"Just for the record, it's not really a bomb. If you decide to keep it, I'll be a kick-ass uncle."
"You will." Her smile this time is radiant. "Speaking of babies and marriage, how's things in O Land?"
I lean back in my seat, spreading my arms out across the top of the booth. "I might've asked her to move in with me."
"Oh, Cliff." Sitting up in her seat, she glances around the diner. "Should I have our waitress make it an Irish coffee?"
"I might be drinking tomorrow night. Her father is getting released in the morning and I get to pick him up."
Lucy's mouth hangs open. "Bombs away at this table. Livvie didn't say anything about this."
"Guess we've all got our secrets." I shrug. "I'll let her fill you in, but I'm not looking forward to another round of Meet the Parents."
"And so close on the heels of Round One." Reaching for her plate, she grabs a slice of toast. "I'm suddenly feeling a lot better about my situation."
"I'm glad," I say dryly. "Speaking of parents, how do you think your parents are gonna take the news?"
"About their impending grandchild or Olivia reuniting with biker daddy?"
"Yes," I say.
The waitress reappears with my coffee and a cold ginger ale for Lucy. "Do you need a few more minutes?"
"Please," Lucy says. When the waitress is out of earshot, she turns back to me. "I really don't know. My parents have always been a little distant, what with all the coke and family secrets, but they've been extra weird lately."
"Think it has anything to do with me?" Leaving my coffee black, I take a sip. It warms me all the way through, hitting the spot despite the heat outside. Something about coffee has always comforted me.
"Probably," Lucy confesses. "I'm really sorry. I hoped they'd come around by now, but . . ." She shrugs.
"Maybe they'll warm up when they find out about their grandbaby."
"Maybe," she says, a fresh smile lighting up her face.
"You didn't argue that at all." I put my coffee down and take both of her hands. "Am I gonna be an uncle?"
"For better or worse," she says. "At least I know it'll have people who really love it. Minus Olivia." She snorts. "That girl won't go near babies with a twenty-foot pole. Or boyfriends with apartments," she says, giving me a pointed look. "I warned you, Cliff."
"I know." I sigh. She's right. She did warn me. "Any chance I can turn that around?"
She gives me a sad smile in answer.
16
Olivia
This is the last day before I start my new job—my last chance to lounge around in a tank top, no bra, and butt-cheek shorts while bingeing Game of Thrones or The Great British Baking Show.
I'm sort of doing that.
I lie on my stomach on my bed, laptop open in front of me, the tab I was watching Netflix in paused and forgotten. The earbuds are still plugged in, to both the laptop and my ears. Dio sleeps curled up next to me, his paws covering his sweet little face, orange striped belly rising and falling slowly with each content breath. Despite a slight kink in his tail, he's as good as new. It's almost like Eli never happened.
But evil men tend to leave other marks, ones that can't be seen.
I scroll through Greg's profile again, this time careful to read every status, examining every photo. Most of his statuses are really just announcements for his band, Oh Vile Eye. "We have T-shirts." "We're playing Toad's Place tonight." Things like that. Apart from the single wedding photo, there are no pics of his wife. It's almost like Cami doesn't exist.
I keep scrolling, looking for some clue. Anything I can use. She doesn't have a Facebook account. I'm not even sure messaging her there would be a good idea, anyway. I have to get in touch with her, somehow, some way.
I scroll past a photo of a flower bed in front of a teal house, rolling my eyes. "Spent all day getting our yard together," the caption reads. There are about fifty comments and eighty-something likes, loves, and wows, all of them kissing his ass.
I grit my teeth.
How can everyone love him so much when he's hurt me so deeply?
His sister comments on every damn thing he posts, always with a love reaction. The one and only time I met her, she was thrilled to reunite us. At the time I thought nothing of it. Now I know she's just another sycophant—a dangerous thing for a rapist to possess.
