Wild, Hungry Hearts

by Unknown

  He had to see Mrs. Esterbrook’s face in order to be sure she was okay, though. Holding his breath, he peered into the narrow opening of the door.

  He recognized Stephen’s tall body and wide shoulders as he stood at the foot of the bed, wiping his hands off with a towel. Mrs. Esterbrook lay in the bed, a sheet pulled over her chest, while Mr. Esterbrook leaned over her, stroking his wife’s shoulder.

  But what transfixed Z the most about the scene was the way Mrs. Esterbrook’s face shone as she looked down at her third daughter.

  “This is one for the family history book,” Mr. Esterbrook chuckled. Z could see that his face was lit up just like his wife’s was as he stared down at the little bundle she held in her arms. “Esme luring that cub into the garage, and her mother keeping us hostage here in the house would have taken up at least two chapters alone. But then, this little girl decided that was the precise moment she wanted to come into the world, and the plot thickened. If I had to make a guess, I’d say innocent face or not, she’s not going to be afraid of complicated situations, not to mention a little drama. What are we going to call her, Ilsa?”

  Mrs. Esterbrook glanced up. She looked directly at Z through the crack in the door with huge, greenish-brown eyes. He started.

  “Z?” she called.

  He flinched like he’d been slapped. Stephen’s head snapped around before he had time to move out of the narrow opening in the doorway.

  Shit. I’m in for it now.

  Stephen stalked toward the door, blue eyes flashing. “What are you doing? How dare you spy on the Esterbrooks at such a private moment—”

  “I didn’t see anything! I just looked a second ago.”

  Stephen blocked his view and put his hand on the opposite side of the door, as if to close it in Z’s face.

  “I heard screaming,” Z said, growing desperate.

  Stephen paused.

  “It’s all right, Stephen. Let him in for a moment,” Mrs. Esterbrook said softly.

  Stephen looked around. Then he was backing away and opening the door wider.

  Mr. and Mrs. Esterbrook both stared directly at him. Suddenly the last place Z wanted to be was in that room.

  “Come in,” Mrs. Esterbrook encouraged with a little, tired smile. “Everything’s okay in here. It’s natural to have a lot of yelling when a baby is born, unfortunately. It’s all worth it. Come and have a look at the newest Esterbrook girl.”

  Z hesitated on the threshold.

  “Just for a few seconds. Things aren’t entirely finished here, yet,” Stephen said firmly, but Z heard warmth in his voice. Stephen wasn’t as mad at him as Z had worried he’d be. Z glanced down warily at the little bundle in the crook of Mrs. Esterbrook’s arm.

  “Come on in. She won’t bite,” Mr. Esterbrook said.

  Of course an itty-bitty thing like that isn’t going to bite me.

  Despite his brave thought, Z entered the room reluctantly. When he stepped up to the foot of the giant bed, he came to a halt. But Clive put out his arm and waved Z in his direction.

  A second later, Z looked down into the little bundle in Mrs. Esterbrook’s arms. The baby’s tiny mouth was puckered up like it was about to blow out a candle. It made a funny gurgling noise and pulled a face. Then she opened her mouth and let out a squall that made Z jump.

  Mrs. Esterbrook suppressed a chuckle and started to croon to her new daughter, soothing her.

  “She’s awful little to have such a big yell,” Z said after the baby had quieted some.

  “She’s small, but she’s perfect. I’ll bet she’s over six pounds,” Stephen said from where he stood at the foot of the bed.

  At that moment, a loud growl resounded from the yard outside. Ilsa glanced around, startled. “Poor Mama bear is still out there?”

  “Yeah,” Z replied. “But three forest rangers, two police cars and an ambulance got here a few minutes ago. Grandpa Joe is on the phone with them, trying to figure out what to do.”

  “Esme,” Mr. Esterbrook muttered darkly under his breath.

  “She feels real bad about it,” Z said, compelled to defend his friend, even if Esme had been a dumbass for thinking she could make a secret pet of a wild cub in the Esterbrook garage. “But It was so cute,” Esme had kept wailing when she’d confessed to her agitated father what she’d done. Z resisted rolling his eyes at the memory.

  Girls.

  “She’s only six years old,” Z reasoned when he noticed Mr. Esterbrook’s stern face.

