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“That’s just it! I don’t know! I want to be a good dad, but I don’t know how to do it, or if it’s too late to try. I want to not have this feeling that I made a huge mistake walking away from Marcella when she was pregnant. I want to go back a few months and not go looking for her.”
Mo flicked her hand impatiently. “That’s a useless thought. You can’t go back. From where you are right here, what do you want?”
“I want … I want …” A light went on in his head and showed him the horrible truth. He dropped his face into his hands. “I want to be a different man. Somebody who’s good and doesn’t fuck up. Somebody who could be a good dad. Somebody who deserves it.”
“Oh, Edgar. Sweetheart.” Mo hooked her hand around his forearm. “Youaresomebody who deserves it. Youaresomebody who could be a good dad. Everybody fucks up, good people and bad. There’s a good man in you. I wouldn’t love you like I do if you were in your heart the man you show the world. You showmethe good man. You don’t have to be a different man, you just need to show your son the same man you show me.” With a gentle shake, she got him to look her in the eyes. “And if you show Marcella that man, too, perhaps you’ll have even more of what you need.”
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Marcella pulled up to the curb in front of a small, unassuming bungalow on the corner of a quiet street in the Riverview Historic District.
The GPS had led her straight here, and Eight’s Harley sat on the driveway, so she knew it was his place, but still, she squinted at the cute Tudor-style bungalow, surprised. It didn’t seem like the kind of house a guy like Eight would buy.
Back in their hooking-up days, he’d had an apartment on the eastern outskirts of the city, in a boxy, basic complex. His decorating style had been a cross between teenage redneck and Harley mechanic. This little brick dollhouse was a far cry from that.
Then again, the front lawn, raised and bolstered by a three-foot-high rock wall, was about half bare dirt, and there was a rusty Weber kettle grill on the porch. That was a lot more in keeping with his whole-ass lack of couth.
What the hell was she doing here?
Well, she’d promised him she’d call, and, after a couple of days of tormenting herself trying to figure out what the fuck was going on with him, with her, with Ajax, she’d made good on the promise. He’d wanted her to come to his house after Ajax went to school, so they could talk.
She didn’t know what that would look like. She and Eight had hardly talked, ever. Chatting before and between bouts of fucking, sure. Arguing, definitely. But an actual, adult conversation? Not really.
The prospect scared her. What did he want? Ajax, of course, but in what way? How did he expect to be present in their son’s life? How much room would he expect her to clear for him?
And the real kicker: did he want room inherlife?
Actually, the really real kicker was this: didshewant him in her life?
Since that night he’d come to her, he’d spiked a flag in the middle of her mind, and she’d been unable to push him to the side. Flashes of their fucking—his big, rough hands, his excellent cock, the suck of his mouth, the sound he made when he came, the sounds he made her make—would hit her broadside, out of the blue, and literally make her gasp and twitch.
But it was more than the great sex. Something hadhappenedthat night, the next morning. They’d reached into each other in some way, touched something tender. He’d felt it, too, which was why he’d wanted to talk then, and wanted to talk now.
Marcella didn’t think he wanted to talk about Ajax today. She was pretty sure he wanted to talk aboutthem, and it scared the crap out of her. Not because she didn’t want there to be a ‘them’—if that were true, the talk would be easy. She’d say ‘yeah, no thanks,’ and move on and not give a shit about hurting his feelings.
No, the truly scary thing was she thought maybe shedidwant there to be a ‘them.’
She wanted to be a ‘them’ with a racist, redneck, ex-con murderer, outlaw biker, hardcore damaged asshole.
Damn, but she had terrible taste in men. Like there was something seriously, psychologically wrong with her that she wasn’t attracted to nice, normal guys. She liked a big guy, a hard guy, a guy who’d fuck her blue. A guy she could fight with.
Where in her totally normal, basically happy life in a loving, supportive family that particular wire had gotten crossed she did not know.
But here she was.
As she sat there, in the midst of her current existential crisis, the front door swung open, and Eight came out and stood on his porch.
He wasn’t wearing a shirt. Or shoes. Just jeans. It wasn’t even fifty degrees this morning, but he stood there like he didn’t feel a chill.
Why was he half-dressed? Did he think they’d end up in his bed? If so, he had another think coming.
For her part, Marcella had dressed like she was going on a fucking date, her best-fitting jeans and a teal V-neck sweater, and makeup and everything—ignoring her increasingly distraught shoulder-angel. Fuck, maybe she thought they’d end up in bed this morning, too.
No. NO. Absolutely not. If they were going to have this talk, they were going tohave this talk.
Grabbing her bag, she got out of the Honda and headed up the crumbling steps to his cracked front walk. As she neared the house, she saw the paint peeling at the windows and trims. Yeah, actually, Eight was the trashy neighbor on this block.
“Hey,” he said as she stepped onto the porch. He reached for her, and Marcella realized he meant to kiss her.
