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“So you like her.”
“I told you son, I’m too fucking old.”
“She like you?” he asks, completely ignoring my answer.
“She can’t stand me,” I growl. “Keeps thinking I’m going to turn her into some club whore.”
“I like her already.”
“You really are a fucking pain in my ass, Maxwell.”
“When do I get to meet my step-mother?”
“Fucking asshole. I don’t—”
“What’s her name?” he interrupts me.
“Toi,” I grumble and Max straight out laughs.
“God, this just gets better and better. I’ll tell you one thing, old man,” he laughs.
“What?” I growl, draining my beer.
“You’re never boring,” he laughs, and I have to resist the urge to hit him over the head with my empty beer. That’d probably piss Tess off, and I actually like her.
“Fucking prick,” I grumble and do my best to ignore his laughter.9Toi“I’m not doing it.”
I stare at Harley, annoyance filling me. I’ve been here two weeks, and though Desi and I have become close, Harley fights me at every turn. I scratch my forearm. It’s a nervous habit, and honestly I’ve done it so much since Marcum brought me here that I’m scratching it raw. This morning after round one with Harley, it started bleeding. This will make the fifth time I’ve sparred with the little brat today, and if I ever manage to get him in bed so I can finally call it a day, I’m going to have a stiff drink and a long cry.
You will.
I write, and then for extra emphasis I hit my pen against the notebook.
“You’re not the boss of me,” he yells, like the spoiled brat he is.
It doesn’t help that Marcum has been gone for the last three days. I don’t know where he is. He didn’t bother to tell me he was leaving. I learned he was gone through Ghost. Even his children didn’t know he was leaving and apparently that’s a common practice—which makes me sad. It’s not unexpected, however. I haven’t seen anything in my life to show me that a man can be a caring parent, and Marcum being who he is, surely wouldn’t be. Still, when I’ve watched him with his kids, there was a moment that I had hope that I was wrong.
“That’s exactly what she is when I’m not here,” Marcum states matter-of-factly from the door.
A chill runs down my spine when I hear his voice and I can feel goosebumps rise on my neck and arms. I resist the urge to hug my arms close to my body. For some reason I can’t explain, Marcum’s voice does strange things to me. Maybe it’s fear, but if it is, it’s unlike any fear I’ve ever experienced before.
I turn slowly and look at him. He’s not changed, not really. It’s only been three days I suppose, but there’s something different about his appearance. He looks…haggard. Definitely more haggard, as if he has gone without sleep for days on end. Probably partying hard. Ghost hasn’t made a secret about the club and the way of life each of the men live. He’s even said things about Marcum and the amount of women that have been in and out of his life. I cringe thinking about it.
“She’s not my mother!” Harley yells, stomping his feet and trying to go toe-to-toe with Marcum. It’s a war that probably won’t go well for the little man—it hasn’t for me so far.
“If she was, you’d be in trouble, wouldn’t you, since the bi—”
“Marcum!” I cry and it hurts to say his name. My voice comes out quiet, but you can hear the distress and at least it is loud enough to stop him from talking. His eyes hold mine, and there’s some kind of emotion in them that I can’t name.
“Since your mother hasn’t bothered to even check on you in five years,” he finishes, as his gaze holds mine while he finishes his statement. Then he looks at Harley. “Show some respect if a woman cares for you.”
“She doesn’t care for me. She’ll leave just like Cherry!” Harley answers.
I want to argue. I’ve only been here a couple of weeks though. It’s not my place to interfere. I know how Harley feels. Marcum thinks he’s holding me as leverage over my father. I’m not stupid. There’s no way my father is going to do anything to get me back. Unless I miss my guess—and I doubt very seriously that I have—my father is probably as far away as he can get from the state of Florida.
Marcum walks to Harley, bends down on his knees, and puts his hands on each of Harley’s shoulders. Then he looks at me.
“Leave us,” he orders. I look at him, and then at Harley—who for all his bravery has tears in his eyes. I swallow down the urge to argue. I don’t know Harley, and he doesn’t like me. It doesn’t make sense that I want to comfort the little boy—but I do.
