Total pages in book: 68
Estimated words: 68716 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 344(@200wpm)___ 275(@250wpm)___ 229(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 68716 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 344(@200wpm)___ 275(@250wpm)___ 229(@300wpm)
Smoke’s gaze slides to her. “I just came to talk, babe. You look… damn.” His lips curl into a smile that might’ve charmed me once when I was younger and dumber. “I miss how it was.”
My hands curl into fists again, but Honey shoots me a look that says don’t even think about it.
She takes a breath and turns to Smoke. “Go next door,” she commands, nodding toward the side door that leads to the gravel lot and the little house beside the shop. “You can see your kids. I’ll be there in a minute we can talk, but this I miss you shit, it is done. You wanna see the kids, I won’t stop you, but you don’t get to keep coming in and out of my life.”
He glances between us. “Honey—”
“Now, Smoke!” There’s steel in her tone that makes even me straighten up a little. “Go to the house. Wait on the porch if the door’s locked. I’ll send Bray out to let you in.”
That softens his expression. The mention of the kids always does. “All right,” he says. He gives me one last wary look, like he’s not entirely sure I won’t tackle him from behind, then shoulders past and heads for the side door.
It bangs shut behind him. Cold air briefly slices through the warmth of the shop, then is gone.
The silence that follows is heavy. She is upset with me. I don’t like the sour feeling in the pit of my stomach. I once thought I was a tough guy that could have life without my family. Then Tammy got sick. I lived through the cancer taking my best friend away piece by piece. I watched my kids lose their very rock right in front of them. And I swore to my dying wife, I would never let our kids hurt or feel loss like this ever again.
Right now, my daughter is hurting.
I scrub a hand over my face, suddenly exhausted. My heart’s still pounding, adrenaline buzzing under my skin like static. My knuckles ache from slamming him into the wall.
Honey doesn’t say anything for a long moment. I can feel her eyes on me, hot and accusing.
“Want to yell?” I ask roughly. “Go ahead. Get it out.”
She exhales, and I hear it catch at the end. “What the hell was that, Pops?”
“I was just—”
“You pinned him to the wall in your shop.” Her voice sharpens. “You threatened him. You put hands on him.”
“He deserved it.” The words are out before I can stop them.
“Maybe.” She steps closer, eyes flashing. “But that’s not you. Not like that. You’re not… you don’t lose your temper like this. Not with me here.”
She’s right. I’ve hurt men before. I’ve put them down hard, done worse than I care to remember when the club needed it. But I’ve always kept a clean line between that part of me and my family. Kept the worst of myself away from my kids.
Lately, though, that line’s been blurring. I feel it in the way my fuse burns faster, in the way everything irritates me—traffic, the news, the way the coffee machine takes forever. It’s like there’s something coiled up inside my chest that won’t unwind.
“He walked in here looking for another chance to break your heart,” I say, anger not quite cooled. “Forgive me if that got my hackles up.”
“I’m not asking you to like him,” she states. “I’m not asking you to invite him to poker night or trust him with the keys to the shop. I’m asking you to let me handle my own life.”
“You got two other lives tied up in that one,” I shoot back. “That makes it my business.”
Her mouth tightens. “You think I don’t know that? You think I don’t stay up at night worrying about them, about what they see, what they feel? I’m their mother. I worry about everything.”
“Then why the hell are you letting him back in?” I demand. “After everything—”
“Because he’s their father,” she snaps. “Because they love him. Because when he gets it right, he’s good with them, and they light up when he walks in the room. Because people can change, Dad.”
I snort. “Some can. Some say they will until the day they die and never do.”
“And maybe he’s one of those,” she mutters quietly. “But it has to be me who learns that. It has to be me who draws the line with him. Not you.”
I look at her, at the stubborn set of her jaw. She’s always been this way—independent, hard-headed, determined to do things her own way even if it kills her. Just like her old man. God help us both.
“You think I like this?” she goes on. “You think I enjoy wondering if he’s going to show up, if he’s going to stay clean, if he’s going to keep his promises? I don’t. But I’m also not ready to give up on him yet. That’s my choice.”