Wantin’ her gone before she draws a crowd, or Big catches wind and takes his rage out on her, I do my best to smooth over the situation. “Ma’am, please get back in your truck and go before things get unpleasant.”

  What does she do when I offer an olive branch? This broad plants her tiny feet and glares. I’m not sure if I should be impressed or pissed. My dick, he’s a happy camper. We like ourselves spitfires, just not crazy ones who claim we got a kid when we don’t. Me and my pecker gotta have a little chat about what’s appropriate for hard-ons and what’s not—in the future—when I’m not busy with bullshit like this when I could be fucking.

  “Hell no!” Her nostrils flare in indignation. “In case you still aren’t listening, things are already unpleasant. My son is in jail for the second time. Your son, Adam. He’s almost twenty-two. You and I met at Sturgis twenty-three years ago, at the Black Falcon Saloon before they tore it down. I had brown hair then that reached my ass. We spent a day together.” The woman drops her hand to show her hair’s former length—to the hip.

  “And? I’ve met and slept with a lot of chicks at Sturgis.” Three to six women every year for thirty-plus years. That’s a lot of pussy I can’t remember. Not that I should have to.

  Her honey-eyed stare turns downright glacial. “You always bone ‘em bareback?”

  Blimp sputters a laugh, then chokes on it. Asshole.

  Licking the front of my teeth, I massage the nape of my neck, so I don’t go off on this woman for insulting me when she’s already fired up. “No. I don’t fuck bareback. Ever.” Sure, condoms have broken, and I might’ve skipped out on glovin’ up on a few rare occasions when I didn’t have one handy, and the woman was too hot to pass by. But I haven’t had a lapse in judgment in years… no… decades. With age comes wisdom. You know how that goes.

  “Uh-huh.” Her head swivels with attitude. Purple hair sweeps across her shoulders. “Bet ya tell all the girls that. ‘I only go bare with you, baby, ’cause you’re special.’” The woman does a piss-poor job of mimicking the bass of my voice.

  “I’ve never said that in my life,” I growl, tightening my fist around the gate.

  “No? Then how did I wind up giving birth to Adam nine months later?”

  How’s this my fault? She gets knocked up by some rando, and I’m the dickhead. None of this makes a lick of sense. Not her presence, her hostility toward me, nor the accusations. I’m through with the games.

  “You realize that’s impossible, right? Who shows up twenty-two years after givin’ birth to a kid, to tell some man he’s the father? What do you want? Money? That why you’re here? I’ll give ya fifty bucks to go on your merry way, ma’am. Sorry for the mix-up. Good luck with Adam.” Too horny and aggravated to deal, I pull out my wallet, toss a wad of bills through the slats of the gate and turn to get the hell outta dodge. I’m done.

  The bars rattle as I retreat. “My name isn’t ma’am, dickface. It’s Melanie… and I don’t want money. I want you to talk to him. Make him get his life together. A-another charge like this, and he could be down for years.” Desperation clings to her words, hollowing out my stomach.

  I swallow hard.

  Fuck.

  Fuuuck.

  Taking her sadness as my own when I shouldn’t, I stop but refuse to turn around. I gotta draw the line somewhere, even if every cell in my body wants to help. It’s fucked up, ain’t it? A woman I don’t even know rambles on about stuff that has nothing to do with me, and all it takes is for her veil of strength to drop, and I’m ready to rescue her. My mother sure did a number on me. May the bitch rot in hell.

  Heaving a sigh, I reply when I should walk away. “Sorry to hear about Adam, Melanie. I am. I wish you the best of luck. Have a nice evening.” There, I said my peace. Through with this whole fucked-up ordeal, I leave my brothers to handle her when I know I can’t.

  More gate rattling ensues. “Goddammit, asshole! Don’t walk away from me! Gunz! Erik! You never knew my name, so you made one up. You called me Kit!”

  Wait.

  I stop halfway to the clubhouse, a smashed shell casing underfoot. “I called you—”

  “Kit.”

  Scowling, I spin around to face everyone. “No.” That’s impossible.

  “Yes.” Melanie’s chin lifts in defiance.

