by Rye Hart
“What happened?” I asked. “How did he die?”
“He was in a terrible car accident, Mr. Sheppard. He very likely died on impact and didn't suffer,” she said quietly.
Her voice was soft and friendly, which was probably the reason she was given the task of informing the next of kin. She seemed nice. Compassionate. I knew that she'd probably been through this same spiel a thousand times, but she still sounded like she cared.
“I'm really very sorry for your loss,” she said.
Taking another long pull from my beer bottle, I laughed and shook my head as memories of Curtis, and some of the terrible things he'd done came flooding back into my mind. My relationship with Curtis was complicated. Which was probably just another, kinder way of saying we pretty much hated each other – and had for most of our lives, truth be told.
“I'm not all that sorry, to be perfectly blunt. But listen Officer Whittaker,” I said. “I appreciate your call and you letting me know. Hope Curtis wasn't any trouble for ya'll up there, but I really need to get going. I'm expecting an important call.”
“Wait,” she said, stopping me before I could hang up the phone. “We still need to discuss your nephew. You're the next of kin on your brother's contact form and so far, as I can tell, his only living relation –”
“Nephew? Curtis didn't have kids,” I scoffed, my mind racing.
My gut told me to hang up and be done with it, but I stayed on the line just the same. I couldn't believe Curtis had a kid – and that this was the first I was hearing of it. We weren't close, of course, but we did still have some friends in common and I would have thought word would have gotten around to me at some point.
Apparently, I'd thought wrong.
“He did actually,” Officer Whittaker said. “He has a five-year-old son named Liam.”
“I'm real sorry to hear that,” I said quietly, shutting off all of the thoughts and feelings that were swirling around in my head. “Hopefully him and his mama are able to move past this terrible tragedy.”
“His mother died in the accident last night as well,” Officer Whittaker said. “Like I'd mentioned earlier, as far as we can tell, you're the only living relative for Liam.”
My heart sank and I felt my pulse start to speed up. I knew where this was going and I wanted to nip that in the bud before it even started to take root. Putting my beer down on the table beside me, I closed my eyes and let out a deep breath.
“Mr. Sheppard?”
“Yeah. I'm still here,” I said.
“Is there any way you can come pick him up? Your nephew?” she asked. “He's currently down at the police station – and that's obviously no place for a child.”
“Listen, Officer Whittaker, I appreciate everything you're doing,” I said. “But I'm not capable of taking care of the boy. My job and my lifestyle are even less suitable for a child than a night down at the police station. There has to be someone else who can take him.”
“Not from the looks of it,” she sighed. “I understand, of course. But if you're unable to take him, we'll have no choice but to call Children's Services. And once we make that call, he's like going to have to go into the system. Mr. Sheppard, that means he's very likely going to be put into foster care.”
My stomach twisted as my head continued to spin. I had a nephew, I was an uncle. But it was a kid I didn't even know – born to a brother I apparently knew even less. I couldn't care for a kid, not with what I did for a living. Besides, I wouldn't even know the first thing about raising a kid.
Not to mention the fact that having a kid would really impact my life in ways I didn't even want to contemplate. It would complicate it beyond measure. Having a kid around the house would put a serious cramp in my favorite pastime of bringing home strange women and banging the shit out of them.
Besides, not only was my lifestyle not really suitable for a kid, I personally wasn't suitable to raise one. I was selfish and didn't tolerate bullshit all that well. And kids were well known for their ability to pile up the bullshit. I didn't have the selflessness it took to raise a child.
No, the longer I thought about it, the more I realized I couldn't do it. In the long run, I'd probably do more harm than good for the kid.
“Mr. Sheppard,” Officer Whittaker said. “That means your nephew would grow up without having any family around him to help him recover from this tragedy.”
“I'm sorry,” I said softly, staring out into the darkened distance beyond my back porch. “But honestly, that's probably for the best.”
Chapter One
Knox
I groaned loudly when the knocking on my front door pulled me from a dead sleep. My room was still pitch black and, for a moment, I was disoriented. There was no light streaming in through the windows, thanks to the black-out curtains I'd put up and I wasn't sure what time of day it was.
But as the fog in my head started to lift and my mind began to clear a bit, I knew it had to be daytime. I remember that after that phone call, I'd watched the sunrise over the trees before climbing into bed to get a few hours of sleep. Annoyed, I rolled over and reached for the alarm clock. I turned it around to face me and my annoyance only grew. Eight in the fucking morning. After getting shit for sleep, somebody was banging on my door at eight in the goddamn morning.
As I rubbed my eyes, the knocking grew louder and more insistent, which only made my irritation grow along with it.
“Relax, I'm coming,” I yelled at the door. “Jesus Christ.”
I yawned and shook my head as I threw my feet over the side of the bed and got to my feet. I'd slept in nothing but my boxers. I wasn't in the mood to go digging around for my pants, but I searched my bedroom floor for a t-shirt I could throw on.
I settled on a black tee and, slipping it over my head, I walked down the short hallway to the front door, every step toward the door increasing my irritation.
