But like a glass that had shattered, while you could glue it back together, it would never again be what it once was.
I was a shattered glass, glued back together. And my children, while their wounds had healed, had been cut by my jagged edges.
Sighing, I turned my attention away from the window, back to the cell phone in my lap.
It was Christmas morning. Christopher would be waking soon and yet Hawk wasn’t here. The last text I’d received from him had been days ago, informing me that he’d be here by Christmas Eve. There’d been nothing since, and every call I’d made had gone unanswered.
However strained our relationship with each other was, Hawk had never ignored my calls, and he’d certainly never missed an opportunity to spend time with his son.
Something was wrong.
Setting my coffee down on the windowsill, I quickly typed out a text on my phone.
I’m worried. Please call me.
Pressing Send, I held the phone in my hand and waited. And waited.
Ten minutes went by and still no answer.
I glanced at the clock on the wall, which was silly since my phone told me exactly what time it was, but old habits die hard and I’d been checking clocks long before I’d had a cell phone to tell me the time.
Six thirty a.m. Which meant it was seven thirty in Montana. Deuce and Eva had two young children, and considering it was Christmas morning, might be up already.
I typed out another next, this one to Eva’s cell phone.
Have you heard from Hawk? He’s not here. He hasn’t responded to my calls and I’m worried.
Then I waited, clutching my cell phone, staring at the lit screen so intently that when it brightened even further, flashing Unknown Caller, followed by the ridiculously loud and obnoxious ringing I hadn’t yet figured out how to change, I nearly jumped out of my skin.
“Hello?”
“Dorothy.” Deuce’s deep, rumbling voice filled my ear. “You fuckin’ know better than to text shit like that to an unsecured line.”
“Merry Christmas to you too,” I said dryly, unconcerned with Deuce’s texting protocols. “Now, where’s Hawk? Why hasn’t he responded to any of my calls?”
“What do you mean he hasn’t responded to your calls?”
For such a smart man, Deuce could really be dense at times.
“What I mean is just that. He hasn’t responded to any of my calls or texts. Not since the day before yesterday.”
Silence followed my words, only serving to worsen the sinking sensation in my stomach.
“Deuce?”
“I’m here. I’m thinkin’ . . .” Another long pause followed, then, “I gotta go, I’ll have Eva call you if I have news.”
“Wait!” I cried, but I was too late. He’d already hung up.
“Dammit!” I shouted, squeezing the phone in my hand with frustration.
Why had I even bothered calling? The Hell’s Horsemen and their seedy business dealings were never something I’d been privy to. And getting any sort of information out of Deuce was the equivalent of demanding answers from a brick wall. Utterly impossible.
“Mom?”
My gaze jerked across the room. Leaning heavily against the hall entranceway, Christopher regarded me with sleepy eyes and a crooked smile.
Tossing aside my phone, I jumped up off the couch. “Merry Christmas, baby,” I said softly. Smiling, I gestured toward the tree and the brightly wrapped presents piled underneath it.
His little face, still slack with sleep, instantly brightened. His green eyes widened, and then he was hurtling across the hardwood flooring. Just as I thought he would run right past me, he skidded to a stop, whirled around, and threw himself at me.
I caught him, but just barely. Only seven years old, but he had the strength and build of a baby bear. Much like Tegen, the color of his eyes and hair were his only resemblance to me. He was every inch his father’s son.
“Merry Christmas, Mommy,” he said, squeezing my waist. In answer, my heart skipped a beat. He hadn’t called me Mommy in years.
I might not have remembered being pregnant when he’d first been presented to me as an infant, but it hadn’t stopped me from loving him instantly.
Regardless of all my confusion, the pain from my head injury, the resulting surgery, and my emergency C-section, the moment I’d laid eyes on him, I’d felt instantly connected to him, knowing he was mine.
While everything else around me had felt foreign and new, while my family and friends tried desperately to force my memories, Christopher was the exception. He was as new to the world as I was, expecting nothing from me but love.