  “No. That can’t be right. That was…” I approach, racking my brain for any memory of a Kit. It sounds familiar, though I can’t say why.

  “Twenty-three years ago, this August,” she explains.

  I pinch the bridge of my nose, closing my eyes. Kit. Kit. Why does that hit a cord? “We—”

  “Had sex,” she chimes in unhelpfully.

  We… Wait… Hold up… I think I got something… Holy fuck. That was the… No. This is her? Kit. The engaged bitch partying with her friends like Sturgis was the new Vegas vacation. They were outta place in a bar full of leather, wearin’ sundresses and no panties. Sturgis was some rite of passage after college graduation before saying I Do. She was the drunk chick offering the goods to anyone who’d give her a ride. I stepped up when some greaseball from a club we don’t associate with wanted to get up in that. I took over, lifted her dress, saw she was down, and we…

  “At the bar,” I fill in, vaguely remembering her back against the wood, her legs around my waist… “Wait… Blimp was there.” I look at my brother. His face tells a different tale. He’s half-smiling like a dumbass, half trying to hide it, stroking his long gray beard. Yeah, he remembers.

  The fucker punches my shoulder. “Congrats, Daddy-o.”

  Nope, I’m not even gonna touch that comment. He can fuck right off.

  I ignore him and address Mel. “Listen, just ’cause we had sex a dozen times, doesn’t mean he’s my kid.” I’m not buyin’ it.

  FYI, in case you were wondering, I could use a cigarette right now, or an entire pack of menthols.

  Juiced up on the news, my leg jiggles. I snatch another Dum Dum from my pocket and shove the thing in my mouth before I make Blimp give me a hit off the blunt he’s packin’. I sigh long and hard as the strawberry bliss gives me the relief nicotine used to.

  Melanie kicks a rock. It clangs against the base of the gate. “It kinda does when I have a test saying otherwise.”

  “Excuse me?” I keep my tone neutral, wanting to crawl outta my skin. Either she’s a liar, or I’m fucked.

  Her head cocks to the side. “How do you think I found you? I couldn’t remember your name, much less the club you were in, so I put Adam’s DNA spit sample in one of those fancy online ancestry sites, and Eli popped up as a close relative.”

  “My brother, Bonez?” Why would he submit DNA to a company like that? Hasn’t he learned a thing from me?

  “Yes. Him,” she confirms, much to my horror.

  “You talked to my brother?” If he knew and didn’t tell me, I’ll beat his ass.

  “No.” Melanie’s nose crinkles like that’s the most distasteful thing I could’ve said. “I wouldn’t do that. I hacked his social media…”

  She… How… Argh! Now I’m really gonna kill him.

  “You what? You hacked his… You hacked Bonez’s social media?” He’s a biker, too. Sure, he rolls with the Corrupt Chaos, a more laid-back veterans club, but he’s smarter than this.

  “Well.” She shrugs, all innocent and far too cute for her own good. “I borrowed his password for like a minute to find out more about you, since you’re one of the few people on the planet with less online presence than me.”

  Fuckin’ A. Hacker hotness shouldn’t impress me, but it does. Even if I’m gonna wring my brother’s neck for lettin’ anyone get past his firewalls. Firewalls I set up for him myself. They’re not top of the line, but they’re nothin’ to sniff at either.

  “This is—” I begin.

  Melanie waves a hand to shut me up. “Listen, I’m sorry for showing up like this. I didn’t mean for any of this to happen. Can we talk somewhere? I’m here for Adam. That’s it. I promise. I don’t want your money, connections, or whatever you might be thinking.” To prove a point, Melanie picks up the bills I threw at her, rolls them up, and sets them in a crumpled ball on the gate.

  And just like that, I’m frozen, stuck in…mind-numbing limbo.

  I must give some indication it’s cool for the brothers to let her pass, ’cause the banged-up gate that got hit by two trucks yesterday opens.

  Not giving me a chance to change my mind, Melanie strides toward the clubhouse, a sexy sway to those hips. Damn. As if I’m not already screwed, she’s gotta show off the goods when I’m sex deprived. I want pussy, even more so now than before. Anything would be nice to distract me from tonight’s surprises.

