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Lock stiffened. The soul-crushing ache he fought to keep from his chest twenty-four hours a day snuck in, stealing his breath. The instinct to snap at her hit strong, but he swallowed it down mainly because Caleb sat on the floor playing with blocks in front of them, and he didn’t want to scar the baby more than he’d already been scarred in his short life.
“No,” he managed to say as his blood began to bubble with the need for something to take the edge off—something to chase away the heart-wrenching pain.
She chuckled again. “Well, that’s good. Are you and Caleb’s mom together?”
The pizza lost its flavor, so he dropped the uneaten slice back into the box. Every ounce of joy left his body as he tumbled into the same deep sorrow that had him seeking drugs that first time. It was a horrible, crushing combination of grief, guilt, and emptiness.
He gazed into her eyes and cleared his dry throat. “I’m not Caleb’s biological father. And his mother’s dead.”
She gasped, her pretty eyes filled with shock first, then despair. His flat voice would have let her know how her simple question gutted him.
“Lock, I’m so sor—”
A knock on the door had him bolting to his feet—saved by his president again. “That’ll be Curly,” he said before she could apologize again. Whether she’d apologize for the death of his sister or her prying, he didn’t give a shit. Repeatedly hearing how sorry people were for his loss drove him insane. He fucking hated their pity and their weak platitudes.
Nothing anyone said helped.
Nothing brought Deanna back.
Nothing made the pain go away.
And nothing erased the mountain of significant mistakes he’d made since Deanna died.
He turned his back on Brenna and strode toward the door.
Who cared if she thought he was an asshole? Who cared what she thought of him at all? She didn’t know him, and he didn’t know her. Brenna was a means to an end. A job he had to perform to regain the club’s trust and help get their money back from Oliver.
That she happened to be hot and just his type made no difference whatsoever.
Neither did the compassion in her gaze.
“Mind taking Caleb into the kitchen?”
“Oh, uh, sure. I can do that.” She stared at the baby as though he was a bomb waiting to explode, which made Lock chuckle. It was nice to know he wasn’t the only one who had no idea what to do with a kiddo. Well, he supposed he knew now.
“Hey, Prez,” he said as he yanked the door open with too much force.
As usual, Curly did a head-to-toe visual scan before returning the greeting. It had become his little ritual every time Lock had seen him since leaving rehab. The prez probably wasn’t even aware of performing the assessment. Apparently, he needed a few seconds to clock whether Lock was wasted before choosing how to interact with him.
It hurt like hell, but he deserved it and wasn’t stupid enough to challenge his president.
Curly must have liked what he saw because he stepped into the house and clapped Lock on the back. “Hey, brother. Looking good.”
Spec followed the president into the house with a muttered, “Sorry, man,” two seconds before his ol’ lady, Olivia, appeared.
“Lock!” she said, with a sunny grin revealing her perfect teeth. She wrapped her slender arms around him and squeezed tight. “You look so great. I hear you have a special guest.”
For fuck’s sake.
As he returned Olivia’s hug, he scowled at Spec, who shrugged. “I said sorry. She promised we could try this thing I saw online the other day if I let her tag along. It’s—”
“Ugh.” Lock lifted a hand. “Keep it in your pants, fucker. I don’t need to hear that shit.”
Spec snickered and followed Olivia, who made herself right at home searching out his special guest. It took her all of three seconds to spot her in the kitchen.
“You must be Brenna. I’m Olivia, but call me Liv,” Lock heard her saying as he walked back toward the kitchen.
“Oh, uh, hi,” Brenna responded.