Grateful for that, and for him, I’d returned the emotion in spades.
“Merry Christmas,” I whispered, running my hands through the unruly mass of long red hair he’d vehemently insisted on growing.
Tilting his head back, he returned my smile. “Where’s Dad?”
Keeping my smile firmly in place, I softly brushed a few locks away from his eyes. “He’s on his way,” I lied. “He said not to wait for him.”
“But he’s coming, right?”
Not knowing how to answer him, I changed the subject instead. “Your sister sent you that big box over there.” Releasing him, I gave him a gentle push toward the tree and pointed to the ridiculously large present Tegen and Cage had mailed out weeks ago.
With an excited shout, the absence of his father temporarily forgotten, Christopher bounded forward. Grabbing the large red bow from the top of Tegen’s gift, he tossed it over his head and began quickly stripping off the brightly colored wrapping paper. Knowing them both, I was fearing the worst. A drum set, a dirt bike, something that would undoubtedly make Christopher ecstatic and me miserable.
“Mom! Look!”
It was even worse than I’d feared. Like a beacon on a foggy night, the words “Tactical Paintball Gun Mega Set” glared ominously at me. And I glared right back, silently promising retribution against my daughter and her husband. One day they would have a child and I would be the doting grandmother, buying my grandchild gifts that will surely leave its parents as equally horrified as I felt right now.
Setting the paintball gun set aside, Christopher began tearing into his presents with happy abandon. Grabbing my coffee, I took my seat on the couch to watch him, smiling when he smiled, nodding excitedly each time he showed me a newly opened gift.
But my heart wasn’t in it. Every other minute I was checking my phone, hoping to find a message from Hawk, or Deuce, and coming up empty.
I had grown so accustomed to our quiet life, to our dependable routines, that this glitch, this unexpected change was more than unsettling.
In fact it was much worse than even that, the anxiety and worry coursing through me . . . it was all too familiar.
“This is for you, Mom.” Christopher appeared in front of me, a small wrapped box held in his outstretched hand. “From me,” he said proudly.
The bitter coffee sloshing around in my stomach congealed into a hard ball of dread. A present from Christopher meant a present from Hawk, more than likely something they’d bought together during Hawk’s last visit.
Setting my mug down, I took the little box from Christopher into my trembling hand. As I turned it over, noting the messy wrapping job, my lips began to curve in a genuine smile.
“Thank you,” I said softly as I did my best to release the wrapping paper without tearing it. It was the little things, like my son’s shoddy wrapping job, that I wanted to savor and remember. Thing I’d never done with Tegen.
I’d been too caught up in myself, desperate to be loved, unable to see past all the things I didn’t have that what I did have—Tegen and all her love—had gone unnoticed.
Now I kept every drawing, every note, every little trinket or memento, all of them tucked safely away inside the chest beneath my bed.
In a lot of ways, Christopher represented my redemption as a mother, but even more so as a person. Without him, without the circ
umstances that his conception had brought about, I might never have realized the extent of my mistakes, and thus would have never had the chance to make things right.
The wrapping paper safely removed, I was left staring down at a small velvet box. Surprised, I glanced up into Christopher’s smiling face.
“Jewelry?” I asked, confused. My accessorizing amounted to a small pair of gold hoop earrings that had once belonged to my grandmother. I had always been simple in that sense, not someone who’d ever cared much for flashy clothing or adornments.
Christopher shrugged. “Dad said you’d like it.”
Tentatively, I lifted the silky-smooth lid and, upon seeing the contents, felt my eyes prick with tears.
Of course Hawk had known I would like it. Hawk had always known me better than anyone. He’d seen me at my best, at my absolute worst, and all the moments in between.
Whereas no other man, not my ex-husband, not even Jase, had ever taken the time to truly pay attention to the little things, Hawk had always been watching. Whether we were secreted away together in the shadows, lying beside each other in bed, or when we were apart, from across the room, he always had his eyes focused directly on me.
