Page 23 of Mace

“Yeah, I’m a friend of Jack’s,” I agree, and the smile she gives me warms the coldness around my heart.

I swallow down the bile in my throat, ignoring the acid tickling the back of it. I should be used to this conversation—we have it every time I visit—but for some reason, today it feels worse. Maybe because I wanted to talk to the woman who was for many years a parent to me and there’s zero chance of that.

In a lot of ways, it would have been easier if she’d physically died. There would have been a period of mourning, of remembrance, and then growth from it.

But instead, Maggie’s cognitive abilities diminish more every day. She remembers less and less about the life she had before her brain began to destroy itself.

My throat clogs as my gaze moves to the window, unable to keep looking at her. The view of the street beyond the care home is all she can see from that fucking chair she’s stuck in day after day.

“You saved my life, Maggie. I hope somewhere deep inside you know how grateful I am for everything you’ve done for me.”

It would be impossible to repay all the ways she put me back together. After my mother killed herself, my path wasn’t looking good. I was fifteen, just about to turn sixteen, and although I’d spent so many years taking careof myself, the moment Mum died, I was no longer capable in the eyes of children’s services.

I was in foster care for a month before I understood the meaning of the phrase ‘better the devil you know’. There was no way in hell I was going to be bounced around from home to home, dealing with whatever scumbag foster carers I was placed with. I was ready to run, to take my chances on the street, but then Nicky’s dad came through for me.

I don’t know what he did, or how he managed to pull so many strings, but within a matter of hours, I was placed with Maggie, and all those social workers just…disappeared.

Back then, Maggie was in her fifties, and I’d been a little shit. I’d never been parented a day in my life and didn’t have the first clue how to handle someone caring about me. And Maggie had rules…lots of them. I had to be in by a certain time, we ate dinner together every night, and I had to attend school and do my homework, two things I couldn’t give a shit about.

I pushed back at first—and hard—but being on my best behaviour was a proviso for getting my prospect patch. I was so desperate to join the Sons the moment I turned eighteen that I would have done anything.

In truth, Maggie was the mother I always needed, and I wish she’d come into my life sooner. She’d raised hundreds of foster kids, some for only a few days, some for longer. I was with her for two years, but that time remains the best of my life. I was safe, and I never had to worry about who I was coming home to or if there would be food in the fridge. I never had to take care of my mother while she attacked me or fend off the fuckers she’d owedmoney to. I no longer had to hear that I looked like my bastard rapist father.

I was glad my mum was dead, and I hated myself for thinking that. She was sick, but my life was better after she was gone. It took me a long time to work through that and to understand I wasn’t a bad kid for thinking it.

Maggie helped with all that. She gave me security and a family of my own. Her three kids became my siblings, and for a while, everything was good between us all. I loved Julie, Jack, and Nate like they were my own blood, but after I got my kutte, everything changed.

I was an easy scapegoat, and although Maggie never allowed them to badmouth me in front of her, I’m pretty sure Julie and Jack hated my fucking guts… and still do.

“Do you know about the car I had when I was seventeen?” she asks, her eyes sparkling with excitement. I’ve heard this story more times than I can count, but I smile.

“Why don’t you tell me all about it?”

By the time I leave, my stomach is hollow. It seems so fucking unfair to me that someone like Maggie, who has dedicated her life to helping others, could have her mind just ripped away by dementia.

As I walk down the corridor, my mind is full, and all I want to do is ride until it’s clear again.

“What the hell are you doing here, Mason?” a familiar voice snaps in front of me.

I glance up to see Julie standing at the nurses’ station with an apologetic Ellie half-smiling at me.

I scrub a hand over my jaw, resisting the urge to yell in my foster sister’s face. Julie’s the same age as me, and she’s fucking beautiful—on the outside, at least. Her curlydark hair reminds me of a younger Maggie, but her eyes are not soft or gentle like her mother’s.

“Julie,” I say.

She gets in my space, stabbing a finger into my chest. “You’re not part of this fucking family,” she hisses. “Stay away from my mother or I’ll call the police.”

What Julie doesn’t seem to realise is the Mason she thinks I am is long gone. Mace is a different fucking entity, and if she knew half the shit I’ve done, she wouldn’t be fucking laying her hands on me.

“So, call them,” I grind out, stepping around her.

“Don’t come back here, Mason.”

I spin towards her, my anger flaring, and she has the sense to shrink back. I’d never lay a finger on her, even though every beat of my heart pumps with the rage I feel for what she’s done to someone I love.

But she doesn’t know that.

Her eyes bounce to my kutte before locking on my face. “Or what?”

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