The Wanderer's Children

by L. G. O'Connor

  Scott pointed at the door. “Okay to close this? To give us some privacy?”

  “Go ahead,” she said, cradling her newborn closer.

  He slipped into the chair beside the bed and gazed with longing at the baby boy she held. Lifting his eyes to meet hers, he asked, “May I hold my son?”

  Suppressing any residual apprehension, Kathy transferred her precious bundle into Scott’s hands.

  He positioned the baby tenderly in his arms and settled back into the chair. His features softened as he beamed at his son. “What’s his name?”

  “Brett,” Kathy replied, her lips turning up into a smile. Her heart unexpectedly melted watching Scott. Then a pang of disappointment followed, echoing inside her. She wished her husband radiated the same kind of love when he held the baby.

  Scott looked at her in earnest. “If I send you something, will you give it to him when he’s old enough?”

  She thought for a second and decided it was the least she could do. One of their amazing nights had given her Brett—her little gift from Heaven. “Yes, I promise,” she said, and then cleared her throat and attempted to lighten the mood. “So how are things at The Boca?”

  He gave her a small smile, his manner unassuming and genuine. “It’s still standing. How are things with Richard?”

  She nervously smoothed the thin covers over her lap. “Pretty good, thanks for asking.” Scott’s compassionate ear for her problems had initially gotten her into this situation. Her desire came later. But once she found out she was pregnant, she came to her senses and decided to make her marriage work for her twelve-year-old son, Colin, and for the baby Scott held in his arms.

  A worried look passed over Scott’s face. He glanced at the contented newborn tucked comfortably in his arms. “Richard doesn’t suspect anything, does he?”

  Kathy sighed and shook her head. “No.” Her blonde hair and blue eyes were similar enough to Scott’s. Richard wouldn’t suspect a thing. She’d taken a chance by telling Scott about the pregnancy. Fortunately, given his situation, he had no desire to openly stake a claim. Other than her, he was the only one who about knew Brett’s true paternity. For some unknown reason, she trusted Scott to keep their secret.

  He blew out a breath, looking relieved. “That’s good.” He leaned down and kissed the baby’s forehead. “I’d better be going. Thanks for letting me hold him. He’ll grow up to be a good man with you as his mother, Kathy.”

  Her lips turned up in a half-smile, and a tear welled in her eye. “Thanks. I’m glad you think so.”

  He gave her one of his heart-stopping smiles. “It’s true.” Then as quickly as his smile blossomed, she watched it fade. “Just to set your mind at ease, I won’t be bothering you again. I’m moving back East.”

  With one last look of longing, he handed their son back to her.

  “Oh…” she said, trying to keep her relief from showing. “If you send me your address when you’re settled, I can send some pictures,” she offered, knowing her words sounded halfhearted. She couldn’t help it; she was glad that he planned to put some distance between them.

  “I’d like that. Take care.” Leaning down, he kissed the top of her head and his T-shirt softly brushed her cheek. The scent of cotton and citrus filled her senses as he pulled away.

  She watched him go, and knew in her heart that she’d never see him again.

  Scott walked out of the hospital into the dry heat of the sunny June afternoon, and his heart convulsed with pain. He brushed the back of his hand over his eyes, and swore this would be the last time he’d create a child and leave it behind. Even though he’d done it in the name of the Angelorum and for the good of mankind, he had difficulty reconciling the emotional and intellectual sides of his mission.

  He ground his teeth. Next time, he’d claim his child as his own.

  Had he imagined the difficulty of this assignment when Constantina approached him five years ago, he would’ve declined. But at the time, to his twenty-something hormone-addled brain it had sounded simple… multiply and hide the bloodline to keep it safe.

  “Not just anyone can take this on,” she’d explained, “only someone from your immediate family.”

  He wasn’t naïve; he’d looked in the mirror enough to know why Constantina had chosen him over his five brothers. His handsome face and charm were undeniable assets in the mission to get unsuspecting women into bed for the greater good. Certain aspects of his job he absolutely enjoyed. What single man in his twenties wouldn’t? Beside that—a fair exchange is no robbery—he was highly trained in the art of sensual pleasures and the women he seduced were guaranteed a memorable evening.

