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And a lot of scars. Gunshot wounds, fighting wounds, a fucked-up leg from a motorcycle accident—and several others, including a strange, dark, pebbly blob on the side of his belly, and a cross-shaped scar on the sole of each foot.
Those were burns, in tender, horrifically painful places. The blob on his belly was cigar burns, an accumulation of several made on or near the same place over years. On his feet? They looked like brands made with a metal cross or crucifix.
When she’d asked about those, he’d said he’d been raised by an aunt and uncle after his mom’s death when he was five. He’d never known of a father. That was all he’d said, but the implication had been encyclopedic.
He hadn’t had to say it, but she’d also known the abuse he’d suffered went farther than the burns. No one who would do that to a child stopped there. Those were just the most visible signs of what he’d endured.
That suffering boy had grown into a hard, thoughtless man, an outlaw, with a huge capacity for violence, and more than that—for cruelty.
She knew why he thought he’d be a bad father, and she couldn’t say he was wrong.
Now, with that youthful vulnerability so present in him, and consequent sympathy rising up in her, Marcella gave him a tiny break. “Ajax asked me to talk to you. He thinks he might want to meet you, but only if you mean to stick around and get to know each other. He doesn’t see the point if you’re not going to stay in his life.”
Eight thought about that before he replied. He hadn’t touched his burger—a sky-high, three-quarter-pound beast—yet.
“I think I want that, to stay and get to know him. But I don’t want to fuck him up.” A small, almost proud smile eased up one side of his face. “He’s ten, right?”
“Yep.”
“He sounds smart for his age.”
“He is. He’s a great kid.”
“You must be a great mom, then.”
“I try to do my best.” Another warming impulse came over her, and she added, “That’s all we can do, Eight. Our best. What’s your best?”
He laughed. “I have no fucking idea.”
“That’s not a good answer when you’re asking to get to spend time with a child.”
“I don’t have a better one, Marce. I just know I don’t want to fuck it up.”
She didn’t, either. Sitting here with him, she was softening to the idea. Ajax was curious, and he deserved to know his father, if his father could be known. But this man was the father in question, and she did not know what to think about his sudden urge to be a dad.
But if Ajax wanted it, and Eight wanted it, was it her place to prevent it?
Fucking hell, was she really going to do this?
When neither had spoken for a while, Eight said, quietly, “You got any pictures of him?”
“Yeah.” She got her phone from her bag and opened her photos, selecting her ‘Kiddo’ album before she handed Eight her phone.
At his glance at the first photo, the most recent, he said, “He’s blond!”
“So was my grandma. So are you.”
Ajax was a pretty good combination of both his parents, actually. The texture of his hair and the shape of his mouth were like hers, and he had a nose like her mom’s. His complexion was a shade somewhere between her light brown blend and Eight’s Northern European pale. His hair was lighter than either of theirs, so far, but it had darkened a bit as he’d grown and would likely end up like Eight’s dark gold. And his eyes were exactly the same blue as Eight’s.
He was a beautiful child, as unique on the outside as the inside.
Eight stared at her phone, not moving. “That’s my kid,” he said, with real wonder in his voice.
That note of awe went through Marcella like a blade. She gave in. “Maybe. If you can step up.”
His eyes came up and met hers, and she saw the decent guy she’d once thought was under all that tough-skinned outlaw asshole nonsense. Maybe that guy really was in there.
“Yeah?”
