Clapping, I asked, "You dizzy now?"
Her smile was, in a word, luminescent. "Nope." Then she did it four more times until I was the one who was dizzy.
"Storm?"
I twisted around at Keira’s call. "Yeah?"
"Want to come help me make dinner?" she asked from the doorway.
"Can’t we order takeout, Mom?" Cy wheedled, but Keira just smiled.
"Nope."
I got to my feet, then winked at her. "Let me work some magic, kiddo."
Cy bounced on her feet then proceeded to do more cartwheels and all kinds of funky shit across the family room floor.
Shaking my head at her, I left her to it before I traipsed after Keira and followed her into the kitchen.
This was one room I loved about this house. It was closed off with a barn door. Kept all the funky smells inside and usually, whenever Keira and I needed to talk, it meant we could shut things off without Cyan overhearing.
The second I slid the door closed, I saw her leaning over the kitchen counter, her hands braced against it, head bowed.
Trepidation filled me. "Baby girl? What is it?"
Her shoulders tensed a second, before she looked up and I saw the tears on her face, tears that were new but somehow had made her pink and red and all kinds of in between. I knew why—she’d been holding this back. But what the fuck had happened?
Her eyes were bloodshot, her cheeks slick as she whispered, "Storm, I’m so sorry."
Fear hit me, but the truth was, my whole fucking world was inside this house...
Had something happened at the clubhouse? Had some bitch said something? Did she want to go back to West Orange?
Prepared to fight for my life, I rasped, "Who is it? What’s happened?" I knew it’d be a who. It always was.
"B-Bear didn’t make it, honey. H-He’s gone."
She might as well have dropped a bomb in here for all my brain imploded with the news.
Like I’d been hit with ten bullets, my back thudded against the door. "No. You can’t know that!" It was a sweetbutt who’d upset her.
It had to be.
"I answered your phone in the office. It was Rachel." Mouth quivering, she whispered, "Rachel told me h-he’s gone."
Eyes unseeing now as, slowly, I slid down against the door, my knees unable to hold my weight as I sank into a puddle of bones.
Rationally, I’d known this day was coming.
Rationally, I’d known a man like Bear would never have the will to live when he was so torn to shreds in the blast that had destroyed the Sinners’ clubhouse.
As far as I knew, he’d never woken up, but if he had, he’d have been unable to ride, would be unable to do what he loved the most—be on the back of a bike. That wasn’t the kind of life he was born to have, but that didn’t mean I wanted to lose him. He was my father in everything but biology.
Fuck.
He couldn’t be dead.
Only, Keira’s soft sobs told me otherwise.
Regret hit me.
Remorse next.
Guilt followed.
Then shame.
Shame. Always fucking shame.
I bowed my head, hiding my face in my hands as I propped my elbows on my knees.
"I-I didn’t see him that day we left," I whispered rawly. "I never got to say goodbye."
Footsteps sounded, tapping against the tiles, and when she slipped down to the floor beside me, her arms awkwardly twisting around me, I sank into her hold.
I sank into my home.
My haven.
I’d admit, I took advantage. Her embrace was awkward, so I slipped down further onto the ground, then dragged her onto my lap and tucked my arms around her. She tensed for a second, then immediately relaxed when I pushed my face into her throat.
I was a grown man.
A biker.
Grown-assed bikers didn’t fucking cry.
But when the man who was like a dad to them passed away, that was a time when the rule book was thrown out, tossed aside like the toxic masculinity bullshit it was…
Eleven
Keira
PRESENT
When Storm started crying, I’d admit, I lost it.
I’d seen his eyes wet with tears twice in our marriage, and each time, it had killed something inside me. Something that made me want to make things better, made me want to fix the problem, but some problems couldn’t be fixed.
When I’d given birth to Cyan, he’d held her, and tears had made his eyes glassy. He hadn’t sobbed or anything, but he’d pressed his lips to my sweaty forehead, and he’d rasped, "Thank you, baby girl. Thank you for her."
Back then, I’d been so scared, I’d clung to him like a life raft. At first, I was terrified that he’d run off, leave me with the baby like my parents threatened he would. Instead, he’d married me. He’d set me up in a house the second my dad threw me out. But I’d been so scared that giving birth would be too much of a reality check.
Ironically enough, he’d never really let me down as the father of my kid.
It was just as a husband, he’d sucked.
But I still remembered that day. The scent of blood, salty perspiration from how hard labor had been, his fading deodorant, the tang of ozone in the maternity ward, the bittersweet stench of cleaning fluids... all of it was as strong as the memory of him kissing my temple in thanks.
Then, there was the day Rene had died. When her broken body had been found on the road like she was trash...
The memory had me clinging to him, not arguing about the way he was holding me, how I was sitting on his lap like this was ‘before,’ when it most definitely wasn’t.
Three times in our marriage now.
Three.
Three sets of tears.
Was it wrong that I wished he’d cried when I told him we were through?
Was it wrong that I wanted him to mourn the death of our marriage as much as he did Bear and Rene’s passings?
I shoved that thought aside, mostly because it wasn’t helpful. If anything, it was the opposite. It was also irrelevant.
Instead, I held onto him, clinging to him tightly as he clung to me.
God, he felt good in my arms. He felt right. Why did he have to feel so right? Why did he always have to feel so right?
My eyes prickled with tears as his shoulders shook, his body trembling, and I just held him. That was the only thing I could do.
For all the shit he’d done, he was still my baby daddy, and he’d lost the equivalent of his father. I wasn’t that much of a bitch that I could reject him, that I could turn away from him as he dealt with his grief.
When, minutes, maybe hours later, a knock sounded at the door and it slid open a little, I answered for us both when Cyan asked, "Mom? Dad? What’s going on?"
"Daddy’s had some bad news, baby. We’ll be out in a minute." If I sounded choked, so be it. I could no more stop that than I could fix things for Storm.
"Oh." Her voice turned small. "Is there anything I can do?"
He croaked, "No, Cy. I promise, we’ll be out soon."
Christ, Storm sounded like living death.
My visceral reaction to that was as if he’d punched me in the gut.
Hurting for him, I squeezed him tighter, thankful he’d answered her because I didn’t think she’d have stopped asking questions until she had something to work with.