by Jc Emery
He pulls up, cuts the engine, props her up, and pulls off his helmet. A ball forms in my throat as I watch him move. He’s been riding since he was fifteen—much to #mom# chagrin—and it shows. He handles the large Harley as if it weighs nothing. The taut muscles in his arms are on full display in the black wifebeater he wears under his cut, showing off the tattoos that cover most of his flesh. I mentally note that he’s changed from what he was wearing earlier—well, his shirt at least.
“Ran out on me,” he says. His voice makes it sound like he’s thirsty, so gravely and rough. “Last time I remember you running out on me, you were eight months pregnant with our fuckin’ son. Don’t like seeing you leave me.”
“We need to talk,” I say quickly before he can reach me.
“You need to quit fucking leaving me.”
“Quit giving me reason to!” That’s not totally fair. It’s not exactly his fault the Italian guys showed up when they did. It’s not one hundred percent his fault that Rig targeted Zander. But it doesn’t exactly matter either. Ever since Rig, I’ve been on edge and my moods are fluctuating like crazy. I don’t like these feelings. Adding Wyatt to the mix turns my crazy into straight-up insanity.
Wyatt storms toward me, grabs me around the waist and pulls me against him. He tips my face up toward his. And all his gentle turns into something else entirely in the blink of an eye.
“Knock it the fuck off!” He screams in my face, so loud, but I barely hear the words.
The ball in my throat hardens, and I’m forced to swallow it. My hands shake with an anger that I don’t expect. I don’t know why I’m so mad right now, but I am. Nervous, sure. Anxious, yeah. But mad? That one confuses me. I don’t dwell on it, though, because the frustration becomes too much to swallow. I push him off me, angry and annoyed. I suck in an unsteady breath as we stare each other down. He huffs. My eyes fall to his lips and stay there. It’s magnetic, the pull his lips have over me. Every time I look at them, I’m either desperate to touch them, or I remember every vile word he’s ever said to me. If I’m being honest with myself, even then, in those moments of remembrance, I still want his mouth on me. Nothing ever changes that. I hate admitting that, even to myself, though.
I pull my gaze from his lips to find his eyes are on my mouth. His tongue pokes out, drags over his rough lips. I could fall into this. I could let this happen so easily, but then we’ll end up right back where we started.
“You can’t kiss me. You’re going to hate me soon, so please don’t kiss me.”
“What?” His mood has shifted. A sly smile breaks out on his face. He’s gorgeous when he smiles. His hands hold me in place tighter than before but still gentle. I missed this so much. Wyatt’s the only man I’ve ever known who can be so rough and demanding while still touching me like I’m something precious. As much as I’ve missed his touch, I’m going to miss it even more when he hates me.
“You’re going to hate me,” I say again, only this time louder. My heart breaks at the thought of pushing him away, but I do it anyway. I shove him off me and scrub my face with my hands. “You’re not going to want me when you know what I’ve done.”
My voice is raised, as if he won’t hear me unless I’m screaming. I have to get this out, though, and if it comes out as a shout, oh well. But it doesn’t seem to matter how loud I say it, because he just stares at me in bewilderment.
“I don’t know why you’re acting like this, but I’m fucking over it. My woman knows what she wants, and she goes after it. She doesn’t act like some scared little fucking girl, so knock it off. You keep this shit up, and you’re right, I might not want you.”
He’s not getting it. I need him good and mad so he can leave. If he stays here, he’s just going to get Zander and Dad’s attention, and I really don’t want that. What he said earlier—about me being different—I am. So much has happened since that month we conceived Piper. So much is different now. I’m different.
And I need him to understand, so I tell him the one thing I don’t want to. The one thing that makes me feel like shit.
“I was sleeping with Rig.” I hate the way it sounds coming out of my mouth. Nothing about that admission or the fact that it happened makes me feel anything close to okay. Letting Rig take my body is a huge betrayal to Wyatt. Huge in the way that might be worse than not telling him about Piper. I won’t tell him how it started, I can’t. Not even if it spares me his wrath. I’m not that girl.
I’m not.