  Mr. Esterbrook’s expression softened a little. Z inhaled in relief. He was still trying to understand the Esterbrook family. He knew from experience that Mr. and Mrs. Esterbrook adored Esme and Sadie. To his amazement, their love didn’t appear to have conditions. Esme might be in trouble for trapping that cub in the garage, but her punishment would be fair.

  More importantly, her parents would continue loving her as much as they ever had.

  Z guessed he was glad for Esme. But he was also a little suspicious of this complete, unquestioned love he’d discovered in the Esterbrook household. In his experience, love was more like the scoreboard at a football game. The one with the most points won. Surely Esme had lost a shitload of points with this latest screw-up. Parents—100, Kid—0.

  At least.

  So how could it be that Esme wouldn’t end up a total loser?

  “So what do you think about her name?” Mr. Esterbrook asked, bending down to brush his finger gently against his daughter’s smooth pink cheek.

  Mrs. Esterbrook examined her daughter with a searching expression.

  “I don’t know,” she murmured. “It’s not quite coming to me.”

  Another roar vibrated the windows.

  “Maybe you should call her Baby Bear,” Z volunteered impulsively.

  Mrs. Esterbrook’s big eyes fastened on him. A smile flickered across her lips.

  “You’re right, Z. I knew we needed you. We’ll name her Ursula. It means little bear,” she said softly when she noticed Z’s confusion.

  He mouthed the name experimentally.

  Mrs. Esterbrook’s smile widened. “Thank you for the name, Z.”

  “Better thank Esme for that,” he muttered, his cheeks burning in embarrassed pleasure.

  Mrs. Esterbrook winced.

  “Okay, time for you to go, Z” Stephen said, moving to the side of the bed. “Go and tell everyone that Ursula has arrived, and there are no complications so far. Grandpa Joe can let the EMT’s and forest rangers know. There’s no need to harm the bear, but Ilsa and Ursula need to get to the hospital in the near future, so they’re going to need to get creative.”

  Mrs. Esterbrook looked like she was in pain. Was she going to start screaming again? Z hesitated.

  “It’s okay, Z. I’m all right. This is all part of the process,” she assured him through pants. He felt Stephen’s hand on his shoulder, urging him to leave the room.

  When Z reached the hallway, he paused to listen at the closed door, hearing their muffled voices.

  “Sorry about that, Ilsa,” Stephen apologized.

  “He was worried about you,” Mr. Esterbrook told his wife.

  “Of course he was worried. He was thinking of his mother,” Mrs. Esterbrook said before she gasped and moaned softly.

  Chapter One

  May 2019

  Z Beckett had no patience for a fool, especially one that he’d met in jail.

  Who’s the fool, this douche bag, or me, for agreeing to meet him? At a damn bar, no less?

  This is what I get for doing business with the devil and his minions.

  “So just like that, huh? Your boss says he doesn’t want the bike, and he wants the money back?” Z demanded angrily.

  Joey Slavitch, or Joey the Slant, as he was commonly called due to being born with one shoulder lower than the other, shrugged unevenly.

  “Frankie’s got no excess cash at the moment. He’s feeling the need to tighten the belt. You know he’s a businessman, above all else.”

&n
bsp; “He’s the head of the Reno chapter of the Dark Psychles, a vicious crime syndicate. Not fucking Steve Jobs,” Z muttered bitterly.

  Joey took his cigar out of his mouth and threw up his hands in a bad facsimile of innocence. “Crime Syndicate? The Psychles are a motorcycle club. A social group of likeminded men with a common hobby.”

  “Yeah, making money in any way you can, including murder, theft, extortion, illegal gambling, drugs, prostitution—”

  “Hey, I take offense to that!”

  “When I met you at County Jail, you’d just pled guilty to possession and distribution of methamphetamine.”

  “I meant about the prostitution. I’m not involved with any whores.”

  “Your boss is, which you know very well,” Z said darkly, glancing toward the bar. His gaze fixed on the vision of the bartender pouring a beer. He swallowed with difficulty. His mouth felt dry.

  God, I could use a drink.

  No one in their right mind entered into business dealings with the likes of Joey the Slant or Frankie Saccardi, and did it sober.

