Free Secondhand Smoke (Dartmoor Book 4) by Lauren Gilley

come ‘here, pal was always a bit like a headlock and a tackle, coming from Merc.
                  “That was real good in there,” the Cajun said, giving him a fraternal squeeze. “I’m proud of you, kiddo.”
                  Aidan rolled his eyes. “Thanks, Dad . You know, you’re only like four years older than me.”
                  “Four-and-a-half, but who’s counting? But I’m serious. You’re getting better at that sort of thing. Used to, it woulda had to be your old man or Walsh doing the talking. Or me, ‘cause I talk so well.” He puffed his chest out proudly.
                  “Wow,” Aidan said glumly. “High praise.”
                  “Brother.” Mercy’s arm dropped away. “It’s a compliment. Don’t take it any other way.”
                  Whatever else he was, Mercy wasn’t duplicitous. Yes, it was a compliment, and he meant it heartily. Aidan just wished he hadn’t been thirty-two before he realized he wanted to do something worthy of praise.
                  He ground to an awkward halt when they reached the street. “Hey…can I come by for dinner tonight? Can I talk to you guys about something?”
                  Mercy twitched a concerned frown. “Everything alright?’
                  “Not really, no.”
                  “Yeah.” Merc patted his shoulder. “We usually eat around six-thirty. We’re having pasta tonight.”
                  Pasta…and baby confessions. How appetizing.

Five
     
    Sam took a bracing sip of Earl Grey and set her mug down carefully on the kitchen table. Beside her, her mother picked at imaginary dirt beneath her fingernails, trembling with anger and emotion, wan with something akin to despair. Across from them, Erin toyed with the frayed hem of her sweatshirt sleeve, refusing to make eye contact.
                  With her eye makeup scrubbed off, Erin looked even younger than her sixteen years, vulnerable and incredibly naïve. Sam wanted to gather her into her arms, tuck her sleek head beneath her chin and hold her tight, as she’d done when Erin was a baby.
                  Instead, she said, “Do you understand that what you did this morning was wrong?”
                  Erin huffed out a breath. “I’m not stupid.”
                  “And yet you snuck out your window before dawn.”
                  She shrugged.
                  Their mother laid a hand on Sam’s forearm. “You aren’t usually so blunt,” she whispered.
                  “You’re right,” Sam agreed. “I’m not. But I’m also not convinced hoping, praying, and sweet-talking is going to get us anywhere.” The day’s panic and frustration boiled to new life inside her, leaving her chest tight, her breathing rapid. “I’ve tried, Erin,” she said. “I’ve tried to be kind, and tried to make up for Dad not being here, and tried to tell myself this was some sort of phase you need to get through. But I think I’ve been too relaxed.”
                  “Relaxed?” Erin scoffed, finally lifting her head, shooting a glare across the table. “You’re never anywhere close to relaxed.”
                  “No, not personally. You’re right. I go to bed at night with a knot in my stomach and wake up from nightmares every morning.” She wasn’t going to mince her way through this argument. She was done with that; this morning had been the last terrifying straw. “You think hiking into town was rough? Did you think at all about the way things could have turned out? What if Jesse and his friends had hit you, thrown you down, ripped your clothes off–”
                  “Sam!” Mom gasped. “Don’t talk like that.”
                  Erin’s eyes goggled.
                  “No, I have to