“Yeah. She didn’t read me children’s books when I was little. She read The Hobbit and The Lord of the Rings. I practically know them by heart. Hobbits and elves were her thing. She really dug their love and respect for nature. She thought it was cool that elves could only die from a mortal wound or a broken heart and that elves and hobbits lived simple lives, free from greed. She used to tell me that we needed more elfin magic in our lives.”

“I love that. What else?”

“She loved painting, and we had a whole room she called the elfin-magic room. It was pretty cool, actually. The damn thing was covered floor to ceiling with elves, hobbits, wizards, forestry. We were always painting. Year after year.” His chest constricted with the memories. “I think she started when I was about six, and she had a zillion reasons to paint. If she was trying to make a tough decision, she’d paint. If I was in a bad mood, we’d paint. I suck at painting, by the way, but she praised me like I was Michelangelo.”

“Those seem like meaningful moments. You two must have been really close.”

“Damn meaningful. It was us against the world. When I was a boy, she read to me, and when she got sick, I read to her. That fucking circle of life, Trace, it’s a killer.”

“I know. I’m sorry.” Tracey moved closer. “What was her name?”

“Ruth. Ruthie.” He realized he hadn’t said her name in years.

“That’s a pretty name. Did she give you the nickname Diesel?”

“No. That’s my road name. Tiny and the guys gave it to me when I became a Dark Knight. She called me Dezzie, for Desmond.”

“Aw, that’s sweet. Did she work as an artist?”

He shook his head. “She was a waitress at the Roadhouse, a biker bar.”

Trace lowered her chin, looking up at him through those long lashes. “You realize you’re going out with a waitress who works at a biker bar, right?”

“Yeah. It’s a coincidence.” He leaned in and kissed her. “Don’t make it weird.”

“I won’t if you won’t. Did she go out with a lot of bikers?”

“Never. I asked her why once, and she said she had her fill of them at work, and while she liked Tiny and the guys, they weren’t her type.”

“Guess your father wasn’t a biker.”

Diesel scoffed. “Definitely not. She never really dated anyway. She busted her ass for us at work, and when she was home, she was all about making my life great. So when she got sick, I busted my ass for her.”