Page 91 of Thornhill Road

His comment sent a pang through my belly. The way he said it—as if the act had been a kindness—robbed me of my words. For a brief moment, I thought I saw a shadow of the man Mustang once knew. A man who could take everything I’d said and somehow think he had anything to do with it.

Ed focused his gaze on the newspaper clipping and asked, “Is he happy?”

“Yeah,” I answered softly. “Yeah, he seems that way.”

He nodded but didn’t say more. He didn’t even ask about whether or not I could convince Mustang to come for a visit, as if he knew there was no chance of that.

When I felt certain we were done discussing his son, I finished charting and then left him with the promise that I’d be back in a couple of days.

All the way home I thought about our conversation, short lived as it had been. It was the first time I’d been given two sides of the same story. Only, Ed’s recollection had been brief. I knew the complete history of that bike—how it brought Mustang to the Stallions. To Bull.

I shoved aside all thoughts of Ed when I pulled into my driveway, past the familiar, blue Harley parked along the curb. I’d finally made it to my favorite part of Wednesday, and I could hardly wait to get inside.

The smell of my early dinner greeted me as soon as I walked through the door. I dropped my purse in its usual spot and made a B-line for the kitchen. Mustang was at the stove, but I didn’t hesitate to walk right up to him, pressing myself into his side as I curled my hand around the back of his neck and drew him to me for an open-mouthed kiss.

This timeIwas the greedy one, my lips turning down in a pout when he pulled away before I was ready.

He grinned, then reached to squeeze one of my butt cheeks as he said, “Dinner’s ‘bout done, Tess. You get me goin’ now, I won’t get to fuel you up before we get to your workout.”

I smiled, conceding to his point.

“Do I have time for a quick shower?”

“Yup.”

“'Kay. Be right back.” I pressed a kiss against the corner of his mouth then hurried upstairs for that shower.

By the time I came back downstairs, dinner was served. While we ate, Ed kept forcing his way to the front of my mind. I knew Ineeded to tell Mustang what I had done—what I had shared—but I wasn’t sure how he’d take it.

He told me once he didn’t hate his dad, but indifference seemed worse. Moreover, I didn’t think he’d beindifferentto the fact that I’d made him a topic of conversation at that afternoon’s visit.

During a lull in our conversation, the truth grew so loud in my head, I couldn’t focus on anything else. Without warning, I blurted, “I told Ed today that I met you. I told him I went to the bar looking for you, and that I’d been a few times since, and that I talked to you.”

Mustang stared at me, saying nothing.

Feeling nervous, I kept going.

“I didn’t tell him about us. I didn’t mention Mary-Kate. I just told him you were a Stallion, that you go by Mustang now, and that the bar is really successful. He asked if you were happy, and I told him you were.

“I just felt so guilty every time I walked into that sad, empty house knowing that while he lay dying alone each night, I was going home to the son he only had in an article clipping framed by his bed. I get the real, full-color, vibrant version of you that is better than I ever could have imagined, and it seemed so unfair of me, as his hospice nurse, to keep you all to myself when I could offer him even a tiny little bit of you. So, I told him about you.

“And I’m really sorry if that was the wrong thing to do. I’ve never been in this type of situation before, so I’ll admit, I’m not entirely sure how to handle it. Maybe I should have—”

“Baby, stop,” he interjected.

I snapped my mouth shut, only then noticing I was a little out of breath.

He paused, as if wanting to make sure I wouldn’t start up again.

“Would appreciate it if you didn’t make that a habit, but I’m not mad. You think you’re caught in the middle of somethin’. I get that. But, sugar, you’re not,” he said calmly.

I hesitated a moment before I murmured, “I know you said no before, but—”

“Tess, there’s nothin’ in that house but a dying old man I don’t know. And I’m sure it hasn’t escaped you that I live hardly more than five miles from that bastard—have for the last twenty fuckin’ years—and not once did he ever come knockin’ on my door.”

I let out a slow breath as I sat back in my chair.

Mustang was wrong. I hadn’t considered that. Not even once.

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