I know it'll be all good." As they both got off the picnic table, Happy held out a hand to Tig and they bro-hugged it out.
"When you heading out, brother?" Tig asked as they pulled away.
"In a few days. Jax is keeping my ass running. He wants me, Idiot and Bobby to scout out and buy the shit we're gonna need to build the shipping crates to transport the merch for the first run. Gonna use one of the bays to start the initial prep work until we secure the new gun depot," Happy replied. "I'll head on down to Ma's, take care of shit and be back in a couple of days and when I am, you know we're gonna hit the—"
Tig was grinning as they both bellowed loud enough to wake the dead, "—Jellybean!"
Bakersfield, CA – Saturday, April 17, 2010
Happy was smiling as he continued to make his way down the highway knowing that Tig was probably yanking his hair out, anxiously anticipating their next venture to their favorite strip club.
On the surface, there was nothing really extraordinary about the Jellybean except how truly fugly the strippers were. As a matter of fact, Opie had a point in labeling them "horsemeat in g-strings". The haggard-looking bitches swinging listlessly around a pole had been called many things, but easy on the eyes was certainly NOT one of them. The Brothers Grim—as Happy and Tig were known by all the regulars and employees at the strip club—would never recommend the Jellybean to anyone looking to indulge in some eye candy.
If you wanted to jerk off to some tight little body with massive fake tits and a pretty face, the Brothers Grim would advise you to keep walking 'cause you won't find it there. But if you didn't mind looking at sagging skin with visible c-section scars and deflated party balloons where tits used to be while getting head until your eyes crossed as a result of the incredible suction on your dick, then come right in 'cause the Jellybean Lounge was the place to be.
Happy was satisfied that he had addressed the elephant in the room with Tig and had smoothed shit over with his brother before leaving Charming. Reinforcing their bond as they shoved dollar bills into the snatches and ass cracks of tired-looking strippers-slash-hookers, however, would have to wait. Happy had business to attend to, both for the Club and of a personal nature.
With the trip getting pushed off a few more days by the Pres, it was now some six days out of Stockton before Happy was finally pulling off the highway and heading down the familiar streets of his old neighborhood. Though he was looking forward to seeing his family, he knew that with each passing traffic light he was steadily drawing ever closer to the righteous ass chewing Amelia Lowman probably had in store for him.
But knowing Ma, she'll stuff me with good eats as she's doing it, Happy thought as he cut over to the next lane to avoid a car full of joy-riding teenagers. And I'm a'ight with that.
The biker had resigned himself to the fact that he had it coming anyway, especially since after Marlowe's unexpected visit to him in Stockton Happy had made no further contact with either woman. Holding true to his belief that he needed to keep his emotions firmly in check and his family out of his head while inside, he had limited himself to accepting the few letters he had received from them, never writing back. Happy refused to acknowledge to himself, however, just how important those letters were to him and how he had practically memorized each one word for word.
On the day he got out, Happy had called to let his mother know that he was alive and would be by to see her soon, but no one had been home. He had left a brief message on the answering machine and hadn't called back. With all the shit the Club had on tap those first few days after being paroled, he had done his best to keep his head and his heart separate. Knowing that his mother was alive and waiting for him was all that really mattered. Learning that her cancer was in remission let him put family matters in a box for the moment as he focused on getting shit done for the Club.
Now that he had a few days to focus on family matters, Happy had used some of his downtime before heading to Bakersfield to do some investigative work on the next steps necessary to get his mother completely whole again. As stubborn as the Cuban woman was, he knew it was going to take a good minute to get his mother on board with his plans, but unlike Marlowe, he wasn't about to let Amelia give him any shit. She was going to do as she was told whether she wanted to or not. Sometimes, the best and simplest way to deal with a headstrong woman was not to give her a choice to begin with.
Pulling into the large driveway that ran the length of the right side of the house, Happy parked behind two cars—his mother's dark blue Corolla and a real piece of shit Escort he assumed belonged to Marlowe. Cutting off the engine, Happy removed his helmet and hung it from the handle bars. He smirked as he noted the explosion of colorful spring flowers that spilled from the large clay pots on the porch and the window boxes. Their fragrance mixed with the scent of fresh herbs growing in Amelia's makeshift garden off the side of the house which included the ever-present vines of green peas. The meticulously-kept front lawn looked as if it had just been mowed and was a deep, vibrant and healthy green.
