Page 9 of Finding Home

“Didn’t mean to scare you,” the man murmurs in a low grumble that confirms he’s not, in fact, standing on a step stool. “Are you Aubrey Capshaw?”

“Who are you?” I ask defensively, squeezing Raine.

The man pauses. And then, on an exhale, he replies, “Caleb Baumgarten.”

My lips part in surprise. Raine’s accidental sperm donor, C-Bomb of Red Card Riot, is standing at my parents’ fence?Under any other circumstance, I’d probably feel a bit starstruck. But knowing he’s the selfish prick who hasn’t given a shit about his child for the past two years, makes disgust, rage, and fear my only possible emotions.

Surely, C-Bomb came here to strong arm me into taking Raine away from Prairie Springs, since that was a term of his agreement with Claudia. But guess what? I didn’t sign that thing, and I’d never sign a similar one. Prairie Springs is my home; and unlike Claudia, I love it here. Plus, C-Bomb’s got absolutely nothing I want, so he’s got zero leverage. I don’t want this man’s money. And I certainly don’t want to have sex with him. He was always Claudia’s celebrity crush, not mine. As this prick is about to find out, all I want is Raine and the freedom to raise her in Prairie Springs with my parents.And without him getting in our way.

“Can you come out here to talk to me?” he asks.

Poor Raine is shaking in my arms, thanks to my blood curdling scream. When the poor kid last heard me screaming, her mommy never came back home. And so, before Ireply to the asshole drummer’s request, I hold up a finger to him, my body language telling him to hold on; and then, I put my forehead against Raine’s and whisper calmly that everything is all right.

“Silly Auntie Aubbey stepped on a rock,” I whisper with a smile. Raine’s never been able to pronounceAubreycorrectly, so Claudia and I latched onto her adorable pronunciation.Aubbey.“That’s why I screamed,” I continue. “Not because of that man over there.”

“Who dat man?”

A snarky, vindictive piece of me wishes I could reply, “That’s the asshole who pays an ungodly sum every monthnotto have you in his life.” But since I can’t say that, I reply, instead, “He’s a good friend of your mommy’s. He came to talk to me about Mommy.”

Raine’s little face perks up. “Mommy coming back?”

Oh, my heart. Even after three weeks, which is a lifetime to a two-year-old, Raine still asks me that question, every single time her mommy’s name is mentioned. Sometimes, unprompted, too.

I stroke her little cheek with my knuckle. “No, love, Mommy’s still in heaven with Grandma.” As Raine frowns, I quickly change the subject. “I bet the brownies have cooled by now. Should we go inside to see? You can eat one and play a game on your iPad, while Auntie Aubbey talks to Mommy’s friend outside.”

Thanks to the promise of brownies and some coveted screen time, Raine instantly forgets all about the scary man behind the fence and begs to go inside and get this show on the road. I motion to the rockstar behind the fence to meet me around the corner at the front door, and the top half of his head disappears.

As I guide Raine toward the house, I glance at mywatch. My parents should be home from Dad’s doctor appointment in thirty minutes or so, if the doctor wasn’t running late today, and the last thing I need is for C-Bomb of Red Card Riot, of all people, to be standing at their doorstep when they pull up.

My parents have no idea who fathered Claudia’s little girl. Nobody knows, other than me, C-Bomb, and whoever C-Bomb might have told. So, there’s no telling what kind of warm reception my parents would give the unlikely rockstar in their front yard, if they were to drive up before I’ve shooed him away. Mom is the kind of person who’s never met a stranger, and Dad is a massive music fan who considers Red Card Riot one of his favorite bands. Even on pain killers, which he’s been taking since severely breaking his leg last week, I’m sure Dad would recognize C-Bomb, thanks to his towering frame and famous tattoos.

When I’ve gotten Raine situated with her iPad and a brownie and told her to stay put on the couch until I return, I take a big-girl breath and head to the front door. When I step outside and behold the physicality and charisma, in person, of the man I’ve seen on my computer screen countless times, I feel like I’m getting physically blown back by a massive jet engine.

Holy crap.

Muscles. Ink. Tall. Beard. Scowl.Hot.

As to that last thing, I’m surprised to think it. C-Bomb’s notmyfantasy come to life, like he always was for Claudia; but seeing him now, in person, I can definitely understand his worldwide appeal.

The thing Claudia always loved about C-Bomb was the fact that he’s the peacock in his band, despite him being the one sitting behind a drum kit. He’s the one who never wore a shirt in music videos and during performances; the onewho changed his hairstyle frequently, going from a mohawk to long hair to a buzz cut in record speed. But to my surprise, the tattooed Viking standing before me now doesn’t look anything like a peacock. More like a deranged, exhausted serial killer on the lam.

“Sorry I scared you,” C-Bomb mutters, his low grumble of a voice perfectly matching his mountain-man appearance. I can’t help noticing C-Bomb’s beard is longer than I’ve seen in photos and videos online. Also, he’sfullycovered in tattoos these days, from his neck down to his fingers. Whereas, in the “Shaynee” music video from forever ago, he only had a smattering of ink on his arms.

I clear my throat. “I thought you were a Peeping Tom, C-Bomb.”

“Sorry about that.” He motions to the screen door behind me. “Can we talk inside?”

I cross my arms over my chest. “No. Raine’s in there.”

C-Bomb shifts his weight. “I know. I want to meet my daughter.”

I repress the urge to snort. To scoff. To spit out, “After two years,nowyou suddenly want to meet your daughter?” But, instead, I bite my tongue and calmly ask, “For what purpose?”

C-Bomb’s chest heaves. “I heard about Claudia. I’m sorry for your loss. For Raine’s loss.” When I say nothing, he shifts the backpack that’s slung over his broad shoulder and looks around nervously. “Hey, can we talk inside? I don’t want to get recognized by a nosey neighbor and have to say no to a fucking selfie right now.”

“I don’t feel comfortable inviting you inside, unless I know why you’re here.”

His jaw tightens. “She’s my daughter. I have a legal right to meet her, whether you like it or not.”

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