  Constantina had wisely advised him not to get too close; to keep his distance.

  In hindsight, he never counted on his honor or paternal instinct kicking in. He couldn’t stay away. He had to hold his children and tell them that he loved them… at least once. Maybe if that was all he did… but it wasn’t. He would keep track of Brett just like the rest of his children.

  What the Angelorum don’t know won’t hurt them, he thought with defiance.

  Having sex with women he didn’t love? He could live with that. Leaving his children behind? That’s where he had difficulty…

  He reached his Harley in the parking lot and hopped on. Kick-starting it with the heavy heel of his boot, the bike roared to life beneath him.

  A small smile crept across his lips as he strapped on his helmet. Too good to be a bartender, huh? He’d plucked the thought from Kathy’s mind. It pleased him that she glimpsed something more behind his packaging. Although, she’d probably be surprised to learn he’d completed his MBA in Finance at Stanford University just last month. But she’d never learn that… or his real name.

  His smile faded, and with a deep sigh, he pulled out of the parking lot. His decision was made. The Angelorum would need to find someone else to take on the mantle of the Wanderer.

  I’m done, he thought with a heavy heart and drove off.

  A week later, Kathy pulled a small box out of the mailbox with no return address. The box contained a note that simply read, “For Brett,” and a simple silver ring with Brett’s name. She smiled and put it in her jewelry box for safekeeping. She would give it him when he was older, just as she’d promised.

  Chapter 1

  BRETT

  Los Angeles. Beverly Wilshire Hotel. Saturday, May 11, 10:30 AM PT

  WHAP!

  Brett King cracked open one eye and groaned. His skull threatened to split in half if he so much as blinked. Everything above his shoulders hurt down to his hair follicles. Silk sheets caressed his body on the monster-sized bed at the Beverly Wilshire. The good news: he was in a bed. The bad news: he didn’t remember how he’d gotten there.

  A hand came down a second time on his ass. Whap!

  “You’re welcome.”

  “What the hell?” Brett turned over to protect his backside, and spun his head in the direction of a familiar, pissed-off female voice.

  Roxy sat Indian style next to him like an irate pixie, her arms crossed over her chest. One of his stylishly ripped T-shirts covered her petite body. Python scales inked a trail up one side of her collarbone, looped around her neck, and came back down the other side, disappearing into the T-shirt. Her kohl-rimmed blue eyes stared at him, the rest of her makeup long gone. Her short cap of black hair stuck up in angry spikes, and a small row of hoop earrings crawled up the curve of her left ear like a silver caterpillar. Roxy was a force to be reckoned with when he was fully alert; he couldn’t imagine what he was in for after being woken up from a drunken sleep.

  “Why are you hitting me? And why are you in my bed wearing my clothes?” he croaked, his voice ragged. Thankfully, he didn’t have to sing again for at least a week. The moment after he asked the question, he could feel the color drain from his face. Lifting the covers, he peeked down to see if he was still wearing his underwear.

  Roxy rolled her eyes and shoved him. “Oh, for crissakes, King! Your
virtue is safe with me. Even you couldn’t tempt me to go straight. I’m wearing your fucking shirt, you moron, because you vomited all over my dress on our way up to the room last night.”

  No wonder his mouth tasted like an acidic jock strap. He stuck his head under the pillow and wrapped it down around his ears. “Stop yelling, Rox, or my head will explode.”

  She reached over and poked him. “So, I’ll say it again. You’re welcome.”

  Pain shot through his skull. He flipped the pillow off his head and looked at her with daggers in his eyes. “Okay, thank you. Now, tell me for what, and stop poking me. It hurts.”

  Arching a brow, she smirked. “You really don’t remember, do you?”

  “If I remembered, I wouldn’t be asking,” he mumbled, resting his cheek against the cool mattress, wishing for an ice pack to dull the pain in his head.

