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Paxton
Fourteen years later
“You almost ran him over, Mom,” Iggy says, leaning against the side of my new, black matte Hellcat. His blue eyes pierce mine. The kid is too smart for his own good. He has his arms crossed in front of his chest and is giving me some serious side-eye for taking JD to the police station.
“I didn’t run the old guy over,” I answer, feeling guilty and meanwhile saying hello to a couple police officers. Pushing my sunglasses up my nose, the memory of how I fucked up my first arrest slowly fades away as I stare into my son’s eyes.
“Stop being so serious, kiddo,” I say jokingly, pushing his face away.
He laughs and ducks, his dimple popping.
“Mom, he’s like really old, seventy or something. He shouldn’t be in jail.”
I raise a brow. “Relax, babe, I called Darlene, and she’s meeting JD before he’s scheduled to appear in court,” I tell him. My bounty hunting ID hanging around my neck sways as I walk to the driver’s side. Iggy is right; I know we need to change the game. I had a meeting with my parents and brothers last week to talk about changing the bail bond system from the inside. Too many people are in jail right now awaiting trial without any chance of getting out before their court date is set. Sometimes it can take years; years a lot of people don’t have.
“I thought he was doing good, what happened?” he asks, looking at the station, his black hair swaying in the breeze. The kid cares about everyone. I don’t know how many street animals he saved the last couple of years during our travels.
“I know, Ig, but sometimes people screw up. I helped him get into a program at the local Veterans Administration, and made sure Meals on Wheels brought him dinner, but still Jim Bean beats his ass,” I explain. “I’ve been working with his parole officer to get him off the streets.”
“I’m sorry we can’t do more,” he says pensively, staring into the distance. “Maybe I can ask my guidance counselor if the school can do something for the VA.”
“You’re already volunteering at the animal shelter and at Doc Andrews’s practice; you’re doing a lot, honey,” I say, resting my elbows on the hood of the car.
He shrugs and flashes me his dazzling smile. “I’m gonna ask anyway.” For a second there, I see his father, and my heart skips a beat. Iggy has grown up the last year being back home in New Orleans, looking more like the man who gave me my greatest gift. The asshole who died without having met the love of my life.
“Get in, babe,” I order with a smile, watching as my pre-teen hops in the passenger seat.
“Did you finish your homework?” I ask, revving the engine. Looking at the tattoo on my ring finger I push the red ruby ring Iggy gave me for my thirtieth birthday last year in Venice over the black line. I swallow back the lump in my throat and turn onto the street leading to his school before giving him a look.
He rolls his eyes. “I did, and I also started with those advanced algebra equations Mister Phillips handed me yesterday,” he tells me, placing his black Vans on the dashboard.
“Feet off,” I warn, and he flashes me a lopsided grin, but does what I tell him while he turns up the volume of a Lil Nas X song.
As I am tapping my fingers on the steering wheel to the beat, he starts telling me about the motorcycle he and my brothers are fixing up for when he turns sixteen in three years. He’s almost thirteen, smart as hell, and with his father’s aquamarine eyes and my black hair, older girls are already starting to notice him. I’m scared shitless he’s slowly becoming a man. Last week he got into a fight with a couple older guys who were bullying Tommy, the sweet nerdy kid who lives down the street from us. When Iggy got home all bloody and black-eyed, I was proud of him for standing up to the little shits, but afraid he likes to throw a punch a little too much. I don’t know how much of his father he’s got in him, and it terrifies me knowing what the bastard was capable of.
I grab the steering wheel hard, fighting against my tears when I think about the man who knocked me up at eighteen.
“Mom, you okay?” Iggy asks, while he grabs his bag, and I park the car in front of the school.
“Yeah, I’m good, just memories. Remember, Grandma is picking you up after baseball practice today, okay?” I tell him, kissing his cheek. While normal kids would cringe at the affection of their mother, he only smiles.
“Mom,” he pauses for a second, “when are we going to have the talk?” His blue eyes dart to mine. “I mean I loved all the traveling we did, but even the last years in Italy you were looking over your shoulder until one day you just stopped. I want to know what happened, why we were on the run,” he whispers the last words, those eyes demanding answers.
“Honey,” I begin, waving at a couple of moms talking to each other. I’m the odd one out wearing all black, working as a bounty hunter, and am thirty-one years old with a twelve-year-old kid.
“I heard you talking to Grandpa and Grandma. And before they went to New Mexico on a hunt, Uncle Billy and Dalton said it was time.”
“You heard that?” I ask, my stomach dropping.
He nods, waiting for me to elaborate.
“I know, kiddo, I promise, but after your big game on Saturday, okay?” I say, trying to change the subject.
Iggy looks at the school and bites his lip. “Do you think I’m weird?” he asks, staring at his beat up knuckles.
I turn in my seat. “No, babe, why?”
He shrugs. “I don’t know, sometimes the other kids look at me funny for speaking so many languages. And last week when I helped Tommy when he was being picked on by those fuckers…”