  Closing my eyes for the count of ten, I take a breath and will my nerves to calm.

  They give me the finger. Twice.

  “Your truck.” White Boy waves to her vehicle parked outside the gate.

  “Move it. Keys are in the ignition,” Melanie tosses over her shoulder, not missing a beat.

  Feet rooted in place, I don’t move. Can’t. This is real. I might have a son… A son named Adam.

  How the hell did this happen?

  What am I supposed to do?

  Fuck.

  This could change everything.

  CHAPTER TWO

  KIT

  This is for Adam.

  This is for Adam.

  This is for Adam.

  The mantra turns in my head like a broken record as I put on a brave face and pretend, sitting across from the one mistake I tried to forget, isn’t twisting every part of me up inside.

  I had to come.

  Or that’s what I keep telling myself.

  Anything for my son… our son. Try that wordage on for size. It sounds strange, even to me.

  Being here is harder than I thought. Facing the music and anticipating it are two very different scenarios.

  Across a table in the main room of a clubhouse they’re renovating, I watch Gunz’s face contort in a myriad of emotions, switching between confusion and anger. We’re seated at a high top. My legs dangle off the stool as a bottle of water sits unopened in front of me. He cleared the place out for us to talk. Not that I’m sure what to say that hasn’t already been blurted within ten seconds of meeting.

  It shouldn’t have gone down like this.

  The two-hour drive should’ve prepared me better. It’s not like I didn’t go over what I wanted to say and how I wanted to say it a thousand times in a thousand different ways.

  The weeks I spent picturing this moment should’ve theoretically made things easier, not harder. I wish that was the case, but it never is, is it?

  I drove around for hours, debating if I should stop or not. If I should open this can of worms, I never intended to crack open. Now, here I sit.

  I know what you’re thinking. I’m an awful person for keeping Adam from his dad all these years. How dare I drop this bomb tonight of all nights. Truth? I’d think the same thing if I were in your shoes. Would it help if I told you I didn’t know Gunz was Adam’s father until my husband, now ex-husband, needed a bone marrow transplant, and we tested Adam as a match? Talk about a devastating blow to everyone involved when the results came back as they did. Especially for my son, who already grew up feeling out of place, apart from fitting in with a group of small-town hellions. I’d like to say it was the boys’ fault—that their bad influence wore Adam down and turned him into a modern-day version of Evel Knievel or Robin Hood, depending on the incident. But I’d be lying. He’s the ringleader. What you’d consider a bad boy. The kid you wouldn’t want your daughter dating. For your daughter’s sake, I wouldn’t want her dating him either.

  Perhaps the man with the dazzling pair of blue eyes that match Adam’s will be the answer to my prayers. Not that I’m a religious woman. Agnostic is more apt, I suppose. Though, I’m sure you’ll agree that you’d eat the grossest, moldiest, most rotten crow for your child if you thought it might save them from themselves.

  That’s why I’m here.

  I visited Adam in jail today.

  If you’ve never visited your child in the slammer, you have no idea how terrible it is. Sickness takes over the instant you walk through those front glass doors of the station. It worsens when you hand your driver’s license through a security window to get those precious fifteen minutes with your son twice a week. You give them money to put on his commissary because you know the food is awful and he needs things. Things you can’t bring him. Then you wait with all the other loved ones on long, metal benches that have seen better days, for the buzz of a steel door and an officer to let you inside a dark room lined with stools and plexiglass booths. Old phones hang on the wall for you to talk to your child. There’s no touching. No hugging. There you wait, once more, for your kid to enter the box in his gray sweats. You’re grateful for those sweats because you know where the men wearing the orange jumpsuits are headed. In sympathy, you flash those families closed-mouth smiles. They return the gesture in kind, their eyes hollow from loss.