  “Tell Frankie there’s no money to return,” Z said. “I did what he asked me to do with the down payment. I’ve worked my ass off on that Mescalero. I combed every boneyard between Hells Canyon and Tucson. I’ve put my own money into it, beyond Frankie’s. That bike’s a fucking piece of art.”

  “Come on, Z. Be reasonable,” Joey said, resorting to whining. “You can’t expect Frankie to let this pass. How is that fair, if he loses all his money, plus he never gets his bike?”

  “He gave a down payment for a customized bike. I kept my end of the bargain and built it for him. He’s the one who’s welching on the deal, not me.” He was so mad he could spit acid. He should have known better. It was bad enough that he’d made a deal with a Psychle, but the head of the local branch of the motorcycle gang?

  God, I’m a first rate loser. How am I going to make the down payment for the business in Columbia now?

  There goes a dream down the crapper.

  He tossed a five-dollar bill on the table to cover his Diet Pepsi and started to stand. He halted when Joey grabbed his wrist aggressively. Anger building like a volcano in him, Z slowly looked up and met Joey’s stare.

  “Let go of my hand, you bloated little weasel.”

  Joey’s hand skittered across the table like a frightened crab.

  “No offense, Z. Honest,” Joey wailed. His thin face brightened. “Hey, it’s not all bad news! Frankie told me to tell you that if you ain’t got his money anymore—”

  “I spent his money, and a good chunk of my own, to build the bike that roadkill commissioned me to build!”

  The bar went silent at his roaring shout. Joey beadily glanced around at the frozen bartender and ten or so other patrons and. The Crucifixion Café’s patrons were very accustomed to brawls and violence, but not usually on a sunny spring Wednesday morning.

  “The good news is,” Joey continued in a muted, conciliatory tone, “Frankie told me I’m authorized to offer you a job. He wants you to work security for him. A big guy like you… Frankie knows your skills, Z. He sees your value.”

  “I see his value, and it’s worse than shit. Frankie’s offered me jobs a dozen times before, including racing on the circuit for him. I’ve always refused,” Z stated flatly, suddenly too weary to continue this pointless conversation.

  He stood and stared down at a sweaty-looking Joey the Slant. “You can tell Frankie the same thing I always have in the past. I’m a lone wolf. I don’t work for anyone but myself. Tell him I’ll try and sell the bike. I kept a strict account of my expenses for building it, just like I always do. I’ve sent Frankie an updated copy. If it sells, I’ll give him back what he paid, minus the price of all the cash and labor I put into it. But if I come up short on the quick sale, he’s going to be the one that owes. Tell him he can come and work for me, if he wants to make up for the difference.”

  Beneath his tan and a layer of sweat, Joey went pale. “You can’t say something like that to Frankie.”

  “I’ll say it to his face if he has the balls to show it to me after screwing me over like this. I had plans for that money… plans Frankie just fucked all to hell.”

  He paused as he walked past Joey. A large shadow had just darkened the sunny entrance to the bar. Another one followed.

  “Jesus,” Z bit out in frustrated exhaustion. He gave Joey an accusatory stare. “You brought Dim and Dum along with you?” he asked, nodding in the direction of the two enormous thugs that had just entered he bar. He recognized the pair. Apparently, so did some of the other customers in the dive, because four of them suddenly made a dash for the door. Dim and Dum had been working “security” for Frankie Saccardi for a few years now. They held the same position Frankie was so generously offering Z.

  “It was Frankie’s idea to bring them,” Joey said, sounding smugger now that Frankie’s gorillas were behind him.

  “I’ll bet it was. At least he wasn’t stupid enough to send Emory Martin.”

  “Martin wasn’t working for us the night you rearranged his face, Z! We had nothing to do with him testifying against you. He wasn’t working for Frankie back then, and that’s the truth.”

  “Fuck me,” Z seethed, his gaze stuck on Dim and Dum. Feeling irritated and defeated, he headed over to the bar. His Alcoholics Anonymous sponsor had told him dozens of times that he was most vulnerable to relapse when he was under stress.

  And this was a pretty damn stressful moment.