Tipping my head back, I close my eyes and wiggle into a sort of cobra pose: forearms flat-ish on the bed, spine curled, legs stretched out behind me. I'm getting nowhere stalking his social media. I'm also inviting trouble, because the more I look at his profile, the more the Facebook algorithms are going to try to connect us. I'll pop up in his recommended friends, opening myself up to even more than a stage shoutout from him.
I have to block him soon.
Before I can do that, I need to figure out how to do a welfare check on Cami. Because if he's hurting her, it's my fault. The least I can do is make sure she's okay.
I also need to know where he is. Just for my own peace of mind. Naugatuck isn't that big a place, so I'm sure we'll run into each other eventually. Still, I need to know.
Opening my eyes, I scroll back up through the last year of posts. Same shirtless selfies, Oh Vile Eye EP blasts, and family get-togethers. I pass the photo of the flower beds again and hit the brakes.
It's his house.
Clicking on the photo, I make it a little bigger on the screen. This time I look past his ridiculous flowers and mulch—as if he could change who he is just by making his yard prettier. I examine the house itself.
It's not his mother's.
The stamp on the Facebook post tells me he uploaded it from Naugatuck. He's definitely living in town and, considering most landlords don't allow their tenants to landscape to this extent, he probably owns it. Finally, something I can use.
I click open another tab and Google "Naugatuck property records." Like I said, it's really easy to find someone online, if you know what you're looking for. All those finder services are a total scam. All it takes is some time and patience.
When the website loads, I search by his name. The top listing is for a property owned by a Greg Byrne, Sr.—probably his father. If I can't find anything in Greg's name, I'll check under Cami Byrne. I don't have to look long, because the second listing is owned by a plain ol' Greg Byrne.
My heart inches its way into my throat as I click on the link. An address loads, along with an outline of the parcel. I stare at the street and number. The street name sounds so familiar.
I open yet another tab and Google the address. The map loads agonizingly slowly—which probably means that my neighbors have kicked me off their Wi-Fi, or maybe their kid is playing Fortnite while watching TV.
I really need to catch up on my internet bill.
Just as the map blinks into place, Esther pushes my bedroom door open, not even bothering to knock. I peer at her over the screen of my laptop, itching to glance down but trying to be nonchalant.
I'm just watching Ned get his head lobbed off again, no big deal.
"You busy?" she asks, as if I'm dressed in a suit and heels instead of rocking PJs and messy Medusa snake curls.
"Yeah." I leave the headphones in, hoping she'll get the hint.
"I'm gonna pick up the kids, take them out for ice cream. Wanna come with?" The corners of her mouth twitch in a tentative smile.
"Sure. Just let me get dressed." I give her a pointed look.
Looking sheepish, she ducks back out, closing the door behind her. "Just don't take too long," she calls through the door.
Dating the MC's Enforcer has made this girl more punctual. Better late than never, I guess.
I lower my eyes back to the directions. Fingers flying over the keyboard, I type in my own address, just to see how far away he is. I've lived in Naugatuck my whole life but there are still streets I have yet to explore.
The screen reloads, the driving distance in neat letters underneath both our addresses.
He lives two driving
minutes away.
Pinching my eyebrows together with my thumb and forefinger, I try to rub away the headache forming behind my eyes. For at least the past three months, he's lived two minutes away. He's within walking distance, for fuck's sake.
I switch to satellite mode and manipulate the trackpad on my laptop until I'm virtually standing in front of his house. Then I click back to the tab where his house and flower beds pic is still open.
It's definitely the same house.
Taking a deep breath, I save the address into the notes on my phone. I close everything and erase my browser history, then shut down the laptop.
Then, I get dressed. Nothing goes together like ice cream and stakeouts.
17
Olivia
"I'll drive," I tell Esther, grabbing her car keys from the counter.
"Okay, alpha book boyfriend." She holds her hand out to me for the keys.
"So you can spend time with your little sisters." I smile, letting my eyes go soft.