  Leaning back on her elbows she straightened her bare legs, crossing them at the ankles. A look of wicked delight lit up her face. “Well, let me start by saying that you sure know how to end a tour with a bang.”

  Brett and his band King Metaljam had done their penultimate concert in Los Angeles the night before, capping off their nine-month tour. Technically, they still had one more date in New York to make up for a prior cancelation.

  “Rox, if I’d ended the tour with a bang, I’d be waking up next to Rachel right now instead of my lesbian best friend.” He’d known Roxy since their sophomore year at the University of Southern California, right before he dropped out and the band hit it big. Not only was she his best friend, she was also his publicist and doubled as his stylist.

  “Ha! Like that was going to happen after you and Rachel traded drinks in the face last night. Truth is, she’s a bitch, and you’re better off without her.” Roxy gave him a self-satisfied smile.

  His face twisted into a scowl. “Thanks. Tell me what you really think.” His heart sank for a moment as the memory slowly returned. His ten-month relationship with his model-actress girlfriend, Rachel, had shown signs of strain the closer the tour came to ending. He’d had high hopes when they’d first met, but as time passed, he was less sure which she loved more: him or his money and rock star status. He hungered to find someone with whom he could escape the plastic reality of the limelight when he wasn’t working. Disappointment filled him when he realized Rachel would never be that person.

  He’d already consumed five drinks too many by the time they’d gotten into an argument about taking a vacation when the tour ended. All he wanted to do was return home to San Francisco, relax, and enjoy some privacy. The conversation ended with him calling Rachel a gold digger, and her telling him to fuck off, punctuated by her flinging a drink in his face. Without thinking, he tossed the remainder of his drink back at her.

  He groaned. “Uhhh. Is that all?”

  Roxy smirked and pushed her finger into the sensitive skin of his cheek. “Not. Even. Remotely.”

  Pain jolted through his face, and he pounded the bed with his fist. “Ow! What the hell?”

  “Lucky for you, I saved your pretty, surfer-boy face after Randy’s first punch.”

  Punch? What punch? Why would his bass player want to beat the crap out of him? Brett knitted his brow. “Why did Randy hit me?” Then he added, “And don’t call me ‘surfer-boy.’ You know I hate that.” So he was blond and he surfed, so what? She liked to tease him that the only two things separating him from being a bad-ass rock star and a surfer was a pair of black leather pants and the fact that he didn’t own a puka bead necklace.

  Roxy circled her neck, cracked it, and then gave him a mischievous smile. “That would have to do with my saving you from the two harlots who planned to take you upstairs and bear your bastard children nine months from now.”

  He looked at her in pained disgust. “What?”

  Tilting her head, she said, “Yup. It happened after the fight with Rachel.”

  Shit, how much did I drink last night? Ironically, he was the lead singer in a rock band and could have any woman he wanted—or two, or ten—but he abhorred one-night stands. Strangely enough, he preferred monogamy. Less complicated that way. He caught more than his fair share of abuse for that from the band, but he didn’t care.

  “So what does that have to do with Randy popping me in the face?”

  She covered her mouth with her hand and chuckled. “One of them was his wife.”

  His gut clenched, and he suddenly felt sick. “Oh, fuck me.” He buried his head back underneath the pillow. That’s it, no more alcohol until further notice. How he could stray so far from his own sense of civilized behavior, he didn’t know. It had been a long time since he’d felt like this much of a jackass.

  “I’m afraid to ask, but anything else?” Peeking out from under his pillow cave, he braced himself for Roxy’s reply.

  She gave him a sour look. “Yeah, and you owe me big time for this one. I held your hair back while you worshipped the porcelain god.”

  “Ugh. Thanks, Rox.”

  “Now go take a shower—you stink. I’ll check to see if you created any more PR disasters last night.” She crawled off the bed and grabbed her phone.

  “What would I do without you to prop up my ego?” Slowly, he sat up, the silk sheets slipping down around his waist. He caught a whiff of what she meant. She was right. He reeked.

