I immediately dial Kristy. Voicemail.
I yell. I have to release it before I tear this home apart. I’d toss the phone, but if it breaks, how will my girls call me when they need me? I’m fucking tired of that careless bitch.
I grab my coat, aggressively slipping it and my boots on at the door before storming to the side of the house. The shed I built there stores extra wood where it stays dry after I chop it, as well as other tools. My blood boils in my veins, active and racing. My heart pumps wildly as the tension in my head grows.
I grab the ax and pull it out of the stump. It’s rinse and repeat from here. Place a log, swing the ax, chop into the wood over and over until it’s divided, stack it on the side. Repeat.
Anger management 101 here. It’s also therapy. It’s why I chose to be a lumberjack when I moved here.
Three years ago, I lost custody of my girls. I had left Black Feral two years before that. I couldn’t continue being a part of something that disregards human life. Integrity for them is non-existent. I stayed longer than I should’ve. Kristy and I fought allthe time because, if I’m honest, I wanted to leave the minute I held Silvie in my arms. I wanted to protect her from the filth of that world.
Kristy insisted it was financial security. I became numb, going through the motions until I was with my baby girl. The world quieted and felt right only when her light blue eyes stared into my dark brown ones with all the love and trust in her tiny soul.
It felt like a blink before Angie came, and even less time till Lucy joined us. They became my world. As soon as Lucy turned two, I was done.
Swing. Chop. Stack.
Swing. Chop. Stack.
The constant fighting. The drugs. And then Kristy’s naked ass, in our fucking bed, with a pimpled ass prospect. I wasn’t even mad that she cheated. I was over her, us. But her actions were a risk to the girls. That was unforgivable.
Should’ve fucking known better. Kristy’s vengeful streak runs deep and dirty. My past mistakes came to haunt me, and she used her knowledge well, coupled with her skill in manipulation…and suddenly, I had no rights, other than one weekend a month. A. Month.
The late November chill can’t combat the sweat dripping down my back under my flannel and jacket. The heat from exertion and anger creates a furnace under my skin. I don’t know how long I’ve been chopping, but the sun's gone down behind the mountains. The melody and, at times, eerie sounds in the darkness of the woods at the edge of the property stir my attention.
I slam the edge of the ax into the stump. I should put the wood away, but my body sags. The anger dissolves into contempt and a hit of helplessness.
I walk back inside the two-story home I took my investment earnings I kept from Kristy–thank fuck–and stone by stone, wood plank by wood plank, I built my girls a home they could be safe in, proud of, a real home. Better than the one the judge ruled Kristy could keep, which I agreed to, for the girls.
Being homeless and unemployed with a questionable history and background didn’t play in my favor. But I’ve been working my ass off these three years to change that. Get them to see, I’m the fit parent. My girls need to be with me. Not their still drug-addicted mother, who was never on board with me leaving the MC life. She thrived on the danger. It made her feel young.
Well, bitch is thirty-one now. Time to grow the hell up. At thirty-eight, I feel fifty, withered, and fucking exhausted all the damn time.
I’m in the middle of sizzling a steak on the stove when my phone rings. I dive for it on the counter, hoping it’s the girls borrowing Kristy’s phone again. It’s not. Might be even better though.
“Tell me you have good news,” I say in greeting.
“I do, actually,” Sanford says. I can hear the smile in his voice.
Sanford Miller is a fifty-three-year-old man from Portland. He has been my lawyer for almost three years now. When I lost the girls, I knew staying in Silver Lakes would only keep me in trouble. Black Feral was not happy with my leaving. They constantly taunted me, trying to instill fear to force me back to them.
If I had any chance at all to get my girls away from that life, I had to start fresh somewhere. Somewhere not too far. I heard of Eden Ridge. I knew they were a small mountain town, idyllic people, children friendly. A perfect place for little girls to grow up happy, healthy, and full of wonder. I want that for them.
I moved here, didn’t technically need money after investing quietly for years, but having steady employment looks good with judges. Found an ad for lumberjacks needed at Hunter & Co. Lumber. I didn’t know then what a big damn deal those Hunters and their businesses were. They practically own this town.
Luckily, they are decent men. I’ve paid attention, from afar, hearing and watching what they’ve done, how they’ve handled shit that’s come at them. Grayson Hunter, my boss, has earned my respect.
“The last house inspection and your background check, you passed with flying colors,” Sanford says.
I remove the steak from the stove, my chest feeling too tight with hope.
“Are they mine now?” I ask, my voice rasping.
“Soon, Wilder, soon. But real damn close. You have visitation rights upgraded to every weekend now.” Sanford slaps what sounds like his desk, laughing.
I’m conflicted. One part of me is overwhelmed that I can see my girls every weekend instead one a month. The other part of me, the part that heard my babies whispering because their mother locked them in their room so she can fuck that shitstain Black Feral scum and probably get a hit, wants this over.
“And when do I get full custody of them?” I demand.