Ma's water bill must be through the fuckin' roof, Happy thought as he got off his bike and stretched his taut frame. And I hope she has Marlowe doing her bitch work or I'm gonna tan both their hides. Slipping off his dark riding glasses, he hung them from the collar of his white t-shirt and started up the walkway of zigzagging slabs of multi-colored slate stones. He remembered installing the walkway himself about a year before doing his first serious stretch in prison.
Making it only about halfway, Happy allowed a small smile to slip onto his face as the sturdy screen door was shoved open, revealing a tall and familiar figure standing in the doorway and leaning on a cane.
"Aye Dios mio!" Amelia managed to shriek as she slowly made her way towards the edge of the porch. "What took you so long to drag your ass home, hijo?"
"Sorry, Ma," Happy replied as he made his way up the short flight of steps. "I had some shit to take care of first, but I'm here now, a'ight?"
"So, taking care of some shit es mas importante que tu propia madre, eh?" Amelia scolded, half in English and half in Spanish, a sure sign she was pissed. "Tell me, Kique, after I carried you for nine months, nurturing you with my own body and enduring twenty-six hours of labor, what's more important than coming home to see your mother?"
"Shit, nothing, Ma! Melodramatic much?" Happy's voice was gruff but not without emotion as he carefully looked his mother over, inwardly sighing with relief.
She's looking a hell of a lot better, he thought approvingly, noting that she was no longer gaunt, her face and long frame fuller and softer. But while Amelia Lowman's appearance had significantly improved, her demeanor had not. Wrapping her arms around her son's sturdy frame, she continued her litany of Spanglish abuse interspersed with exclamations of love and joy.
"And what the hell was that message you left? 'I'm out and I'll catch you later'? I'm not one of your homies, Kique," she scolded.
"Brothers, Ma, not 'homies' and stop bitching, a'ight?" Happy ordered. Putting a finger across her mouth to shut her up, he tenderly kissed her forehead. "I'm here now."
Standing behind the screen door, Marlowe leaned against the wall and watched as mother and son reunited after not seeing each other for over a year. As Amelia shed unabashed tears, thanking God in heaven for seeing her son through another ordeal, Marlowe gave herself a stern talking to.
Don't even think about losing your shit! There's no reason for Hap to know just how glad you are to see him again, out, safe and whole, she chastised herself.
"Geez, I stopped cleaning the toilet for this?" Marlowe drawled, her arms crossed over her chest. "You'd think that with all the commotion and racket going on someone special had dropped by or something." She twisted her lips into a hard grimace as Happy raised his head to meet her eyes.
"What the fuck you still doing around?" Happy asked condescendingly. "With the habit you have of doing stupid shit, I thought by now you would have run away again and joined the circus."
Marlowe fake-pouted at Happy. "Aw, are you grumpy 'cause you miss your prison husband?"
Happy glared at her through narrow slits. "I wasn't grumpy 'til I laid eyes on you, little girl."
Ushering everyone inside, Amelia smiled as her two children continued to snipe at each other. Closing the door behind her, she sighed happily as once again all was right with her world.
"Ma, can you at least let me eat my shit before taking a chunk outta my ass?" Happy complained as he tried to shove a forkful of the almost heavenly rice and black beans into his mouth. "You have no idea what the food was like in the joint."
"No, I don't and the fact that you do is no one's fault but your own, Kique, so I don't really give a shit," Amelia retorted as she sat across from him in her kitchen. "Fourteen months and not one letter or phone call. You're as bad as this one!" She pointed at Marlowe.
"Hey, don't drag me into this! I was here," Marlowe shot back. "And I went to Stockton to see about him."
"After I nearly nagged you to death, Marley," Amelia said tersely.
Happy smirked, grateful for the reprieve as the two women continued to bicker. The more they chew each other out, the better my chances are of finishing my food in peace.
Scooping up the last of his roast pork and the fresh avocado straight from Amelia's garden, Happy wiped his mouth with a napkin as he sat back in his chair. Seeing that he had finally finished eating, Amelia waved an impatient hand at Marlowe. "Hija, please, you're making me tired and I still have to deal with this one," she said as she turned to her son and focused a pair of sharp eyes on him. "I'm still waiting for an explanation, Enrique. You've been out almost a week now—"
"Ma, I told you," Happy shook his head with an impatient eye roll. "I had shit to take care of."
"Shit? What shit? Like sewing?" Amelia inquired with a raised eyebrow as Marlowe tried and failed to stifle her laughter.
"Don't you have a toilet to clean or something?" Happy growled at Marlowe, who stuck her tongue out at him as his mother continued talking over him.
