Diesel shuffled in and flopped into one of the padded swivel chairs surrounding the mahogany conference table that had been Marcus’s grandfather’s pride and joy. At six-six and a muscled two-seventy-five, Diesel made the long table look like a little girl’s tea party. Marcus finished pouring the coffee and gave the first cup to Diesel, who guzzled it down without a flinch, despite the beverage being scalding hot. After the life Diesel Kennedy had lived, he probably didn’t have any taste buds left on his tongue, and the lining of his esophagus had most likely petrified years before. God only knew what the man’s stomach looked like, because Diesel hadn’t seen a doctor in more than ten years. Marcus knew exactly when that had been, because he’d been with him at the time. Moral support, he’d thought back then. But Diesel hadn’t needed it, leaving the doctor’s office with no emotion on his face, not a flicker of recognition that he’d just been handed a death sentence. Instead, he had taken to drinking booze, smoking like a chimney, driving his motorcycle like a bat out of hell, and drinking coffee by the pot . . . and no one said a word to him.
