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Piece.
By piece.
By piece.
Three Years Later
“MAN, WHAT THE HELL IS your son doing?”
“It’s not my son.”
“Oh, like hell it’s not.” Trent brings the bottle of beer to his lips, taking a slow sip. “He’s wearing a goddamn multi-colored blazer. It’s Knight, all right.”
I squint my eyes, because it’s bright as fuck in Todos Santos on a September afternoon, and sure enough, it is my son. My four-year-old is…what is he doing, exactly? I’m not entirely sure, but knowing Knight, it can’t be anything remotely constructive, and it will probably earn him an indefinite amount of naughty spot time. This kid has seen more walls than a mural painter.
He is my mini-me on steroids. Swag, attitude, and mischief all wrapped up in an innocent smile.
“I think he just drew a giant dick on Jaime’s daughter’s forehead,” Vicious remarks, staring into his glass of whiskey like it holds the answer to the mystery of life. I sip water. For the last three years, it’s only ever been water for me. I’m not gonna bullshit you about being a born-again Christian like Donald Whittaker. Yes, I’m fucking dying for a drink. Staying sober is a sacrifice, but one I am willing to make for my family.
Vicious elbows Jaime, tilting his chin toward Knight and Daria. “If that’s not pissing all over his property from a young age, I don’t know what is. Your daughter’s in trouble. Keep an eye on that one.”
“They’re just kids, dickface. It’s called playing.”
“Playing.” Vicious tastes the word on his tongue. “You played the same game with Mel, if my memory doesn’t betray me. But with a real dick, and it wasn’t her forehead you put it on.”
That last statement awards Vicious with a punch to the arm. I flip my wedding band around my finger and watch our kids running around us, sunrays glittering between them.
“Knight!” I call out for him, and he looks up, the black marker clutched in his small fist.
Oh, fuck.
It doesn’t look like a marker. It looks like a Sharpie.
“Come here, please.” I nod toward the corner where Jaime, Vicious, Trent, and I are standing. Luna is clasping Trent’s leg like an anchor. Her gray-green eyes are wide and exploring, and she is wearing a black top, black jeans, and black Chucks.
She never leaves her father’s side.
Knight sashays toward us, swinging his arms next to his body in an exaggerated way. We’re celebrating his fourth birthday today, and all of his pre-school friends are here. Trent’s flipping steaks and burgers, there’s a hot dog stand by the giant pool, a clown, a magician, and a cotton candy machine. Only the best for my son.
I know, I know, he’s mine and I’m biased, blah, blah, blah, but I swear, this kid is something special. My wife and I knew that the minute we saw him.
“He was born on August eighteenth,” the woman at the adoption agency stated when she slid a picture of him across her desk three years ago. We came to see her right after our shotgun wedding in Vegas. My wife and I exchanged an unreadable look before we burst out laughing. That was the date we slept together for the first time. August eighteenth. Fate has a twisted sense of humor like that.
Knight looks just like me, even though he didn’t come from me. But his hair is ash brown, his eyes jade green. He is twice as tall as kids his age. Well, other than Vaughn, Vicious and Emilia’s son.
Knight (my better half called him that because he came to save the day) stands in front of me, waiting for the inevitable Spanish Inquisition.
“What did you do to Daria?” I ask, kneeling down to his eye level. Daria is two years older than Knight. She should be the one bossing him around, not the other way. But I guess it is in our blood to raise little hell-raiser, alpha-males and the girls who fight them off until they cave to their charm.
“I tattooed her,” my kid says, his voice even. He’s staring me right in the eye, and he has that what-are-you-going-to-do-about-it look on his face.
“You drew on her forehead,” I correct. “Why did you do that?”
“She asked to get inked.” Jesus Christ. No more watching Ink Master with this dude when his mom is too busy to notice.
“What did you ink…paint on her forehead, exactly?”
Don’t say a dick. Don’t say a dick. Don’t say a dick.
“A spaceship,” he answers. He turns around and calls Daria, who jogs the short distance to us. Knight proceeds to explain, his finger moving across her forehead. “This is the external tank,” he points at the head of the cock—and did I mention that my kid wants to be an astronaut and loves space just as much as I do?—“and this is the orbiter,” he points at the balls.