  Tracing a nail over the grimy tabletop, I wait for Gunz to say something. I deserve to be yelled at. I deserve everything and then some. It’s not his fault, or Jeremy’s, or my ex-husband’s, for what I’ve done to them. It’s mine. I take full responsibility for sowing my wild oats with my girlfriends when I was engaged to be married. When I found out I was pregnant, I didn’t even consider the hot biker could be Adam’s daddy. I didn’t consider it when Adam was born with blue eyes when I have hazel, and Jeremy has brown. I also didn’t consider it when Adam looked nothing like Jeremy or his family. It wasn’t until…

  “How long have you known?” Gunz tears me from my innermost thoughts.

  I blink to refocus on my surroundings, namely the handsome man sparking up the conversation. I’ll tell him anything he wants to know. It’s the least I can do.

  “Known what?” I ask.

  Another sucker slips between his goatee-encircled lips as Gunz leans back on the stool and drums his fingers against the edge of the table. “That I might be his father.” Those very words cause his cheek to twitch before he looks away like he can’t stand the sight of me. Not that I blame him. This isn’t my proudest moment.

  Holding nothing back, I pull up my big girl panties and give him what needs to be given. “I knew my husband… ex-husband, wasn’t his dad when he was fourteen.”

  Gunz flinches, and his nostrils flare at the news. “That was eight fuckin’ years ago.”

  The scorching flame of regret, self-loathing, and remorse licks up my spine—a stark reminder of what I’ve done. A knot of shame coils low in my belly, forming into a jagged rock battering my insides.

  I suck in a sharp breath as I push the tender spot with my hand, hoping the pain subsides soon.

  Then I forge ahead, hating what the news must be doing to Gunz, too. I force my feelings down deep, to deal with later when I have time to reflect. This isn’t about me. This is about Gunz and Adam. About owning our truths.

  “I know,” I agree with a solitary nod. To some, eight years seems like a long time. To me, it doesn’t. Not when you’re a single mom. Not when you have to pick up the pieces of your life after your husband up and abandons his family in the middle of the night, never to be heard from again. The house, the cars, parenting, all of it was left for me to handle on my own. With Adam and his issues, eight years feels like the blink of an eye.

  With practiced ease, Gunz removes his leather vest and hangs it on his stool. “Why did you wait eight years to contact me?” His intense gaze sears into mine, seeking a valid reply. Not an excuse. Not a bullshit sob story. My past isn’t his problem any more than his past is mine. I’m not here to be a victim.

  I rest my elbows on the Formica, my hands clasped together, and keep things simple. “Eli came up as a match a few months ago. I didn’t know how else to find you, or I would have.” It was happenstance, a one-in-a-million chance of finding Adam’s father. I was grasping at any straw I could find. Doing what I had to do. Pretending the best I could that my son’s life wasn’t already circling the drain.

  He chuckles without humor, eyebrows pinched in the center. “Please excuse me if I don’t buy into this shit.”

  Fair enough. That’s his right.

  “I understand.” And I do. Whatever he’s feeling must be intense. Rightfully so.

  “Do you really?” His head tilts to the side as he scrutinizes me, to draw his own conclusions. There’s an intensity there, an intelligence dissecting every word I say, every movement I make. I try not to let it get to me, but it’s difficult.

  I begin to sweat, the back of my old band t-shirt sticking to my spine and shoulders.

  “Yes. I would feel the same if I were you. I do have the paperwork in my truck if you want to see it.” In hindsight, I should’ve stuck it in my back pocket the moment I climbed out of the truck cab.

  “I’m gonna need more than that.”

  “When Adam gets out, you can do whatever you need for confirmation.” More DNA testing, more of anything he wants, I’m happy to oblige. If I wasn’t already certain, I wouldn’t be here. Trust me, just looking at the man is evidence enough.

  He nods as if what I said is good enough for now. A heavy, emotional breath expels from a set of full lips. “So, you’re here for…” Trailing off, Gunz runs a palm over his bald head. Some things never change. When I first met him, he looked the same as he does now—inked and gorgeous with well-kept facial hair and a wicked smile that would make any woman spread her legs. Like the finest wine, years have done him well. Very well.

  Doing my best not to stare, I keep my tone easy to avoid sympathy for what I’m about to say. “When my ex found out Adam wasn’t his, he… didn’t just divorce me. He left us both. It was like he didn’t care that he’d raised Adam for years. He couldn’t get past what I’d done.”