Half a second after I say it, he explodes. An angry, distraught scream bellows from him. Not even in the form of words, but just pain with a side of hatred. His face screws up, with squinted eyes and a nasty snarl on his lips. I need to explain, to clarify that Rig didn’t make his move until a few years after Zander was born.
“You always wanted to fuck him, didn’t you?”
My eyes fall closed. I can’t even look at the disgust in his eyes anymore. From the looks of it, I sure led with the worse of two evils. I knew Wyatt would be angry, and I shouldn’t be surprised at the hurt on his face. Somehow, though, I am. My head feels stuffy, swollen, and it’s only now that I realize I’ve stopped breathing. I suck in a deep, shaky breath to balance myself out. I need to get a grip, or I’ll never get through this.
“When?”
I don’t catch the question until Wyatt has to repeat himself. This is different. He’s never been one for asking many questions.
“Not until Zander was three.” I force myself to open my eyes and meet his. I feel like this confession should somehow diffuse his anger, but it doesn’t. His grip on my face gets harder, so hard that it starts to hurt. I lock my jaw, forcing myself to deal with it. Old ladies don’t cry, and we sure as fuck don’t whine about stupid shit. I always try to represent my man, even when we’re not together, even when we haven’t seen each other in years. Even after this, I’ll still be Wyatt’s. Even though he won’t want me and he won’t be mine, I’ll never not belong to him. That’s what being voted in means, and for the millionth time since I ran from him, I’m grateful for it. I can’t imagine not being tied to Wyatt in some way.
“You stupid whore.” The words tumble out of his mouth with such raw pain that I can’t feel anything but sorrow. “We were together after that. You told me you’d never touched him.”
I lied.
“It’s not—” I start but clamp up immediately. The words hang there, on the cliff of a confession that I refuse to make. I stare up at my man, watching his eyes glass over and his breathing slow. He doesn’t look so much angry now as he does hurt. I don’t expect this new Wyatt, don’t really know what to make of him. The old Wyatt would have flown off the handle and called it a day. He wouldn’t be standing here. He wouldn’t be trying. The realization that he has changed, at least in a few important ways, sends a ripple of emotion flying through me. I blink back the tears.
Wyatt opens his mouth to speak, but a loud noise startles him. He turns his face toward the house and freezes for a long moment. Then his hands drop to his sides, and he just stands there, the steel in his body disappears. I try to pull my eyes away from him, but I can’t. My man looks like he just found Jesus on toast or something miraculous like that. As big and tough as he is, in this moment he looks so vulnerable and broken.
“Don’t yell at my mom.” The too-deep-for-his-age angry voice of my son shouts from behind me. My stomach falls to my feet as my head whips around. I’ve been waiting for this moment for years. Zander’s been waiting his entire life. Fourteen years of hope and dreams and want have all been wrapped up in this moment. And now it’s happening, and he’s being his bossy teenage self. I don’t know if I want to laugh or cry. I never wanted Zander to meet his father like this—in the middle of a fight.
Wyatt takes a few steps toward the house, his eyes glued to Zander. His voice is faint but clear when he whispers, “My boy.”
He moves so quickly that before I know it, he’s rushed at Zander and has thrown his arms around our son. I’m left standi
ng in the dirt, staring at the two of them, doing the best I can to hold back the tears. It’s useless. If my mom were here right now, I like to think she’d forgive me this weakness. All I can see from here are Zander’s gangly arms as they wrap around his dad for the first time in his entire life. Fuck. I can’t believe I let anything, even Wyatt’s addiction, keep them apart.
Just when I don’t think I could feel any lower, a high-pitched baby scream comes from inside the house.
Piper.
Crap.
Now is so not the time for her to make her grand entrance with her dad. I’ve already been here too long to have not told him about her, but the situation with Zander has really complicated things. Wyatt’s known about Zander—he’s already dealt with the blow from finding out that my boy is, for sure, his. Maybe it’s selfish, but I want my guys to have their time before I throw my toddler into the mix. I don’t get that luxury, though, because Zander pulls back from his dad and rushes toward the house. I chase after him, hoping like hell that my baby girl isn’t hurt. Zander flings the door open, when I’m just a few steps behind him. I can feel Wyatt standing right behind me, his blissed-out expression slides right back into that desperate sorrow he was sporting earlier.
