Page 107 of Wicked Truths

Oakley wiggles her face until she shoves her mouth to mine again, and I happily swallow down her sounds.

The door slams open beside us, and I wrap myself fully around Oakley’s front to block her from view.

“You sorry bastards.” Marcus chuckles.

“No wonder I was playing out the last song with a raging hard on,” Liam says, closing the door behind them.

“Fucking hell, just like that,” Hawk groans, sounding fully satisfied.

“We’re up next, right, sweetness?” Liam asks.

“Most definitely.” She winks, digging her nails into my shoulders.

Epilogue

Hawk

The children’s center is filled with the sounds of screeching instruments. Damian’s Way has an energy that’s difficult to explain. We’ve spent time at each of the locations over the last three years. Lyric and her pack are even branching out to open a California location.

The one we’re in today is the New York center. It’s by far the biggest of the three. Some of the kids come and go, but normally we get familiar enough to know them by name during our time at the center.

Oakley and Liam are showing a small group of kids how to hold their guitar. We’ve been here for hours, but we’ve still got a couple more to go. Summers are always the longest days. During the school year, the program is only open for a few hours to offer after-school care, but during the summer, some of the kids are here for ten hour days.

There’s a boy I’ve seen a lot during the last week. He’s sitting on one of the couches and looking a little miserable. I don’t play an instrument, so really I’m pretty useless unless I’m helping carry something heavy.

I head over, tossing myself down on the opposite side of the couch. The boy bounces with my weight, despite the fact I never touched his cushion.

I chuckle. “Sorry about that.”

He shrugs a thin shoulder. “It’s fine.”

I nod. “I’m Hawk.”

He rolls his dark eyes, turning to face me. “Kenton.”

“Nice to meet you.” I hold out a fist for him to bump. He stares for a few seconds before bumping. It’s hard to tell age based on looks, or maybe that’s true just for me. He’s smaller than most of the other kids, though I know they only accept children five and older. “Don’t you want to join in?”

He huffs, stretching back against the cushion. “Nah, I’m good.”

“Okay,” I say, wondering how else I can carry this conversation.

“I’m only here cause the group home drops us off here or at the community center. This place has better AC and the lunch isn’t bad.”

“Gotcha,” I say, because I’m not sure what the proper reply is to that. “How old are you?”

“Five, almost six,” he says, watching the group of kids that are gathered around Sullivan at the drums.

“What do you like to do for fun?” I ask, studying his too-small T-shirt.

“I don’t know.” Kenton shrugs. “Not play music.”

“But the lunch is too good to pass up.” I laugh.

“Are you going to kick me out?” he asks.

“Hell no,” I say with a grimace. “Shit, sorry we’re not supposed to curse.”

“I’ve heard worse,” he says, his gaze darting away from mine.

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