Total pages in book: 82
Estimated words: 76063 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 380(@200wpm)___ 304(@250wpm)___ 254(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 76063 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 380(@200wpm)___ 304(@250wpm)___ 254(@300wpm)
I loved my son. He was strong in many ways. But there was no way that kid could make it through a beat-in.
This was the same kid who stubbed his toe in the morning and was down for forty-five minutes.
He wasn't a tough kid.
And that was a tough life.
It would chew him up and spit him out.
That was why I worked so damn hard to get him away from those influences.
And that text from Colson just proved that it was all for nothing.
I was tired for no reason. I was balancing my bills like they were loaded time-bombs for no reason. I was using my minimal spare time to research summer jobs and internships for him to increase his chances of getting into college... for no freaking reason.
My kid wanted to be on the street.
And my brother was helping him.
Through my over-abundant—and in no way quiet—sobs, I could hear the door to my car open, could feel the shift as a large body climbed into the passenger's seat, then hear the slam of the door again.
"Eva..."
God, how did he make my name sound so reassuring?
"He's okay," he added when I couldn't stop the tears or the pathetic sniffling.
"Only because you stepped in," I told him, hearing the awful whine in my voice. "You're always saving me. My life is such a fucking mess."
"It's not a mess," he assured me, a wide palm pressing down between my shoulder blades, just a firm presence for a second before it started moving in a slow circle. "You just have some shit going on," he added, and I could practically hear the shrug in his voice.
Some shit.
That was an understatement.
But maybe to an arms-dealing biker single dad, my issues weren't that crazy in the grand scheme of things. I mean, his daughter and sister were hiding out chaperoned by a body guard because of whatever was going on in his world, in his life, at the moment.
"You can just send him out here," I suggested, trying to rein it in, even as my eyes filled once again. "You don't have to be nice to me. You've done enough for me in the past week to last a lifetime."
"If you think that, then people have been real shitty to you, babe."
To that, I snorted through my tears. "I have no people," I admitted. "I have my mom and my son."
"No friends or family?"
"When would I have time for friends?" I asked, wallowing, and I didn't even care. "And my family has always been small," I added, made smaller still by Miguel's refusal to be a part of it. Aside from attempting to corrupt my son, that is.
"You gotta have someone on your side. Helps make the rough patches a little more tolerable," he told me, and I could feel a hole in my chest, knowing he was right, knowing my mother had once been that person for me, and that I had been scrambling ever since her own mind turned on her. "So I'm gonna sit here. I'm gonna be that person."
"You don't need to pity me," I objected, squeezing my eyes closed tight.
"I don't pity you," he corrected. "I know how it feels to be down, Eva. I sympathize. That's it," he added, his hand starting to move up and down along my spine. The motion was meant to be comforting. And it was that. But it was more than that as well. A small sizzle of desire pinged off my nerve endings.
It wasn't long before the memories of his kitchen were flashing across my overworked, exhausted brain, filling it—and my body—with all kinds of ideas.
But I knew better.
There was nothing less sexy than a bawling woman.
"Hey," Colson said, his arm snaking around my shoulders, pulling me sideways over the center console, tucking my face in toward his neck. "Let me in," he demanded, arm tightening.
God, I wasn't even sure how long it had been since I felt a man's arm around me, since I knew that comforting weight, since I could rest on a strong chest, since I could feel safe there.
"You barely know me."
"I know enough to know I'd like to know more. Talk to me," he demanded.
"I want to throat-punch my brother for getting Jacob interested in gang life. Like it is a career path to aspire to. And I'm at a loss at how to stop him from sneaking out at night. The guilt only worked for a few days and I'm worried that the more I try to use it, the less effective it will be. And my mom. If I don't have Jacob there at night, what am I supposed to do about my mom? There just seems to be no good answer that doesn't involve hiring someone I can't afford."
"What about Jacob's father?" Colson asked, tone hesitant, maybe knowing how touchy that subject could be.