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“Ian? Why?” I ask, alarmed.
“He ran in here when he heard you screaming,” he says, shaking his head. “I told him to stay back, and he told me to fuck off.” I choke out a laugh, then cover my mouth with my hand. He gives me a firm look, but I see his lips tip up in a mischievous grin.
“So, what did he do wrong?” I ask.
“He ran toward danger—”
“There was no danger,” I point out, and he shakes his head.
“There could’ve been,” he says. “He didn’t think twice about it and that’s not gonna happen again. He needs to listen to me when I tell him to stay put, even if it involves you. It could be life or death. Same goes for you.” My smile falls as I nod. He’s right. He’s not being a dick—he’s trying to keep us safe. “It’s admirable he wanted to protect you, but—”
“But he’s just a kid,” I finish, and he nods. “I’ll talk to him.”
“We,” he says, lifting his brows in challenge. “Wewill talk to him.” I roll my eyes and nod. “I’m glad he’s protective of you. You’ve done a good job raising him, but—him running toward possible danger fucking terrifies me. I’d fucking die if anything happened to him.”
“Me too,” I sigh as I scrub my hand across my forehead. He kisses my temple and pulls me back to his chest.
“He’s a good kid,” he says. “Reminds me a little too much of myself at his age.” I snort.
“I doubt that,” I say. “You were a heathen.”
“How do you know that?” he asks, sounding offended.
“You’re a heathen now,” I say, tipping my head back to look at him. He looks thoughtful for a moment, then nods.
“Yeah, you’re right,” he says. “Okay, he’s better than me. But still reminds me of myself.” I roll my eyes as he presses his lips to mine. “Let’s go back to bed, yeah? I’ll fight off any nightmares.” I smile softly and feel something in my chest shift into place.
This is what love feels like.
Kiwi
Isnuck out before Kennedy or the boys woke up this morning. I needed more clothes since I’ve been living here instead of the clubhouse. So, I grabbed as much as I could fit in a backpack and rode back here.
I hated leaving them, especially after Kennedy’s nightmare last night, but I felt something shift between us, something I can’t explain. Whatever it was, I think it’s a good sign, like we’re another day closer to her fully giving herself to me and accepting that I’m here forever.
Slowly, I push the front door open. I try to stay quiet in case they’re all still asleep, especially Kens. She needs the rest more than anyone else. Today is her first full day back working both jobs. I want to tell her to quit one and let me take up the slack, but I know she won’t go for it. Not yet.
As I step into the little apartment, I sigh when I hear Amy Winehouse blaring from the kitchen. It’s the voice accompanying it that makes me pause.
On silent feet, I move through the living room and lean against the wall leading into the kitchen. She’s in her silky black robe and one of my shirts. The tattoos on her legs are on full display, and I take them all in slowly. I haven’t had the chance to inspect every single one like I desperately want to. Her dark hair is twisted in a clip at the back of her head, some of it falling around her face. Her hips swing in time with the song as she waves the spatula around.
“Ian! Enzo!” she shouts, her head still bobbing to the music. “You’re gonna be late!”
Somewhere in the apartment, a door opens and closes, but I’m too enthralled by Kennedy’s voice, her body moving, her ignorance to me standing here to look. I couldn't tear my eyes away even if my life depended on it.
She sings louder, belting out the chorus with a voice that causes goosebumps to ripple down my arms. She’s amazing. She’s amazing at everything she does, but this, singing and dancing and being carefree—this is what she was meant to do.
The boy’s footsteps shake the floor as they approach, murmuring and laughing together. They abruptly stop and I slide my eyes to them, putting my finger to my lips, telling them to be quiet. I jerk my head at Kens, and they follow my gaze.
They watch her with me, a small smile on Ian’s face. I stare at him watching her and wonder if he realizes how lucky he is. I wonder if he knows how incredible his mother truly is.
“Ian!” she shouts again, sounding slightly annoyed. Carefully, she lifts the pan off the stove and slides scrambled eggs onto two paper plates, then whirls and grabs waffles from the toaster, tossing them on the plate, too. She never falters, her movements fluid and voice solid.
She turns toward the fridge, yanking the door open, then screams. Her wide eyes meet mine as she presses her hand to her heaving chest. We stare back at her, probably looking like a pack of lost puppies. Her face and neck flush crimson, and she tries to shake it off.
“Boys,” she breathes, flicking her eyes to them. “Breakfast.” She grabs the plates and holds them out. Enzo doesn’t hesitate to take it and make his way to the little table, but Ian hesitates.
“You okay?” he asks, and she waves him off.