"What's that thing—what do you call it—that new sticker on your jacket-vest thing?" Marlowe's eyes widened as Amelia pointed a finger at the kutte adorning Happy's muscular frame.
"Ma, how many times do I have to tell you? It's not a jacket or a vest, it's a kutte and it's not a sticker, it's a patch," he said in a long-suffering tone.
"Last time I checked, a jacket without sleeves was called a vest, mijo, but whatever," Amelia shrugged her shoulders. "What does Sergeant-at-Arms mean? I know that's some sort of Army talk, right?"
"I ain't in no fuckin' Army, Ma. Unlike Marley, I don't have shit for brains," Happy replied as he got up to put his empty plates in the sink.
"Coulda fooled me 'cause how many times do I have to tell you I was in the Navy, asshole?" Marlowe retorted.
Happy grabbed a beer from the fridge and sat down again. "As many times as it takes for me to understand why the fuck, which will be never, brat."
For a brief moment, Marlowe considered throwing Happy's ass under the bus by telling Amelia just exactly what that new patch meant. Tía, it means that your son is probably the Club's trigger man and bullet catcher.Meeting Happy's knowing glare, as if he knew exactly what she was thinking of doing, Marlowe batted her eyelashes at him sweetly and kept her mouth shut.
"It just means I have a little more responsibility in the Club is all," Happy answered. "I handle shit."
"Ave Maria, you handling a lot of shit lately, huh? Well, will any of that shit-handling put you inside again?" Amelia wanted to know.
"It's not like that, Ma," he lied and not for the first time.
Amelia crossed her arms. "Then tell me what it's like, Kique."
Happy took a long sip of his bottle of Corona, buying himself some time. "It ain't a big thing, Ma. Like now, I just need to make use of the storage room to hold some shit for the Club for a few days."
Marlowe felt her shoulders tense as she eyed her brother. Storing shit for the Club, huh? I know what that means, she thought grimly, and I don't fuckin' like it.
Despite the fact that Happy did his level best to keep Club business separate from his family, Marlowe had known him long enough to figure out just what business his Club was involved with a long time ago. Happy claimed that he was just a mechanic and part-time tattoo artist, but the Sons of Anarchy were a well-known outlaw biker club. Amelia was good at feigning ignorance of exactly how the Club her son lived for earned its living, but Marlowe had grown up street savvy and knew exactly what the deal was.
So before Amelia could open her mouth, Marlowe took Happy to task. "Are you out of your mind? You're storing your guns here?"
His face betraying nothing, Happy slowly turned his head to face his mother and cocked an eyebrow at her. "Don't look at me like that, Enrique. I never said anything to Marley. She's just good at figuring shit out is all."
"Knowledge of what I bring into this house is on a need-to-know basis, Marlowe, and you don't need to know because it has nothing to do with you," Happy's voice was low and gravelly.
"What I do know is that your ass is out on parole. You may want to end up back in the joint, but I don't!" Marlowe shot back. "I mean, I don't want this shit taking Amelia and me down with you. Ever think of that?"
He had, but at the moment Happy didn't have much of a choice. The first shipment of guns for the Cartel had arrived ahead of schedule. Until the Club's release from Stockton, merch from the RIRA had been trafficked and stored for the Club by Putlova's crew. Now that the ROC was permanently out of the picture, the Club had called on Happy to store the weapons until Clay could get a hold of Elliott Oswald in order to secure a new storage facility. Until then, they needed a temporary place to house the guns and Bakersfield was a hell of a lot closer than Tacoma.
Jax had hesitated asking for such a favor, but when he finally approached him about it, Happy had readily agreed. After all, the last place anyone would suspect of being an arms depot would be his mother's place. Marlowe could protest all she wanted, but with Kozik and Miles already on their way down from Canada with the shipment, it was a done deal. And hopefully, the last time Happy would have to make use of his mother's house in such a way.
"Yeah, I've thought about it. As long as Ma doesn't go running down the block to Mrs. Guzman and tells her we're having a two-for-one yard sale on Glocks, I think I got shit covered," Happy said irritably. "And you keep your mouth shut, too." He pointed at Marlowe with his beer bottle before polishing off the remainder of its contents.
Amelia sighed as she eyed her disreputable but much loved son. "Sometimes I don't know what I'm supposed to do with you," she muttered.
"What can you do? I'm your favorite son." Happy flashed an actual smile at his mother and Marlowe almost fell out of her chair.
"You're my only son and a royal pain in the ass to boot," she replied. "So there better be enough room back there for storage because I don't want none of that shit cluttering up my living room."
