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Unbothered by the unbridled mockery, Cass grins. “Thanks, Johnny.”
Another snort sounds except this time, it’s coming from the boy on my other side. When I shoot August a look, he quickly drops his head but the stirrings of a smirk are still visible from his side profile. It only grows when a long arm sneaks across the back of my chair to settle along the back of his, a big palm cupping the crown of his head and ruffling his hair.
John watches the interaction like a hawk, resentful and malicious and just pure fucking nasty. Unsurprisingly, Clare and Mrs. Shay don’t view it the same way I do. They see a poor, innocent man watching someone else father his son, and the pity filling their gaze as they each grip a shoulder makes me want to scream.
“About tomorrow.” Mrs. Shay primly dabs at her mouth with her napkin. “You don’t need to join us, Sunday.”
“I—”
“It’s unnecessary. You get August all the time, sweetie. John deserves a day with his son.”
John deserves nothing, actually, least of all August. And I have no problem telling him just that—and maybe throwing something in about how pathetic it is that his mommy needs to have this conversation for him—but a quiet interruption stops me.
“It’s okay.”
My head whips towards August. “Are you sure?”
“Of course, he’s sure,” Mrs. Shay snaps, eyes rolling to the ceiling. “You need to get used to sharing, Sunday. We’ll be filing the petition after the results come back. Assuming it comes back positive.”
Cass cocks his head. “Was that a joke?”
My grip on his thigh tightens, a silent warning that he does not heed. “Why would she lie? And why would she choose your sorry excuse for a son?”
If it could be considered ladylike for Mrs. Shay to launch herself across the table and throttle Cass, I reckon she would in a heartbeat. “This doesn’t concern you.”
“She’s the mother of my child. Everything about her concerns me.”
“She’s the mother of mine too.”
“Refer to anything about her asyoursagain and we’re gonna have a problem, Johnny.”
Oof. The cold, menacing timbre of his voice sends a shiver up my spine, and I find the utmost satisfaction in watching John try and fail to hide his intimidation, but now is not the time to ponder whether or not I’m developing a sadistic streak. Now is terrible enough as it is without adding a dick-measuring contest into the works.
Shifting closer to Cass so only he can hear, I whisper, “Please, darlin’. Don’t.”
For the umpteenth time, Cass proves that he is nothing like John; when I ask him to stop, he does.
42
CASS
“Pick up the pace, mama.”
The woman huffing and puffing like I’m forcing her to run a five-minute-mile lifts her gaze from the dirt path we’re trudging along just long enough to flash me a scowl. “Shut up.”
I grin as I walk backwards, soaking up the sight of Sunday like I so often do, my gaze snagging on her belly like it so often does. She’s passed the twenty-four week mark and it’s showing; the bump is out, highlighted by tight exercise shorts and her lack of a t-shirt. Of course, that means the rest of her is out too and God, is it a struggle to keep my eyes off her chest. Off the heaving, glistening, swollen tits she loves to complain about lately, which is fine by me because I have a lot of fun telling her just how much I appreciate them and enjoying the pretty color they blush when I do.
Wisely assuming now might not to be the right moment to do that—and not in the mood to hike with a boner—I avert my gaze to the crumpled expression, the lips uttering curses.
She’s angry and sweaty and definitely concocting ways to get me back for this but that’s way better than the sad, weepy mess she was an hour ago when the Devil and his mistress swung by to collect August. She’s worried out of her mind about him and I get that. Anyone in their right fucking mind would be worried about sending their child off with fucking John and fucking Clare andfucking Carol. I’m worried too. But moping around the house wasn’t going to make things better, or make her feel better, so I equipped the tough love to get her out. I lied a little too—I figured she’d be a hell of a lot more resistant if she knew our ‘quick walk’ was actually a mild hike.
A perk of living on the outskirts of town; we’re within walking distance from the coast and the trails that connect the beaches. I used to run them all the time in college, even when I was on death’s door after a night out, and I picked the easiest of the bunch—an hour and a half, max, from home and back—so I knew she’d be able to do it. And she is; I think complaining just makes her feel better.
Swiping the stray hairs back from her damp forehead, she plants her hands on her hips, knocking me with her elbow when I slow down to let her catch up. “I think I liked you better when you were forcing me to stay in bed.”
She tries to push past me but I catch her by the waistband, snapping it gently. “I bet you did, sunshine.”
Cheeks already rosy from exertion flush a shade darker. “That’s not what I meant.”