"In that case," she says, grabbing her hobo bag, "thank you." She tugs down her denim shorts. They're short and scored full of holes. The more time she spends with Donny, the more her wardrobe changes—in a totally hot way. When he came along, he unlocked something inside her, letting her free to come out and play. Her tee is a mural of roses, Belle, and Chip the teacup, but its cropped length makes it nerd sexy.
"The new look is working for you." I slide my feet into wedges, relieved to not have to wear boots for once in the heat of New England spring.
I will never get used to riding around in full gear while the sun beats down on me.
I consider grabbing my cut, but I'd look out of place with that Prospect rocker in the middle of a park full of kids. Besides, I want to show off the orange and yellow floral scoop neck tee I picked up the other day. It's probably more appropriate for fall, but fuck it. It's cute, and it makes my eyes look more orange. I threw on white denim shorts to make it more summer-y, but whatever.
I left all the fashion police in high school.
I plunk one more kiss on Dio's forehead, then Esther and I leave our Sunday nest. Unlocking the car, I pause for a moment before sliding into the driver's seat, fiddling with my bag while she gets in on her side. When I'm positive she isn't looking, I glance at the address in my phone one more time.
"Ice cream, ice cream," Esther chants.
"Man, you are getting so bossy." I get in and start the car, cranking up the AC. Another downside to riding a motorcycle: there's only the humid breeze on a hot day, and the bike itself burns like an inferno. Until I started riding, I had no idea that it's got to reach a certain temperature before it's even rideable.
Of course, that's only during colder months.
So far this spring, I just sweat on the damn thing.
Backing out of the driveway, I ease the car into the street. Instead of taking School Street, I continue down our street, Anderson.
"Abril is in this stage where she thinks she's wearing makeup to school. The worst part is, my abuela lets her," Esther says, clicking her tongue. "If you ask me, I don't even think Cierra's old enough for that shit, and she's fourteen. But what do I know? Abuela says her house, her rules. She wonders why my mom turned out so fucked up."
That's the most Esther has told me about her family in the four years I've known her.
"Does your grandma talk to your mom?" I ask, keeping the conversation going. I turn onto Spring Street.
She scoffs. "Hell no. What's that saying? 'Fool me twice, shame on me.' Something like that. The first time DCF took us, Abuela let her see us outside visitation hours. Then my mom took off and disappeared for like a year. That's how we got Ximena. Abuela is done." She cuts her hand through the air. "Why are you going this way? My grandparents' house is that way." She points in the opposite direction.
"Oh." I chuckle. "Figured I'd get the AC going."
She holds her hands in front of both vents on her side. "It's going."
I don't need to glance over to know she's giving me a look. "It's a motorcycle thing," I say. "Gotta take it around the block, let it warm up." I push the car faster, flying over Spring Street, which might as well be ten miles long right now.
"Okay, but clearly you're driving a car."
"I figured you needed to vent." I grip the steering wheel tighter.
"Sure." She puts her feet up on the dashboard. "It's fine. We've got time for your weird."
I glance over at her, but she's already got her phone out, a game of Solitaire on the screen. "You're the only one I know who plays that shit."
"Blame Abuelo," she says with a shrug. "Damn, this is a shit deal."
I speed down Spring Street, glancing up and down the opposite lane for Cliff or any of the guys. I don't need any of them tagging along so they can say hi. Thankfully it's just cars and trucks. No bikers.
Up ahead I can see his street. I check on Esther. She holds her phone close to her face, eyebrows furrowed in concentration. Good.
My heart rate rises the closer I get. He might see me. I've got to be careful. No slow creep—just a quick drive by.
Wish I could give him a different kind of drive-by.
"No good," Esther says with a sigh. "New deal."
"It's a good thing you met Donny." I turn onto his street—Mallane Lane. It's a strange name for a street. The word "mal" means bad in Latin, and "lane" is already in there. Mallane is probably some old white fuck's last name, but still.
Bad Lane.
It's fitting.
His house isn't hard to find. It's a nearly teal Victorian, a square turret thrusting into the sky. If only I had one of those wrecking balls.