Amelia's passive agreement to her son's request set Marlowe's teeth on edge. What the hell is it about Latino sons that lets them exercise mind control over their otherwise law-abiding mothers?
"There'll be plenty of room after Marley helps me clear out some shit," Happy replied casually as he noted the fire in his sister's eyes.
"I don't recall volunteering," Marlowe said as she pointedly looked at her fingernails. "Maybe I got more important shit to do."
"You know that's true," Amelia started. "I was telling Vivica what a green thumb you have and she wants me to send you over to help her aerate her garden. She mentioned something about getting her hands on some horse dung she wants to use as fertilizer."
"You know what," Marlowe amended quickly, "Happy shouldn't have to do all that reorganizing by himself, Tía. I think we can put off me standing knee deep in horseshit indefinitely, thank you very much."
Leaning back in his chair, Happy folded his hands behind his gleaming head and grinned as two of the most important women in his life started to bicker again.
Nothing like being back home.
Bakersfield, CA – Sunday, April 18, 2010
"So where's my nephew?" Celia Lopez tossed her handbag down on the kitchen table. Sitting down in her favorite chair, Ceci's hazel eyes bounced back and forth between Amelia and Marlowe as she impatiently tapped her fingernails in a staccato beat on the oak wood table.
Marlowe walked to the table and placed a cup of espresso in front of each of the sisters before sitting down. "He went off to dump some garbage and shit. He should be back soon."
"It's about time he shows up, don't you think?" the no-nonsense history teacher said before sipping at her coffee. "Que cabrón! If I hadn't been so busy drafting a test for my students, I would have come right over last night after you called, Mellie, and slapped him on the back of his bald head."
"Tests, now? Can't you give those kids a break, Ceci?" Amelia asked as she sipped her coffee.
"Tu sabes como yo soy, Mellie. I love my students, but you've got to be firm to keep them in hand or they'll walk all over you and you know I don't play," Ceci defended herself.
No you don't, Marlowe thought with a sly smile. Sometimes she wondered how Happy would have turned out if Ceci had been his mother instead. Shit, she would have run his ass into the ground.
Celia Lopez was no shrinking violet. Having grown up first in San Miguel del Padrón, then on the streets of Miami being passed around from relative to relative, the younger of the Lopez girls had no choice but to develop a thick armor coating. After all, she had to watch over her older but soft-hearted and incredibly naïve-at-times sister, especially after they moved to California to attend college. Only two years apart, the sisters had an impenetrable bond and the only outsider to ever breach it had been Amelia's husband Manny, his brotherly love and affection towards Ceci melting her cold reserve.
Despite being a beauty in her own right, Ceci had been far more interested in academics. After suffering through a few relationships that had ended badly, Ceci decided to dedicate her life to her career, never ruling out marriage, but never pursuing it either. As the years passed, that had been a choice she had some lingering regrets having made. Now, instead of a family of her own, the only family Ceci had was her sister, Happy and Marlowe. That being the case, after Amelia's recent health crisis, she was determined that her nephew take her sister in hand since Mellie refused to listen to anyone else.
"Forget my students," Ceci said as she placed the tiny white cup on its saucer with a sharp click. "Did Kique have anything to say about your knee sur—"
Amelia wagged a finger at her sister. "Oye, hermanita, don't come in here stirring shit up. The more you move mierda around, the more it stinks and I can handle my own mess just fine. I don't need you sticking your nose in it too."
"Why not? She loves sticking it into everything else," Happy replied laconically as he walked in through the kitchen's back door.
"Ay, carajo! No me jodas!" The woman Happy loved like a second mother jumped up from her seat and threw her arms around her nephew. "I should box your ears."
"Why, for speaking the truth?" Happy teased. "You know you're a nosy bitch, Tía."
"Mira, cabrón, watch your mouth, okay?" his aunt shot back even as her shoulders shook with laughter. "I don't even know why I love you so much."
Marlowe watched in stunned silence as Amelia joined in and the two older women continued to dote and hover over Happy, who was lapping up the attention as if it was his due. After fourteen months in a federal prison, he gets welcomed back like a hometown hero. I come back and get my ass handed to me, Marlowe shook her head. Jesus Christ, I should have been born a man!
Glossary
es mas importante que tu propia madre: is more important than your own mother.
Oye, hermanita: Listen, little sister
mierda: shit
Ay, carajo! No me jodas: [slang] Aw, hell! Don't fuck with me.
Mira, cabrón: Look, you bastard