Kids.
He probably thinks Piper isn’t his. Especially after that confession about Rig. No wonder he looks so upset. Standing there in the front doorway is the bombshell I had yet to drop. She’s so cute and small. Not small for her age, mind you. No, she’s tall, just like her dad and brother, but still tiny in comparison. Her red face is streaked with tears, and she has a stuffed dog squished to her chest.
CHAPTER 11
My boy.
Zander Wyatt Strand stands in front of the house now. Fuck. It feels damn good to touch him, to know he’s real. He’s taller than I expect—already several inches taller than Amber. He got broad shoulders, a square jaw, and a long, straight nose. He’s kind of gangly, not having yet gained his muscle mass. Looking at my boy is like looking at an old photograph of myself. A flash of anger courses through me at the idea of Amber spending every day looking at him, talking with him, and never reaching out to me. I have to remind myself of how fucked up I was back then. If I’m being honest with myself, I didn’t really get a handle on my shit until recently. I know she tried. She did. It doesn’t stop the irrational jealousy that courses through me at all the time she’s had with our boy that I’ve missed out on. Just about six months before we headed out to Brooklyn, I got clean once and for all.
Without even realizing what I’m doing, I head for Zander and wrap him in a tight hug. My brothers wouldn’t begrudge me this, but fuck if I’m not glad they’re nowhere around right now. It takes him a moment before my boy lifts his arms and hugs me back. And fuck if it’s not the best. His grip isn’t as tight on me as mine is on him, but that’s okay. I’m just a dude to him. He must know who I am, but it’s still not the same. I don’t know if I got that until now, but I do. The love I feel for my mom isn’t really less, but it’s certainly not the same as what I feel for my boy. If I feel this strongly about him now, I can only imagine how Amber must feel. Or how Grady feels about Chey. He’s had eighteen years of that kid, and I know damn well how protective he is. Now that she’s off at school in the city, he stalks around in a mood if he hasn’t seen her in a while. It’s like no matter how much time he’s had with her, it’s never enough. I envy him that—those years with her that I didn’t get with my boy.
It’s my fault.
Sucking in a deep, cathartic breath, I let my eyes fall closed and savor the moment. Fourteen years that I’ve squandered on shit that brought me nothing but trouble and grief. Just when I’m letting myself feel all kinds of self-pity and shit, a loud, high-pitched scream comes from inside the house. It sounds like a small child. Zander stiffens in my arms and pull away. I let him go and brace myself for it—that moment when my fears become reality.
Amber has kids—as in plural—not just the one we have together. I try like hell, but fail miserably, at keeping my emotions in check. Amber Wallace—my woman, my fucking old lady—slept with Rig. I’ve hated that guy for so damn long that I didn’t realize I could possibly hate him more than I did the night he suggested he’d been fucking my pregnant old lady. But then she laid that bomb on me, like I’m supposed to just flip a goddamn switch and hate her or something.
If it weren’t for Zander coming out when he did, busting my balls for yelling at his mom, I might be halfway there. I could never hit her, but fuck if I didn’t want to hit something and see blood. So many questions swirled in my mind, like wanting to know exactly when it started between them. Wanting to know how and why. It’s the whys that will keep me up at night, I think. After everything Rig did to us back then, why would she let him into her bed? I’m spiraling and I know it, but I don’t have the power to stop myself. Zander pulled me out of it once, but this time, I don’t think even my boy can stop me from completely imploding.
Amber has at least one more kid with someone else. She wanted, more than anything, to make me leave right before Zander came out. Telling me about Rig was only important if . . . I can’t bring myself to say it, but the thoughts are flying through my brain at a mile a minute. Rig fucked my old lady, planted his fucking kid in her belly, and probably played daddy to my son, too. If I weren’t such a pussy, I’d probably take my own piece to my ear and call it a goddamn day. I did this. I let this happen. I let that fucker into her life and then left her with him. I left my boy to deal with him, and it’s my fault that when Rig’s back was against the wall, he took my boy. I made that choice when I chose all that bullshit over my woman. I made her a killer, and that, above everything else, is what I won’t ever be able to forgive myself for.