Using only the tip of my index finger, I gently brushed over the delicate silver chain until reaching the tiny silver heart that hung from it. “Mom” had been engraved in softly swirling letters in the center of the charm. It was beautiful, yet simple. It was perfect.
“You like it?” Christopher asked.
Clearing my throat, I set the box in my lap and reached forward, drawing my son into my arms. “I love it,” I whispered hoarsely.
As was typical at his age, our hug was short-lived, and after only seconds he was pulling away from me, his attention once again on his gifts.
Tucking my legs beneath me, I leaned comfortably against the large throw pillow beside me, content for the time being just to watch him enjoy his Christmas.
He might not appreciate it now, but someday he would look back and remember that his mom had always been there for him, was always armed with a hug and a smile. He would remember those times and in turn, he would smile.
Tegen hadn’t had that as a child, and after repeatedly disappointing my parents, neither had I. But Christopher always would. I would make sure of it.
Glancing over at the cell phone lying beside me, I felt my chest uncomfortably tighten as my anxiety returned. I just hoped he would be able to remember the same from his father.
Good God, why wouldn’t someone tell me what was going on?
• • •
It was early afternoon when my phone finally rang, the screen signaling that Tegen was calling.
“Mom,” she said softly, too softly. My daughter did not speak softly, not unless something was wrong.
Gripping my phone tightly, I swallowed back a wave of fear. “What’s wrong?” I whispered. “Where’s Hawk?”
“Mom,” she repeated. “This isn’t a secure line. You need to come home.”
Chapter Three
Two days earlier
With the highway stretched out in front of him and nothing but more highway behind him, James “Hawk” Young could finally breathe again.
Whatever craphole town he’d been holed up in for nearly a month now had early on begun to wear on him. So when Deuce had called and told him to get his ass to Vegas, he was more than happy to oblige and leave behind the obscenely clingy bartender he’d been trying to shake since day fucking one. Young and hot didn’t necessarily make the ideal companion, and after a few rounds of sex, he’d been more than done with her.
But he was finally free of her, finally back on the road, the only place he’d ever felt he could just . . . breathe.
No, that was a lie. There been one other place, or rather one person, who’d given him that same feeling. Who’d taken away the stifling emptiness with just a simple fucking smile.
It wasn’t the case anymore but way back when, when he still had the woman he loved within his reach, that damn smile . . . it was fucking magic.
Usually when he was on the road this late at night, mostly empty aside from him and the occasional car, he would think about that smile, those eyes, that tiny little nose all covered in freckles. And for just a moment, the emptiness would begin to ease.
He’d think about his favorite memory, the one and only morning he’d ever been able to wake up beside her . . .
• • •
“Good morning,” Dorothy had said, stretching her body.
Hawk had already been awake, he was always up with the sun, and had spent the last two hours just staring down at her naked body, watching her sleep.
It had been the first time they’d ever spent the night together. Between taking care of her daughter and her ridiculous relationship with Jase, spending time together wasn’t an easy feat for Dorothy. But for once it was just the two of them; the clubhouse was empty. For the first time what he felt for her, how fucking deep those feelings went, felt real.
“Did you hear me?” She laughed and he loved it. Just hearing her laugh. He fucking loved it. “I said good morning.”
Instead of answering her, he pushed her over and onto her back, looking his fill at her tight little body covered in all that soft, creamy skin. Dorothy immediately tried to cover herself, but he pinned her arms down and quickly rolled on top of her.
Then he had tickled her.
And as she’d squirmed beneath him, howling with laughter, he’d whispered, “Good morning.”
• • •
Closing in on his destination, Hawk hit his blinker and turned his bike onto the exit headed for downtown Las Vegas. The memory evaporated and just as quickly the emptiness returned.
