Page 115 of Dirty Dylan: Dirty Dusters

A little boy. With ten fingers and ten toes and hair as inky black as the midnight sky and eyes as blue as the bluest thing ever.

The mirror image of his biker daddy.

It seems only fitting that JJ was born in the same single-story nondescript grey building his daddy and granddaddy were born in before him. It also seemed only fitting that he be named after both of them.

As I did the first time around, I take a photo of my beautiful boy holding his baby son. This time, there’s one difference. Not that anyone else knows that.

This time it’s his own flesh and blood. This time it’s not another man’s child.

Not that any of that matters to Ace. I know he’ll always love both boys equally.

My heart aches at the visual. At this precious snapshot captured forever in time.

Irreplaceable. Priceless. Perfect.

This image contains two of the four things I love most in the world. Who knows what this snapshot will capture in a year? Even in a month. There are no guarantees in anyone’s life. There are even fewer in ours.

My heart aches for another reason.

I’m sorry, Irish.

When the truth comes out, which it will do soon, I hope he realizes what I did. The decisions I made were always for him.

I send the image to Dylan.

Why? Because it’s time to move on. It’s time to leave the past where it belongs. The birth of my son signifies a new start. A new beginning. A future I can no longer postpone or hold back. My life will change drastically from here on in, and there’s nothing I can do to stop it.

I have no option but to embrace what comes next. I have no choice but to deal with the fallout my revelation will bring. I have one son who is an O’Connell and one son who is a Steele.

And nothing will ever change that.

Different birthrights but still part of the same life. They will grow up side by side. I’ll make sure of that.

Ace walks slowly across, cradling little JJ in his arms like he’s the most precious thing in the world before placing the sleeping infant in the clear crib.

He sits on the edge of the bed, then leans over and kisses my forehead. I pat the spot beside me, and he positions himself until we’re lying side by side, my head resting on his chest, his arm wrapped so tightly around me I can barely breathe.

“You did good, PJ.”

“Oh, you think? Well, I can’t take all the credit. It was a team effort, after all.Wedid good, Ace.”

“I didn’t have to do too much.”

“I still couldn’t have done it without you and that dick of yours.” I chuckle as I nuzzle my nose into his neck, inhaling the scent of his familiar aromatic cologne, leather, and everything else that makes up Ace.

He presses a gentle kiss against my hair and exhales slowly. “You know, I’m not sure what I’ve done in life to deserve this level of happiness, PJ.”

Tears immediately prick my eyes because I know they’re pricking his too. For all his brawn and ink and all the dark, deadly, and dangerous he has going on, he really is a deep, sensitive, and kind soul, and always so conscious and aware of those around him. He lives day by day, never taking anything for granted, appreciating everything and everyone who takes the time to stop by his life. Like the situation in Nevada, Ace helps others where many would choose to turn a blind eye. And I know I’m so goddamn lucky to have him.

It’s me who doesn’t deserve him. I never have.

A sob escapes me, followed by another and another, and before I know it, my tears are soaking the front of his shirt. He pulls me tight against him. He doesn’t question my moment of fragility. In fact, he doesn’t speak at all. This is Ace just being Ace. He’s leaving what I do or say next entirely up to me. It’s my decision. In the meantime, he’ll comfort me as best he can while giving me space emotionally at the same time. He’s waiting until I’m ready. He will always wait until I’m ready.

Because for Ace, it’s all about me. I’m his world. And I know that now. In all the years, he’s never once asked anything of me except to marry him.

And I’ve asked and expected so fucking much of him in return.

“You know I’ve loved you since I was seven years old, right?” I’m repeating what he already knows, but somehow, it feels important to reiterate it. To cement it.

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