I snap back to the present when Zander and Amber rush toward the noise. The door swings open and blows my entire world apart. Standing in the doorway is the most pissed-off-looking tiny human I think I’ve ever seen. He’s got a stuffed dog clutched to his chest. Chubby little fingers dig into the dog’s neck as he holds it protectively. I eye his face to try to figure out what I’m looking at, but all I see is angry kid. His face is wet with tears, his bottom lip is jutted out, and he’s glaring at his big brother. With the most defiant little expression, he says, “Bad!” Then he looks around, and his face falls on Amber and all of the anger slides right off of his face as he runs to her. She scoops him into her arms, and it’s only now that I see it—the truth. His eyes are the same distinct blue-green color that looks similar to what I see every day in the mirror.
Amber turns to face me with red cheeks. She’s flustered. The nervousness in her eyes is amplified, and she’s hopping from foot to foot. She’s jittery and her jaw ticks, a sure sign she’s gearing up for a fight.
“How old is he?”
Her brow furrows and she purses her lips. “Almost two.”
“Tell me, baby,” I whisper. I stare into her eyes, desperate to tell her how badly I need to hear it. We were fucking like crazy a few years back, but if I let myself believe he’s mine only to find out it’s not true, I’m going to lose my shit. All this stuff with my boy and my old lady is heavy enough without adding this to the mix. I can’t let myself want this kid to be mine until I know he really is. Amber still doesn’t speak. My arm stretches out, and I glide my fingers over her cheek. She takes in a deep breath and releases it slowly.
And she nods. She fucking nods, and I swear to Christ there’s a small smile playing at her lips. She’s practically shaking with her silent omission. Her voice is strained and low when she speaks, and it hits me right in the gut. “I tried to call you. I wanted you to know, but you wouldn’t take my call. So I just . . .”
My hand wraps itself around the back of her neck, and I pull her to me, placing a kiss on her forehead. I squeeze my eyes shut in an effort to stop myself from crying like a bitch. I’m careful not to get too close to her. I don’t want to squish our boy.
When I pull away, I see Zander is standing beside us. His
hands are shoved into his pockets, and he stares at my bike to his left. “Her name’s Piper,” he says.
Our little boy isn’t a boy after all. She’s a girl. A tiny little girl with a temper like her momma and blue-green eyes like her daddy. She’s fucking perfect.
“She’s wearing blue,” I say in defense. I thought parents color-coded their kids and shit. I feel like an asshole. What kind of father doesn’t know his own child? What kind of dad doesn’t know he has a daughter?
The kind that’s a fuckup.
“Are you mad?” The question comes from Zander. It takes me aback. I stare at him for a long moment before I realize that this is a part of parenting I’ve missed out on. Answering those kinds of questions that you don’t know how. I’ve seen it with Grady through the years, wondering if I’d make the same choices he has. I always come out realizing that I don’t know what the fuck I’d do. Because back then, fantasizing about having Baby Z and Mugs back in my life was just that—a fucking fantasy. The only thing I had was the what-ifs.
“No,” I say. It’s too complicated to explain to a kid.
Amber shuffles and clears her throat, saying, “I don’t lie to him. Tell him the truth.”
“It is the truth.” I stare her down for a long minute before stepping away and walking to my boy. For being so tall and with such broad shoulders, right now he looks so much younger than his fourteen years. I don’t know how I’m going to explain the situation to him, or if he’d even understand, but I can’t fuck Amber over with this. She tells me to be honest with him, so I’ll do it and hope for the best.
Fuck, I hate this shit.
“Hey,” I say to get his attention, but he doesn’t look at me. Irritation swells in me, but I fight hard to bite it back. “Dude, come on.” The change in tone from father to club president gets his attention. His eyes are watery and a little red in the center. Fuck. No wonder he didn’t want to look at me.