The gun I kept handy for uninvited “guests” sat on the table near the door. As the knocking continued, my eyes fell on the Glock and I considered reaching for it. Just in case. I pulled back the blinds on the nearby window aside and stared out at my uninvited visitor.
I looked out and it took me a moment to process what I was seeing. Instead of some burly biker – the kind of person I, frankly, would have expected- on the other side of my door stood a woman. And not just any woman, but a smokin' hot woman. Strawberry blonde hair pulled back in a tight bun, pale skin with the last hint of a summer glow fading away, and bright blue eyes that could melt ice in the dead of winter.
She was wearing a conservative dress suit, but even with the skirt coming down to just above her knees, I could see that she had amazing legs. As I was staring out at her, she pulled back her hand to knock again and then suddenly turned, catching at the window. Soft, baby blue eyes stared back at me – but the slightest flash of frustration crossed her face. It was a momentary flash that she'd gotten back under control quickly, but I'd seen it all the same.
She gave me a nod and a small smile, so I stepped back, letting the blinds fall back in place and went to the door.
There was no reason someone like that would be at my door, looking for me. Women that looked like her usually didn't run in my kind of circles. I tended to draw a bit of a rougher crowd – women with a little bit of a harder edge to them.
The woman on my porch looked like somebody from a church, or some charitable organization. Somebody who ran with people in a higher tax bracket than me. There was probably some misunderstanding, or something. I opened the door and said, “I'm sorry, but I don't need Girl Scout cookies, wrapping paper, or Jesus – or whatever else it is that you're selling or trying to get me to sign up for.”
The woman stared back at me, a blank look on her face, as if she didn't comprehend a single word I'd just said. She had a kind of wholesome girl-next-door look – a look I didn't even know I liked until that moment. She looked like a former pageant girl turned saleswoman, with long, thick lashes and the clearest, most perfect skin I'd
ever laid eyes on. Her posture was perfect – back straight, shoulders back, chin pointed ever-so-slightly up.
“I don't – I mean, I'm not –”
She closed her mouth and looked at me like she was completely perplexed by me. As if she didn't quite know how to respond to somebody who'd shot her down before she'd even been able to start her spiel about starving children or the benefits of having Christ as your personal Lord and Savior.
The way the morning sun fell on her skin and hair made her seem to glow with an ethereal light. If I did happen to be the religious type, I'd say that glow made her look like an angel. But, I wasn't the religious type, which meant that she wasn't an angel, but was in fact, the type of beautiful you didn't see often. Especially not out there in the middle of bumfuck Tennessee.
I was so focused on her face – and undressing her with my eyes – that I hardly noticed as a little boy stepped around her, holding tightly to the woman's arm. The kid looked up at me with wide eyes that shimmered with unshed tears. Cute kid. But he looked at me like he was terrified of me. Which wasn't necessarily a bad thing, given that I wasn't really all that fond of kids anyway.
“Mr. Sheppard, I presume?” she asked.
“Who's asking?”
The child at her side had very large, dark brown eyes and olive colored skin. His hair was long, falling to his shoulders and unkempt – it looked like he'd just woken up. I feel your pain, buddy, I thought to myself. Those eyes though – they somehow seemed familiar. Very familiar. And I found myself staring at him for a long time as scraps of memories came flooding back to me.
“Mr. Sheppard, my name is Grace Lawton,” the woman said as she handed me a business card. “I'm a social worker for the city of Charlotte.”
I was still looking at the familiar face of the child. So scared, but yet so curious. And so damn familiar. I barely heard what she said – and didn't quite process it.
“Mr. Sheppard?”
“I'm sorry, yeah. Uhh – is this about my brother, Curtis?” I asked, already knowing the answer – and dreading it.
“Well, sort of,” she said, glancing down at the little boy as if to emphasize her point. “May we come in, please?”
I was hesitant to let her into my house with the kid. I just had a feeling that once they were in, it was going to be really hard to get them back out again. And like I'd told the cop on the phone earlier this morning, I was not the right person to be asked to raise a kid. Nephew or not.
But as if my body were acting of its own volition, I found myself stepping back and letting her and the boy pass on by. He didn't look too enthused to be walking through the front door of my house. Which was appropriate, since I wasn't too enthused to have him walking in either.
But then, Grace didn't look all that enthused either, honestly. As soon as she stepped in the front door, she started looking around, scrutinizing the place – taking stock of what my home looked like. And judging by the look on her face, she wasn't particularly liking what she was seeing. Not that I really cared what she thought of my house.
Watching her inspecting my living area sent a wave of memories washing through me – and not the particularly pleasant kind.
Beer bottles littered the coffee table and the floor in the center of the living room. A half full bottle of whiskey sat on the island in the center of the kitchen. The cap was missing and it was still open, ready for somebody to take a long swallow.
I knew exactly what Social Workers looked for – I'd met a few of them myself as a boy and had gotten used to the routine. And if walking into my house hadn't already taken me off the approved list and sealed the deal in her head, then I didn't know what would. My place was a hazard to little kids like my brother's son. And honestly, I had no intention of making any less that way. This was my house and I was going to live in it the way I goddamned pleased. And if this woman – gorgeous though she may be – didn't like it, then –
“Mr. Sheppard –” she interrupted my thoughts.
