Chapter 3
A BLEEDING HEART
JOSEPHINE
“You lost?” I call out.
Today’s heat still ripples off the lot. So thick the air wraps around my skin, working its way under my thin layer of clothing.
He looks back at the front door before shaking his head and closing the distance between us. Plumes of dust follow in his path from dragged feet, the crunch loud in the quiet afternoon. His hesitant gait’s a contradiction to the threatening pounds against the door a few seconds ago.
When we’re a mere two feet from each other, he stops and throws his sweatshirt hood back.
His bright blond hair’s a stark contrast to the dark clothing he wears head to toe.
How the kid isn’t sweating bullets in this weather, I have no idea.
The sun beats down on us mercilessly. I can feel sweat sliding down my spine, but he acts as if we’re lounging in the cool AC.
“Anyone here?” He points over his shoulder to the front door again, the heavy steel slab scarred with old dents from rowdy men.
“You looking for someone in particular?”
Without knowing why he’s here, pounding on the door of the Vipers MC clubhouse like the four horsemen are nipping at his heels, I’m not giving up any information until I know more.
My hand tightens instinctively around Haley’s, while I angle just slightly in front of her, creating a barrier.
“I’m looking for Viking.”
The blood in my veins thickens to ice, my stomach bottoming out at his name. The noise from the highway beyond the trees vanishes, instantly replaced by a dull ringing in my ears.
“He’s looking for daddy?” Haley asks innocently, pulling at my hand to get my attention while she looks up at me. Her blue eyes are so much like her father’s. She tilts her head, curiosity written all over her small face, unaware of the bomb she’s just dropped.
I draw in a steadying breath, averting my eyes back to the kid in front of me.
He can’t be any older than fifteen. Youthfulness still fills out his full cheeks, but his blue eyes are hardened.
They tell a tale without him saying a word.
His blond hair’s a mess, curled around his ears in shaggy disarray.
It matches the oversized clothes hanging loose on his tall frame, which I would bet doesn’t have enough weight on it.
He looks like someone who’s had to fight to survive on little.
It hits me like a freight train at full speed, and the nausea creeps up the back of my throat. I swallow it back, refusing to let my little girl feel the panic beating against my ribs. I force myself to stay relaxed and my face neutral, even as my pulse hammers like a stampede of wild horses.
He eyes my daughter, examining her the way I just did him. His gaze lingers, searching, comparing. I see the spark when it hits, recognition lighting his expression for just a split second, and I want to collapse on the spot.
Everything is about to change.
When he finally shifts his gaze back to me, he reaches into his hoodie’s pocket, pulling out a folded piece of paper.
His hands shake as he does it, fingers tight around the edges, like he’s afraid it might vanish if he loosens his grip.
With trembling resolve, he extends it in my direction in a silent offering.
The silky smoothness of the paper against my fingertips doesn’t prepare me for the photo revealed when I unfold it. The world tilts as the image comes into focus.
My husband, years younger, eyes wide and excited, with his head thrown back. A laugh I can hear in my mind pushing from his lips. His arm’s thrown around a leggy brunette whose hand splays intimately across his chest, while she looks at him like he’s hung the damn moon.
The backdrop looks the same today, except the barstools are now reupholstered. I can almost hear the music, smell the leather, and feel the reckless energy frozen in that moment.
And the beautiful, happy world I’ve created with the man in question comes crashing down around me.
“Your mom?” I choke. The words scrape their way out because I know what comes next.
He nods, his stature growing stiff, like he’s anticipating my breakdown—a boy used to handling other people’s emotions. His jaw clenches, ready for whatever reaction I’m about to give him.
I can’t bring myself to ask. To say the words that will finalize what I already know.
He steps closer, leaning forward. “She told me he was my dad… and that I should find him,” he says, voice just above a whisper.
And there it is, the words that tilt my world on its axis, throwing my entire system out of orbit, spinning wildly into a black hole of nothingness. My vision narrows, almost blacking out, but my tether pulls me back, yanking on my hand in hers.
