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He’d faced off against fuckingdrug cartels. He’d killed men. He’d taken lead. He’d done almost six years in the state pen. Little of that had scared him, or even slowed him down to think about it.
But here he was, sick with dread at the thought of facing a fucking fifth grader.
Hisfifth grader.
Hisson.
Okay, asshole, cowboy the fuck up, he thought and swung his bum leg over the saddle.
With a second thought, he shrugged out of his kutte and locked it in a saddlebag. Then he walked to the entrance of The Roost.
As he reached for the door handle, he saw his hand fuckingshaking. He paused once more, shook the bullshit off, and went in.
Marcella was looking right at him. Instantly trapped in her gaze, he stood in the doorway, in front of the unattended host stand. Then she turned and said something to the boy sitting beside her. Eight saw her nod in his direction, and the boy looked.
At him.
He really was a good-looking kid. Eight didn’t know why that surprised him; Marcella was a beautiful woman. But Eight wasn’t a good-looking guy. He had a good body, and took a lot of pride in it, but his face wasn’t much. Even before he’d lived a long life of getting beat on and delivering beatings, he’d been nothing special to look at. These days, since he’d shaved his beard—it had gone grey, closer to white, really, and he hated how it made him look like Colonel Fucking Sanders—he basically looked like a badly carved rock.
But the boy was … well, beautiful. That was an okay word to think about a guy if he was only ten, right?
Eight stopped thinking anything, because the boy had slipped out of the booth and was walking toward him.
Strangely guilty, Eight shot a glance at Marcella, who looked worried herself, her eyes locked on her boy’s back—theirboy’s back—but she didn’t seem mad.
“Sorry for the wait! One for dinner?” A skinny little redhead had shown up behind the host stand, her hand on a menu. Eight gave her one quick look and returned his attention to the boy without a word.
He was right in front of him now. Slim and maybe tall for his age. Blond dreadlocks. A serious look in big, bright blue eyes.
Eight had blue eyes. Were his that pretty? He didn’t think so.
“Are you Eight Ball?” the boy asked, in a tone that seemed to balance shakily on hopeful and wary.
“Yep, that’s me. Most people just call me Eight, unless I pissed them off.”
The boy held out a hand. “Hi, Eight. I’m Ajax. You’re my dad.”
Eight had never in his life, not once ever, thought to hear that sentence. He had never in his life, not once ever, thought he’d have any part of a family other than the one he’d patched into. He would have sworn up and down that he neverwantedit.
He had no idea what the fuck he was feeling now; it was entirely new. And it hurt. It burned through his chest and belly and made him feel sick, like the flu.
As if he were hoisting up an I-beam all on his own, he lifted his arm and grasped the boy’s—hisson’s—hand. “Hi, Ajax. It’s good to meet you.”
CHAPTER TWELVE
Marcella sat in the booth and watched Ajax meet his father.
Her thighs ached with the effort of holding herself on the seat when what she wanted to do was run up there and pull her kid away, as if he teetered at edge of a highway, about to tumble into the rush of traffic.
They shook hands. Marcella clenched her own. Then Ajax turned and led Eight to their booth.
Eight wasn’t wearing his kutte. She didn’t think she’d ever seen him without it—at least not while he was otherwise dressed. Without it, he seemed … smaller, maybe? The unfamiliar vulnerability struck her. It was like he’d walked naked onto a battlefield.
Not his first battlefield of the day, apparently. He was bruised, his nose swollen and his eyes black. It had the ruddy, puffy look of brand-new damage. Damn. Well, that was Eight. Always looking for a fight.
This was such a huge mistake.
Ajax slid into the booth beside her, and Eight slid into the other side. “Hey, Marce.”
