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“She’s not on her own. She’s got family. A good one. They all pitch in and help her.”
Oh hell, was that the wrong thing to say. Mo’s eyes narrowed, and she leaned in. “She has a good family? Well, so do you. You say you’d be a terrible father, and you’ve proved yourself right already. But you aresurroundedby people who’d have helped you be agoodfather. If you’d done therightthing, every father in the club, every mother, would have been there to help you.Iwould have been there to help you. I would have doneeverythingin my power to help you be a good father, Edgar.”
And there it was. That name went through him like a blade, honed with contempt. Wielded by Mo, that blade was hooked and serrated. It sliced his heart open. Eight felt it like a rending, like his chest splitting wide, and his head and throat filled, the pressure mounting until it exploded.
He pushed the plate away, put his arms on the table, laid his face down, and cried.
Eight never cried, because he never let shit get to him. He hadn’t even cried when Becker died. He’d fucked himself and three sweetbutts raw, but he hadn’t cried.
The last time tears had left his eyes, he’d been in Mo’s arms, about to surrender himself to McAllister. Eighteen fucking years ago.
He felt soft hands at his nape, strong, slim arms around his shoulders, and he slumped sideways and let Mo press his head to her belly. “I’m sorry, Mama! I fucked up so bad!”
“Okay, love, okay. I’m here.”
Wrapping his arms around her, he cried until he was dry, and she stood there and comforted him.
When he sat upright, she plucked a few paper napkins from the holder in the middle of the table and handed them to him. While he cleaned himself up, she returned to her own seat.
“So, you regret ignoring your child, and you want to make it right? Do I understand you now?”
He nodded.
“But Ajax’s mom … Marcella?”
“Yeah.” Eight blew his nose again. “Marcella Lewis.”
“The singer?”
“You know her?” She and her band were fairly famous, regionally, but Mo and D weren’t nightlife kind of people. He couldn’t think how she’d heard of the Lowdowners.
“I’ve seen ads in the paper. I think I saw her and her band on one of the local morning shows, too. She’s Black, yeah?”
“I guess. Her mom’s Black, her dad’s white. Is that a problem?”
“Of course not. But … I suppose I’m surprised.”
Eight stared, trying to work that through his head. “You think I’m racist?”Mothought he was racist? That rending in his chest was going to tear him in half.
“I think you say and do things to get a reaction out of people. Things that aren’t politically correct. You like to be an arsehole. I’m surprisedMarcelladoesn’t think you’re racist.”
That was a lot easier to take. “Maybe she does, I don’t know. Maybe she just has shitty taste in men.”
He said it with a grin, trying to take the sting out of it. Mo gave him back a patient half-smile.
“Okay, love. Now you’ve told me the mess you’ve made. Tell me why you’re here. What do you need help with? I hope it’s not convincing Marcella to let you into her son’s life, because I’m currently on her side in the matter. It takes some gall to drop in after ten years and make demands.”
“I’m not making demands.” Okay, he’d started out that way, maybe, but now he was letting Marcella and Ajax call the shots. “If they say no, I drop it. But they’re not saying no. I tried to tell him who I am, to warn him off, but he still wants to see me. I tried to warn Marcella off, but she says I’m the dad he has.”
“Wait. You went looking for them, and now you’re trying to warn them off? Eight, what are youdoing?”
“I don’t know!” he’d raised his voice, and the last thing he needed was D in here, so he reined himself in and found his inside voice again. “I don’t know. I’m so fucking confused. I don’t know what’s the right thing. He’s such a great kid, Mo. He’s smart and talented. He’s good in sports, and he has my eyes, and I’m so fuckingconfused. I feel like a fuckingteenager, with no damn sense of how to live. And then last night, I went to Marcella and we—we—” He couldn’t say that to Mo. “And now I can’t stop thinking about her, either, andfuck!”
“Bloody hell, love. You’ve made a proper mess.” Mo had lived in the States since she was twelve, but she hadn’t lost all the Irish in her.
“I know. I don’t know what to do.”
“What do you want to do?”