“Mama?”
Her sweet voice washes over me, pushing the panic aside, drawing me back to the surface to the most important thing in my life.
I want to run. Scoop Haley up and haul her to the SUV. But running won’t solve the problem, and it sure as hell won’t answer the million questions dive bombing my mind.
“You thirsty?” I throw out, because we can’t discuss this in front of Haley, she’s too smart for her own good, and I need to have a conversation with her father before anything else.
“Uhh…” his hand rubs the back of his neck, a nervous motion I’m used to seeing from the older version.
“It’s just a soda. Come inside, and we can talk.” I nod, stepping around him. My ears strain, waiting for the footsteps that fall behind me before I open the front door and push into the clubhouse.
I still have no clue where Blaze disappeared to.
For all I know, he’s getting high, moping about the fact that he’s stuck here on watch while the rest of the club is off, wreaking havoc in Florida.
Pierce could show up, but if I had to guess, he’s not more than twenty feet from Lexi, probably doting on her every want, trying to make her as comfortable as possible.
My heart twinges at the thought. That could have been us again in a few months. But that dream just crashed and burned like Oceanic Flight 815.
I motion to the bar dead center against the back wall, the same one from his photo. “Take a seat, I’ll be right back.” I veer off course, Haley padding behind me.
Hurrying down the hall, I strain my ears, half listening for Blaze, the other half making sure I didn’t just open the door to a thief—at least a physical one.
“Here, baby. I need you to hang out in Daddy’s office while I go have a chat with that young boy.” I pull out the little basket he keeps hidden under his desk full of coloring pages, books, and toys.
“Okay, mama. Can I have a snack? I’m getting hungry.”
Of course she is. It’s damn near time for dinner, and our quick outing to pick up a cupcake pan has morphed into a life-altering trip across town.
“I’ll bring you something in a bit. Yeah?”
“Okay!” she answers cheerfully, already ignoring my retreating form, way more interested in the princess coloring book we picked up last week.
The dark, narrow hall pushes in from every side, slowing my determined steps to get back out there.
The moment I pop back into the open room, his head snaps up from the bar top.
He hasn’t moved, isn’t snooping through the cabinets behind the bar, didn’t disappear, looking for something he shouldn’t have eyes on.
“Water, soda, juice?” I ask when I’m close enough.
“Soda, please. I’m not picky.”
My body makes quick work of grabbing one of the small cans from the drink fridge hidden below. The whiskey behind me calls my name, an invitation to help take the edge off. But I know better. This won’t be numbed by a shot. I’d need the whole damn bottle.
He knocks back the can, pulling gulps like a traveler lost in the desert at high noon. The desperation. His disheveled look. A comment from a mother to find a man he’s never met. It doesn’t come out of nowhere.
“Where’s your mom?”
A sadness washes over his face. One he’s not quite skilled enough to hide.
“She died,” he offers quietly, looking at me from under his light lashes, fingers crushing the aluminum in his hand.
“When?”
“Two weeks ago.”
Jesus Christ. My heart pangs immediately for what he must be going through. I don’t know his story. What his life was like with her. If he was happy and safe. For a moment, my brain forgets why he’s here. I simply want to envelop him in my arms, because he looks like he could use it.
“I’m sorry to hear that,” I finally manage to choke out.
The sorrow in his eyes makes him look years younger, and the shrug in response does the same.
“So Viking…” His voice quakes, rattling against each syllable.
“He’s my husband, and he’s out of town right now.” It would make things a hell of a lot less complicated if he weren’t.
He moves in a blur, long legs eating the distance between where he was just sitting and the front door. I should let him go. I gave him his answer. What he does with that is up to him. Yet, this clawing in my chest refuses that simpler solution.
“Where are you staying?” I call out as his fingers meet his escape.
His head falls, shoulders shrugging under that black sweatshirt. “I don’t have anywhere to go.”