Page 7 of Heart of Stone
The same patches that decorate his leather vest match the vest Duck wears. Stoneheart MC.
Duck tried to explain it to me once when I asked about it, and I think I understood a little bit. The club is like a brotherhood filled with guys who live on the mountain. They respect the law insomuch as they abide by some of it, but they do whatever they want otherwise. If it doesn’t hurt others, they don’t see a problem with why they shouldn’t be doing it.
I just assume that means everything they do is illegal, but at the same time, I don’t really care. Duck is a great boss, and none of the bikers or their women who come in with their motorcycles or cars ever really give me trouble.
And sure, occasionally there’s one that catches my interest—I’m only human after all—but I never do anything about it. I have enough trouble in my life without adding a guy into the equation. If I need to scratch an itch, I go bar hopping.
You don’t mix business with pleasure, and you certainly don’t get involved with people from work.
The guy looks up from his phone, then nods in my direction. “Duck sent me,” he says, tipping his thumb towards the car. “Said you need this.”
“Couldn’t spare one of the guys at work or something?” I ask, painfully aware that I must look haggard, exhausted, and more than a little frazzled.
It’s been a long day. You’re allowed to have shitty hair.
The kid shrugs at my question.
“Well, thank you.” I let go of the twins’ monkey backpacks, allowing them to run up the driveway and head for the door. “Appreciate your time.”
The guy nods, reaching into one of his pockets to pull out some keys.
“Here,” he says, handing them over, “Duck said to tell you to give him a call if there’s any issues. Otherwise, he’ll see you Tuesday.”
He glances pointedly at the two girls currently pounding their little fists on the front door of Amanda’s house. “You need a hand with anything?”
I shake my head, more than slightly amused that he even offers. “No, but thanks. I really do appreciate it.”
“No problem.”
I glance around, noting that the kid doesn’t have a ride.
Shit.
“Hey, how are you getting back?” I brace myself, hoping against hope he’s got it covered.
He jerks his head to the house across the road. “I’m covered.”
I turn, taking in the numerous cars and bikes gracing my neighbor’s front yard. Their garage is open once again, and a multitude of people are standing inside, drinking, eating, and laughing.
For a brief moment, I want to dump the kids and walk across, grab a beer, and lose myself in that—in the carefreeness of them, in the way they seem to have no responsibilities, no worries.
Instead, I turn away, determinedly pushing the stroller toward the house. “Thanks again. Come on, kids, let’s go inside.”
The weight of responsibility settles on my shoulders once again. The courses I need to take, the CPS hoops to jump through—it all feels overwhelming.
Amy glances at me as I lift the stroller up the stairs. “Wawy, wawy,” she says in her determined little voice. “Noodles.”
I sigh, adding yet another thing to my to-do list.
“Mac and cheese,” I agree, forcing a smile. “Let’s get you guys inside and fed, hey?”
I go through the motions with them—feeding the baby, changing him, feeding the girls, washing them, tucking them all into bed and watching them fall asleep after two-and-a-half stories.
The thought of eating mac and cheese turns my stomach, so I do what any sane person would. I throw on a load of laundry then pull a six-pack from the fridge—one of the only things Amandaactually stocks regularly—order a giant pizza, and grab the baby monitor before going outside to sit on the porch.
It’s there, with a beer cracked, that I sit in the dark, watching as the house across the street slowly grows wilder.
Motorcycles had rolled in throughout the afternoon and into the evening, bringing with them a parade of scantily clad women—some young, some old, some ancient. A few sport their own patches and vests, proudly declaring themselves “Property of” this guy or that.
