Why would I want to score the same fucking thing that could have killed her?
But Christ, I wanted... I don’t know what I wanted. I really don’t.
I’m not just saying that. You’re never going to see this fucking letter. I can be honest with you. I just... I guess I wanted some peace.
I find some of my own when I look at you.
I felt it today when you looked at me.
And your smile? That made me feel like I was fucking flying.
Maybe together, we will.
Who am I kidding?
As if you’d ever look at a loser like me.
Did you know that five grams of crack could get me a five-year federal prison sentence? But five-hundred grams of powdered cocaine would have me serving the same time? It’s the same shit, but rich city boys sniff cocaine and poor bitches like my ma use crack.
She was hooked on crack both times she gave birth to both my sister and me. Lucky ol’ me, she was in jail at the time of my birth.
Rene—she’s the Prez’s Old Lady—helped look after us whenever Mom got shoved behind bars. That’s probably why she’s more like my mother than my own. If anything happened to Rene, I’m not sure what I’d do.
I guess it’s sad that I hate my own flesh and blood so much that I’m kinda annoyed she didn’t die. I wouldn’t miss her or grieve for her if the doctors hadn’t managed to resuscitate her.
She’s a reminder. One I don’t want or need of who I am. What I am.
You’re so pure, Keira. Do you know that? Do you see that in yourself?
I’m so fucking dirty in comparison.
You deserve more than a guy who was hooked on crack before he even took his first breath.
So I’ll watch you.
I’ll crave your smiles.
I’ll dream of something that’ll never be.
And maybe, just maybe, it’ll stop me from heading to my dealer.
Storm
Four
Storm
PRESENT
Welcome To The Jungle - Guns & Roses
Keira showed up with ten minutes to spare, early like usual. That was Keira.
Solid.
Punctual.
Earnest.
A good girl.
One I corrupted by breathing the same air as her.
One I loathed corrupting, and one I was compelled to corrupt even more.
Just the memories of us together had my dick twitching. The discomfort that triggered filled me with a blessed relief.
I kept upping the gauge on my padlock piercing, needing the pain to combat the sweetness of the lust I felt.
It made even the beginnings of a semi excruciating.
That bite of agony was my atonement.
She’d never know, of course, but she didn’t have to.
I did.
The pain stopped the pleasure, but it kept me on the straight and narrow. A path that would never guide me back to Keira, but that didn’t mean I had to stop trying to be worthy of her.
My kid, ever exuberant, barreled her way out of the car like she was being chased by rabid dogs. I watched as her feet got tangled up in her backpack, but she didn’t go flying—nope, she was way too flexible for that.
Instead, she hit the ground running as she rushed toward me, squealing, "Daddy!"
Cy’s voice was so high pitched that Maddox squirmed in my arms. I’d have dealt with him bawling his eyes out though because I loved how excited she was to see me.
Some days, I felt like she was the only person who was happy to be a part of my life.
Some days, she was the only reason I got out of bed.
Years of self-destructive thoughts plagued me, but a smile from my baby girl, a soft huff of laughter from her mother as Cyan collided into me, enough force behind the move that I staggered back a half-step, kept those thoughts at bay.
She squealed some more as I swept down, tucked my arm under her butt and hauled her up.
Cy was a tiny thing still, fragile, all long limbs and skinny bones that she somehow managed to contort for gymnastics.
She giggled as she clung to me much as she had when she was a toddler, and when her arms went around my neck and she nuzzled into me, I swore I wanted to cry.
Christ, what a pussy.
But if I was gonna melt, then I figured it was fitting that the baby girl I could have lost was what triggered those goddamn tears.
Put me in the middle of a fucking showdown between two bikers who had guns cocked at each other’s heads and I’d be fine.
Absolutely fine-and-fucking-dandy.
Throw my kid at me, remind me what had almost happened to her, have that memory plague me while fear swirled around my being as I thought about how easy it would have been for her to have been killed…
Yeah, you had a broken man on your hands.
No shame in that when the stakes were so high.
"What are you going to do when you’re too old for me to pick up?" I teased, squeezing her tighter because I didn’t want her to let go while I clung onto a squirming Maddox just to make sure he wouldn’t fall from my arms.
Not that I had to worry for long. Keira was there, hers outstretched, and as the kid settled against her tits, I found myself envious.
Envious.
What I’d give to rest my head against those tits.
Keira had the best tits. She was all self-conscious about them, usually wore those push-up bras that made my dick weep precum, but when she was at the house, when I caught her alone and she thought I wasn’t around, I saw her go braless.
I’d sacrifice my left hand for a titty fuck. Those ripe curves of hers jiggling all around my flesh—
I grunted as the pain slammed into me.
Rightful pain.
Cleansing pain.
It took a second for me to focus on what Cy was saying as she chided me with another giggle, one I felt in my soul.
"I’ll never be too old for you to pick me up, silly."
My mouth twisted into a rueful grin as her belief in me settled in my gut. "How about when I get too weak to lift you?"
She pshawed. "You’re the strongest man in the world!"
My gaze clashed with her mother’s.
How I wished that were true, I told her silently, just as she told me that right back. How I wished you’d been strong enough to be the man I deserved...
God, she was beautiful.
Just as beautiful as when she was eighteen and I’d first seen her at West Orange’s high school. I’d been there to pick up a Prospect whose ride had died on him, and I swore to fuck, I still felt the power of that first look between us.
Sometimes, whenever we stared at one another, it still felt like it did back then.
Her hair had been a lot lighter at eighteen, now it was a hundred shades of gold, some dark, some light. It framed her face, the shape that of my heart goddamn breaking whenever I looked at her.
Hazel eyes that erred more toward brown than green and were like living quartz gemstones gleamed back at me. She had the smallest button nose that Cyan had inherited, a delicately pointed chin, and high cheekbones that gave her the air of a fairy.
I was pretty certain that was why Cyan looked the way she did—as if she could fly away at any given moment with those bird-like arms and legs of hers.
Keira, on the other hand, was all curves. Always had been, and I prayed, always fucking would be.
Back when I was a teenager, I’d fallen hard for Shannon Doherty in Beverly Hills 90210, and Keira had that same kind of look without the resting bitch face and was somehow a thousand times hotter as a result.