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Saint had been looking into who Jackson’s foster parents had been, and I’d researched her father. I’d found every single detail I could about him, including the color of his fuckin’ goddamn swim trunks.
His biggest obsession—hockey. I couldn’t dig up a lot on his childhood, but as a teenager, he’d been headed for the NHL. Concussions and knee issues, along with a torn ACL, ended that dream. It explained why he’d pushed North so hard. He wanted his kid to live his failed fuckin’ dream.
He attended Western University for finance, like Macayla had. Ended up in the corporate world, financial investments, and started his own firm which, judging from his assets, was largely successful. There were countless photos of him in the box at North’s hockey games, schmoozing his wealthy friends and clients. I even recognized a few of those wealthy pricks from my fights.
By the time I’d finished, I’d been ready to drive to her fuckin’ father’s hydro-draining, oversized house in the city and string him up by his fingernails. He had money. The bastard had money and refused to help his daughter because of what? How it would look to his rich prick friends that his teenage daughter was pregnant. It still didn’t make sense why he didn’t want North to know. Or why Macayla never told him herself.
I shoved the chair back and stood up, tempted to slam my fist through the computer screen.
What stopped me was Saint. He’d never asked what I’d been researching, but he’d seen the murderous rage in my eyes. The bastard knew me too well. He’d tossed me his Blue Jays signed baseball he’d won in a bet in high school from Peter Dumbass. I didn’t know his last name. But he was a dumbass for betting Saint he could sink ten baskets in a row. Saint excelled at sports, including basketball.
I’d gripped the baseball so hard, I was surprised it didn’t crack and turn to dust at my booted feet.
But it was Saint’s words that cut that through the rage. “Whatever you’re thinking, don’t do it. Not like that. You’ll end up losing her.”
He’d known it was about Macayla. And he knew that look on my face and what it meant. I’d have beaten her father to a bloody pulp. But it wasn’t my decision whether or not to make him pay. It was hers. But she had to know that if she wanted him to pay, I’d make sure that happened.
I pulled into the driveway and slowed when I saw headlights blazing at the cabin. I hadn’t seen Macayla since her Thursday shift when she’d picked up Jackson with drywall mud all over him.
Had she just got home? She usually only worked until midnight on Saturdays.
I rolled to a stop at the fork in the road and heard music. I frowned, shifting into Park, and the music grew louder as I opened the door and climbed out.
What the hell? It sounded like it was coming from the car stereo. I leaned into my truck and turned off the ignition, then walked toward the cabin.
I wasn’t quiet about it because there was no way she’d hear me with the oldies tune blasting. Fuck, was that “Stayin’ Alive?”
I stopped fifty feet away.
My breath locked in my lungs and my heart pounded.
There, in the illumination of the headlights, Macayla and Jackson were dancing.
If you could call it dancing at all. Because it was silly dancing.
Utterly ridiculous dancing.
Jackson wore his red track pants with a gray hoodie and runners. Macayla had on her ridiculous onesie with paddock boots. She’d slipped out of the top half and tied the sleeves together around her waist. Underneath, she wore a white tank top and one spaghetti strap had slipped off her shoulder.
She grabbed Jackson’s hands, linking them with hers, and swung them back and forth like a pendulum three times before she released one of his hands and spun him around.
The kid’s broad smile beamed, and my chest tightened. I had no clue why they were out here in the middle of the night, listening to music and dancing, but whatever the reason, the kid was laughing. He was also letting her hold his hands.
There was no rhythm or grace to her movements. Shit, they weren’t even flowing, with the way she wiggled her butt from side to side and jerked her shoulders up and down as if she was riding a jackhammer.
My mouth twitched and the tightness in my chest eased. I propped my shoulder against the birch tree and crossed my arms over my chest as I watched them in the headlights.
As ridiculous as she looked, it was also natural. Unchained.
No filters. Just her and her son dancing.
She was still that little six-year-old girl who was unafraid to talk to the filthy, angry kid who had just let his brother die.
Something wet hit my arm, and I glanced up at the falling snowflakes. It was a bit early for snow, but with the elevation of the mountains and the lake nearby, we often had it early.
I shifted my gaze back to the Macayla.
She spread her arms out and tilted her head back. Snowflakes bounced off her face like handfuls of diamonds before melting.
