Page 8 of Heart of Stone
My pizza arrives and rather than retreat inside, I lounge on the porch, nursing my second beer and demolishing my hot-as-hell pizza. The steady rhythm of the twins breathing through the baby monitor is background noise to the party across the street, their music thumping loud enough to rattle my teeth.
As the night wears on, I duck inside twice to tend to Adam—feeding him, changing him, and tucking him back into bed. He’s so damn tiny, all scrunched-up face and miniature fingers and toes. He came early, staying in the NICU for two weeks before they let him come home. The girls are just as vulnerable, with Amanda’s dark hair and their dad’s big blue eyes, whoever the hell he is. Each of these kids is precious beyond words. I run my hand over their hair, planting kisses on their foreheads.
Part of me aches to be across the road, to lose myself in one final night of freedom, but I know this is where I belong. These are my kids now. The moment Amanda bailed and I stepped up, they became mine. And I’ll be damned if anyone tries to change that.
I still need to figure out what the fuck I’m doing with my life, but whatever comes next, it’ll revolve around these three. WithAdam settled, I wander back out to the porch, plopping down and picking up my beer.
The front yard is a goddamn disaster zone. Weeds sprout defiantly from the dirt, while scraggly shrubs fight a losing battle against rusting cans and other trash. Smack in the middle sits Amanda’s car, a rusted-out hulk missing its tires and muffler. I took a crack at fixing it one afternoon, only to discover she hadn’t put oil in the damn thing for three years. When she finally did, the engine blew itself to kingdom come.
Cleaning up this mess is next on my endless to-do list. Tomorrow, I’ll get those car seats fitted, which means I can finally haul the kids to a real grocery store. No more mac and cheese and stale cereal.
Christ, has Amanda really been living like this? The kitchen is a wasteland—three sad containers of frozen breast milk, half a carton of regular milk, and some bottom-shelf cereal. Oh, and enough beer to drown a small army. Even the freezer is stocked with vodka instead of kid-friendly treats like ice cream or popsicles.
I pull out my phone and start hunting for local childcare centers, praying I’ll find something—anything—that’s both taking new kids and won’t bankrupt me. Fat chance of that. Even with government assistance, affording decent care seems about as likely as winning the lottery.
I’m beyond frustrated, pissed off, and miserable, which is probably why I react the way I do when a biker parks on the sidewalk, yanks off his helmet, and tosses me a wink. I find myself raising my hand in greeting.
“You should come join us,” he says, nodding towards the rager across the street.
I size him up, taking a long pull from my beer. “Maybe.” I shrug. “Not exactly dressed for a party, though.”
His eyes rake over me, and I feel that look deep in my gut. My thighs clench involuntarily. For once, I’m glad to be sitting down. I know I’m not exactly most guys’ idea of eye candy—too muscular, broad-shouldered, with tits, ass, and thighs that are more Amazonian than pin-up girl. My waist nips in a bit, but most of my shirts don’t do me any favors. At just shy of six feet tall, with a job that leaves me bruised and grease-stained more often than not, I’m not winning any beauty pageants.
My dating history is a joke. Three boyfriends, each one a bigger disaster than the last. The first cheated, the second bailed when I wouldn’t indulge his kinks (sorry, but playing pony with a tail butt plug just isn’t my idea of a good time), and the third—well, he took the cake. Cleaned out my accounts, pawned everything I owned, and vanished. I was more pissed about losing my tools than I was about him leaving. Asshole.
“You look just fine to me,” the biker says, giving me an appreciative once-over that, I have to admit, strokes my ego a bit.
I hesitate, fiddling with the label on my beer as I weigh my options. If I bring the baby monitor, I could theoretically pop over, check out the scene, maybe grab another drink and shoot the shit for a bit before heading back if the kids need me.
In the end, though, I do the responsible thing. I raise my beer in a salute and shake my head, smiling ruefully.
“Thanks for the invite, but I’m good here. You have fun, though.”
He grins and shrugs. “Suit yourself. Offer stands if you change your mind.”
I watch him walk away, feeling a complicated mix of regret and relief. With a heavy sigh, I take another long swig of beer and settle in to let the music wash over me from afar.
Maybe in another life I’d accept.
But not this one.
3
HAWK
The woman has fallen asleep.
Around me, music pulses loud enough to rattle the panes of the empty houses flanking my own. The brothers are drunk and rowdy, gunning their bikes and trash-talking on the front lawn. But the noise is nothing to the woman asleep on her porch across the street.
My jaw clenches, my fingers tightening around my beer bottle as I stare at her. If she’s out here, then who the hell is looking after her kids?
Not your problem.
I’d clocked her earlier in the evening and half-expected her to come across and ask us to turn the music down, but she’d sat on her porch, drinking her beer, eating her meal, and then falling asleep.
If she’s that tired, she should be inside in bed, not out on a porch where any man and his dog can take advantage.
I force myself to turn away before I do something stupid, like stalk across the road and shake some sense into her.