  Roxy scrolled through the e-mail and snorted. “You don’t need me to prop up your ego when more women than you can count would willingly drop to their knees and blow you.” She turned and wiggled her eyebrows at him. “Oh, and don’t forget, number eight on this year’s hottest bachelor countdown.”

  Brett rolled his eyes. How could he forget? Roxy reminded him every chance she got. She’d submitted him for consideration via a friend of hers at a well-known publication. The photo shoot had been painful. He’d spent hours, half-naked in nothing but leather pants, locked in poses under hot lights. The experience gave him a new respect for models.

  Frowning at her, he grumbled. “Come on, Rox. You know me better than that. That’s not what I’m about. I’d rather have something meaningful.”

  “Meaningful, huh?” She cocked a brow at him. “Then why did you check under the sheets when you thought maybe we’d slept together?”

  He gave her a wounded look. “It could’ve happened. It’s not like it hasn’t before,” he said defensively, leaning back against the headboard. He’d lost his virginity to Roxy back in college, and she’d seen him naked probably as many times as any of the woman he’d ever dated.

  Her expression softened. She came over to him and put her arms around his neck. “We were nineteen, King. I hadn’t come out yet.” Leaning over, she kissed his forehead. “You’re such a girl when it comes to women. It’s one of the things I love about you. But I’m serious, go take a shower. You smell like ass.” She pushed away from him.

  “Fine. I can take a not-so-subtle hint.” He swung his legs over the side of the bed, and shuffled off in the direction of the bathroom.

  Roxy ran in ahead of him and snatched her black leather dress from where it hung on a hook next to one of the fluffy white robes and headed for the door.

  “I’m heading back to my room. Be ready in forty minutes. I’ve scheduled an interview for you at noon.”

  Chapter 2

  BRETT

  THE DOOR CLOSED WITH a thunk on her way out. Brett squeezed his eyes shut and whimpered, not only from the pain in his head but also at the thought of seeing anyone before tomorrow.

  His hands shook as he gripped the sink firmly and hung his head as the marble floor chilled his feet. Time to survey the damage. He swept his gaze up into the mirror. Fuck me. The image staring back at him in the wall-length mirror was barely recognizable. His six-foot-tall frame was bent and quivering. Dark circles were etched underneath his blue eyes and made them appear sunken in his face. Matted tawny-blond hair touched his shoulders, framing his fine-boned face. Definitely not number eight bachelor countdown material. In fact, his injuries made his twenty-si
x look more along the lines of someone the age of the Crypt Keeper.

  He turned his face to examine the colorful bruise on his left cheek.

  The jury was in—his face officially looked like shit.

  If they could only see me now, he thought.

  At least he looked the same from the neck down. The mother-of-all-hangovers couldn’t erase the hard, crisp lines of his muscles, thanks to his workout schedule and the occasional trip to a mixed martial arts studio when Roxy’s brother, Skylar, flew in to join him on tour. He accepted Roxy’s belief that his body meant more “box office” from female fans, so he long ago abandoned his modesty and spent a lot of time parading around on stage without a shirt, offering himself up as eye candy. Roxy’s latest mission—convincing him to get more ink. He wasn’t tatted up enough for her standards, another contributing factor to her “surfer-boy” insult.

  So far, he’d won. He preferred his ink spare and private. His only visible tattoo cut across the tanned, hairless skin of his abs and showed above his underwear: an arched pair of feathered angel wings with the script initials of his motorcycle club, “AABC,” in the center. The only other tat was lower and for private viewing only. Partially out of spite, he couldn’t bring himself to get any more.

  Assessment done. He took a deep breath. At this point, a shower could only help. That and the aspirin he had on the counter. Placing three in his palm, he popped them in a dry swallow. As drunk as he’d gotten the night before, privately, he lived a more conservative lifestyle than his profession allowed. Not many people knew he’d been a vegetarian since he was sixteen, or that other than alcohol, aspirin was the strongest drug he’d ever taken.

  Slipping off his underwear, he staggered to the shower hoping, just maybe, he could ease himself back into full consciousness. Turning on the hot water, he stepped inside.