  “Jim Beam, neat,” he told the bartender. Adrenaline poured into his veins, making them sting. He didn’t look around, but he sensed Dim and Dum flank his shoulders. He assessed what was in front of him, looking for options to defend himself, all the while pretending to be a man lazily awaiting his drink. His gaze landed on a pool cue behind the bar. Its tip had been broken, and the bartender had been fixing it while business was slow.

  One of the trolls tapped him on the shoulder at the same time that the bartender set Z’s drink in front of him.

  “Have pity, would you?” Z asked, picking up the glass. “If you’re going to pulverize a guy, the least you can do is allow him a little anesthesia, right?” He glanced over his shoulder into Dum’s rock-like face. He held up the whiskey in a sarcastic toast and lifted the glass toward his mouth.

  “Z?”

  His hand frozen in midair, Z looked over his shoulder upon hearing the woman’s voice call his name. A heat wave struck him.

  Am I hallucinating?

  “Ursa?”

  He spun around, gaping at the highly innocuous vision of his childhood next-door neighbor, Ursula Esterbrook. He hadn’t seen her since… had it been New Years? It had to have been. He’d spent last Thanksgiving in County Jail for assault against Emory Martin, public drunkenness, and disturbing the peace. Christmas had been spent in rehab.

  But no, it hadn’t been New Years, he realized. He’d been home for the New Years holiday, but Ursa had gone skiing with a college friend. He hadn’t seen Ursa since last Labor Day… that holiday he recalled most because of the highly unsettling thing he’d glimpsed going on between Ursa’s mom, Ilsa Esterbrook, and Stephen, Grandpa Joe’s caregiver.

  Ursa couldn’t have looked more out of place in the rough biker bar. She was all golden, crisp, and fresh: A perfect, new flower blooming in a pile of mildew, sweat and dirt. She wore black pants and some kind of satiny, silky button down peach blouse. There was a tie on it, which Z supposed was supposed to make it look business-like. But seeing as how the blouse hugged a narrow waist and generous, firm breasts, the blouse hardly would make a guy think of business. She carried a brief case on her shoulder, and her dark blonde hair was piled up on her head, a few soft tendrils brushing her smooth cheeks. He’d have been sure he was seeing things, if it weren’t for her wide, clear eyes.

  No one could accurately hallucinate Ursa’s eyes. They were like pools of calm, pure water tinted fresh green.

  No, it was Ursa all right, standing in this h
ellhole right before his very eyes.

  “What the fuck are you doing here?” he demanded, an alarm blaring in his head.

  She appeared unaffected by his harsh question, and equally immune to the two rough goons frowning at her.

  “You’re not planning on drinking that, are you?” she asked him severely, pointing at the glass of whiskey in his hand.

  For several seconds, Z just stared as one horrible image after another paraded across his brain. Little, delicate, sweet Ursa Esterbrook stood there three feet away from him, and she didn’t have a clue she’d just walked into a room that was about to explode. Granted, she didn’t look little or sickly at the moment. In fact, she practically glowed with righteous indignation at the idea of him ordering a whiskey.

  But that wasn’t the point.

  All of his previous plans for defending himself evaporated into impossibility. Panic boiled up in him as he imagined Ursa bloodied and broken, all because of his idiotic choices.

  He had to get her out of that bar. Now, while things had been tipped off balance by her unexpected entrance.

  An idea struck.

  “Caught red-handed,” he muttered sheepishly, turning to set the whiskey on the bar. Dim and Dum stared at Ursa, mouths hanging open like they’d just been sideswiped. Z knew exactly how they felt. A guy didn’t witness a righteous angel strolling into hell on a daily basis.

  “Gentleman, I’d like you to meet my probation officer,” he waved at Ursa. “Jennifer Rand, meet… You know, I don’t think I’ve ever heard your guys’ real names before,” Z mused, feigning puzzlement.

  Dim and Dum glanced over at Joey the Slant uneasily and shuffled on their boat-sized feet.

  “Z, what do you think you’re—”

  “I know, I know, you caught me all right,” Z interrupted Ursa hastily. He held up his hands resignedly and walked toward her, putting his body between her and Dim and Dum. “I heard probation officers spied on and followed their offenders sometimes, but I didn’t think you’d take my falling off the wagon so seriously.” He grabbed her elbow, seeing the bemusement on her face segue to dawning understanding.