“Please, call me Knox,” I said.
I did my best to remain civil and cordial as I invited her to sit down on the couch. I took the chair across from them and waited for her to begin her spiel – a spiel I was going to shut down pretty damn quick.
“Okay, great. Knox then,” she said, trying to keep her voice light and upbeat.
Although she tried to sound chipper, her mouth was set in a thin, hard line as she and the kid sat down – and although she momentarily looked like she might crawl out of her skin sitting on my couch, she managed to reign it in. But just barely.
The kid still held tightly to her hand, not saying a word, just staring up at me wide-eyed up with a terrified look on his face that said he was afraid I might bite him, or worse.
“I'm sure you've heard the tragic news –” Grace started.
She cut herself off and cleared her throat as she looked down at the little boy, her eyes softening as she stroked the long, shaggy hair away from the side of his face.
“I have,” I said, nodding. “And like I told the nice police officer who called me, I'm in no position to raise a kid. I mean, look at my place. Look at me. I'm barely fit to care for myself.”
Pursing her perfectly pouty red lips together, she nodded slowly and tried to give me a look of pure empathy. But there was also a hint of steely resolve behind those big, blue eyes; one that said she wasn't going to take no for an answer.
So, not only was she hot as hell, she was feisty too – which was like catnip to me. This woman seemed to have it all. The whole package.
“I know, and you're probably right. And maybe, I'm out of line here, but knowing the foster system the way I do, I couldn't help but try to convince you,” she said, her eyes starting to fill with tears.
I had to wonder how long she'd been on the job. Social work wasn't an easy career for anybody. Most people who'd been in the field for a long time, at least those I'd been exposed to, became hardened. Calloused. Jaded. So, for someone to get that emotional and misty-eyed that quickly – it made me wonder if she was still new to it. It also made me wonder if it had been the right career path for her. Foster care was filled with stories a hell of a lot sadder than that kid's.
“You see, Mr. Shep – Knox,” she started, “Liam is a really special boy. And personally, I'd hate to see him lost in the system. I understand you know what that's like.”
So, she'd done a little homework on me and Curtis, and found out that we'd both been in the system before. She was obviously as smart as she was tenacious.
“I'd hate for that to happen too, Ms. Lawton. I honestly would,” I said quietly, clasping my hands in front of me. “But he's young and seems well-behaved enough. I have no doubt that some family out there is going to snatch him up in a heartbeat and give him a good home – a far better home than I can give him.”
Liam's brown eyes bored into me. His gaze was so direct, it was almost like he was searching the depths of my very soul. Maybe even weighing me. Judging me. The bluntness of his stare made me uneasy and I had to look away.
“It's not that easy, Knox,” she said, her blue eyes looking into mine pleadingly. “The adoption process –”
“And it's even less easy for me. Look, I know you want what's best for the kid, but I'm definitely not it. I can't just take in a child, Ms. Lawton,” I said. “I'm usually up all night, sleep all day, I can't –”
“What do you do for a living, Knox?” she asked me, eyes wide.
Chuckling, I rubbed the stubble on my chin and chose my words carefully before I answered her. “You could say I run an organization.”
“Oh?” she asked. “What kind of organization?”
“I own a bike shop in town,” I said – which wasn't exactly a lie. “And a clubhouse.” didn't see how she could. She screamed high class and seemed to be a good girl who didn't mix with lowlifes like me. She was probably educated in a wealthy private school, had a home with a white picket fence, and volunteered in homeless shelters in her spare time.
And Liam, well, he looked like he might absolute break if I did so much as raise my voice around him. And God knew, I swore up a storm on a regular basis. That's just how I was.
“Uh huh,” she said.
I watched her take out a pad of paper with kittens on it, and a pen from her obviously expensive designer bag. Still sitting there all prim and proper-like, she pulled the cap of the pen off with her pouty little lips, and then wrote something down.
“And – what's the name of your shop, please?”
“Why does it matter?” I asked.
“Just for my records, that's all,” she said, looking up at me with a cocked eyebrow. “Is there a problem?”
I sat back on my seat and looked at her. I knew what she was doing. Even though I'd already said no, she was still vetting me as a potential parent figure to the kid.
“Actually, yeah there is,” I said. “There's a big problem.”
“Oh?” she asked. “And what might that be?”
“The problem is you still seem to think there's a chance I'm going to keep the kid,” I said. “When I've already made it clear that I'm not interested.”
I eyeballed the bottle of whiskey from across the room, suddenly feeling the need for a drink. Or ten. If I had to be up, the alcohol would do me some good and would probably help take the edge off a bit. But then I looked at Grace and knew it wouldn't go over particularly well. Not that I should have cared, but for some reason, her opinion of me mattered to me.
“Call me idealistic, but I see real potential here,” she said, a quiver at the corners of her perfect mouth.
“I'd call you naïve,” I said flatly.
“No, really,” she said. “I think with a few tweaks here and there, this could be a fantastic home for Liam. With family.”
“I don't,” I said, my tone not inviting debate. “To be perfectly honest, I don't see anything close to what you're seeing.”