Another fifteen minutes later, he pulled up behind an old abandoned shipping warehouse. Hawk shut off his engine and glanced around anxiously at his old stomping grounds. It wasn’t that he disliked coming to Las Vegas; quite the opposite, actually. Whenever Deuce needed one of the boys to make a run to Sin City, he always volunteered. He might look very different from the kid he’d once been, and sound different, but Vegas would always feel like home.
Because technically Vegas was home, and he wasn’t truly who he’d spent the past two and a half decades pretending to be.
Yeah, he was a biker. Just another patch on a totem pole full of patched, leather-wearing bikers living as criminals, not for the money or even for enjoyment but because that was all they knew. It was how they survived, how they paid the bills and cared for their families. It wasn’t about greed or excess, it was about living a certain way, being a certain kind of man who didn’t have to bow down to laws and the government who enforced them. It was a brotherhood, a camaraderie. It was about really, truly living your life the way you wanted to live it.
It was about . . .
Freedom.
But Hawk didn’t have that same freedom. It wasn’t the same for him. And it never would be.
Like a lot of his brothers, Hawk was just another piece of shit Deuce had fished from the gutter. But unlike Cox or Dirty, Hawk hadn’t had a hard life spent living on the streets. At least, not at first. But neither did his upbringing resemble Ripper’s, who’d lived a good, solid life, the American dream, until he’d lost his parents at the age of seventeen.
No, Hawk had been born a spoiled and privileged son of a bitch, his mother a cocaine-addicted burlesque dancer who’d fatally overdosed when he was only three years old, his father an infamous member of the Bratva, a Russian mob boss, the one and only Avgust Polachev of the Polachev cartel.
For eighteen years he’d been a gluttonous whore, reveling in a life of overindulgence, seduction, and sin. Spoiled was putting it mildly. He’d had more money than he could have spent in ten lifetimes, as well as cars, drugs, booze, and women, all at his self-destructive disposal. He’d had it all.
Until he’d lost it all.
The summer he turned eighteen, his father was gunned down inside the man’s own home during an FBI raid. His f
ather had gotten greedy and that greed had made him careless, and that carelessness had landed his father with an undercover federal agent on his crew. Actually, several undercover agents.
After the FBI, fitted in bulletproof vests and armed to the teeth, had broken down their door and stormed their home, they’d informed Hawk’s father of the stack of evidence they had against him. They told him he’d never again see the light of day, and that a lethal injection would be his last memory of life.
Hawk would never forget what happened next. His father, his only family, had turned to him and mouthed one single, solitary word.
Begi.
Run.
Turning back to the agents, his father had reached for his gun, as had every other man in the room. A flurry of bullets had cracked through the air, and Hawk hadn’t waited around to see what was going to happen next. After pulling his own piece, he’d run from the house as fast as he could.
He ran, and because he was a wanted man, not one of his father’s former associates would take him in. He was deadweight. His picture was all over the news and there was a price on his head. So he kept running, living in the shadows for two years until Deuce found him hiding out and digging for his dinner inside a casino dumpster.
Hawk had recognized Deuce and Deuce him, having met each other several times in the past. The Hell’s Horsemen motorcycle club president hadn’t been a friend of his father’s, but a loyal buyer, and because Deuce knew what had transpired in the wake of his father’s greed, he’d taken pity on Hawk and took him in.
Deuce’s connections provided Hawk with a fake birth certificate and driver’s license, giving him a new identity. He’d become James Alexander Young, a New York native who for all intents and purposes was a big, fat nobody. Deuce burned off his fingerprints, gave him a Harley and a haircut, nicknamed him “Hawk,” then took him home to Miles City, Montana, where he’d begun the second chapter of his life.
His Russian accent had been the first thing to go. Luckily it was slight compared to the heavy Slavic intonations of his father and friends, developed only because he’d grown up around it. But even so, his transition from mob prince to homeless grifter had been easy in comparison to his transition from homeless grifter to biker.
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