Just like in his Facebook photos, flower beds hug the front and corner of the house. Two cars sit in the driveway, but no one moves outside.
"What are we doing here?" Esther asks, setting her phone down in her lap. She turns to me, eyes narrowed.
"It's for rent," I blurt.
She rolls her eyes. "Why didn't you say so? Is the landlord around?"
I continue along Bad Lane, passing the house.
"Wait." She cranes her neck, trying to see, but it's already faded into the distance. "Damn, girl. That place looked big enough for you, me, and my sisters."
"You don't want me to play mommy," I say, circling back toward Esther's abuela's.
"I like living with you," she says with a shrug. "Besides, I'm a little worried I'll never hear from you once I move out."
I actually did it. I drove by his house, and he didn't see me. Bold electricity rushes through me, tinged with nausea. If this wasn't Esther's car, I'd light up. I clench the steering wheel to keep my hands from shaking. Unfortunately it does nothing for my voice. "Why not?"
"Please. You and I wouldn't have been friends if it hadn't been for my Craigslist ad."
"We are, though," I remind her.
She snorts. "Sort of. You don't tell me anything about yourself."
"I could say the same for you." I drive the route to her grandparents', familiar from the few times I needed her car and dropped her off so she could visit. I've never met her family.
"Touché, I guess." She taps her phone against her thigh to the rhythm of the pop song on the radio. Even driving, I don't get to pick the tunes—Esther's car, Esther's rules.
"We'll still see each other. You've got Donny, and I've got . . . Cliff." I swallow, wondering how long I'll have either of them.
The second I pull up to the house, Esther's sisters tumble out, her grandma trailing them.
"Behave," she chides, lifting a hand to wave at us.
The girls pile into the backseat, their chatter sucking up all the oxygen. I blink, a little taken aback by all of the energy. I've only ever been someone's little sister. I have no idea what it's like to be the oldest of a whole brood, to be responsible for so many little people.
Esther's grandma shuffles to the passenger's side, a hand pressed to her back. Bending, she waves for Esther to roll her window down.
&
nbsp; "Hola, Abuela," Esther says. Over her shoulder, she tells the girls to buckle up. "Olivia, this is my grandma, Salome."
"Hi." I wiggle my fingers in greeting. I never had a grandma to care when Bree didn't. I only had Mercy, and he loved his club more than he loved me.
Salome points a finger at me. "Drive carefully. Have them back before dark." Leaning in through the open window, she kisses Esther's cheek, her hand lingering on Esther's face for a moment before she pulls away. "Te amo."
"Bye, Abuela!" the girls—Esther included—call.
I gaze at the unassuming brick ranch, envisioning the overstuffed couches and chipped knickknacks in the living room, a plate of warm cookies on the coffee table. It's a safe place, a home for these girls when no one else wanted them.
My eyes burn. Blinking, I look away and put the car into drive.
"Jimmy, your seatbelt." Esther unbuckles her own and practically dives into the backseat to help the little one—Ximena—with hers.
We take them to Linden Park. It's not the nicest I've ever been to, but it's close by. I have to work tonight, so time is precious.
Ximena and Abril break for the swings the second I park the car. An ice cream truck idles at the edge of the playground. Cierra hovers by Esther, glancing at the ice cream truck.
"You want some?" Esther asks, running her fingers through her sister's long, silky hair. Unlike the other two girls', Cierra's hair is pin straight—like Esther's. The other two have frizzy curls like mine.
I sit on a bench and light a cigarette. From here I have the perfect view of both Abril pushing Ximena on a swing and Esther French-braiding Cierra's hair. I have dozens of memories of Lucy doing the same things for me, none of Bree doing them.
"Motherless girls," I mutter.
"Mira, it's not that bad." Esther walks Cierra over to my bench, her fingers splayed, strands of hair caught between them. "We've got each other."
I watch her fingers dance back and forth, weaving Cierra's hair into a perfect French braid.
A Risky Prospect (River Reapers Motorcycle Club Book 2) Page 7