Total pages in book: 84
Estimated words: 82715 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 414(@200wpm)___ 331(@250wpm)___ 276(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 82715 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 414(@200wpm)___ 331(@250wpm)___ 276(@300wpm)
“To be fair, you don’t look like a grandma,” Emilia told my mom dryly. “It might be kind of confusing.”
“Thanks, sweetheart,” she said happily. “That’s the best compliment I’ve had in a year.”
“Just told you yesterday that your ass looked hot as shit in your jeans,” my dad mumbled, joining us in the kitchen.
“Oh, good grief, watch your mouth,” my mom whisper yelled, throwing a serving spoon at him. “And keep your fucking voice down, your grandson’s asleep.”
Dad caught the spoon as it hit his chest and grinned at her.
A knock on the front door prevented an all-out cutlery war in the kitchen when both my parents left to answer it.
“Mom says that Dad scares the delivery guy,” Myla informed Emilia. “So she always goes with him to the door.”
“He does scare him,” Rumi said in amusement. “Because he caught the guy checking Mom out like a year ago.”
“I smell Chinese food,” Titus called from down the hallway. He, Otto, and my parents all converged on the kitchen at the same time. “Oh, whoops!” he whispered when he caught sight of Rhett. “Sorry.”
“You done being an ass, Otto?” Myla asked as she grabbed a plate.
“You done bein’ a spoiled little princess, Myla?” he shot back.
“Never.” She looked over her shoulder as Dad walked back in carrying the food. “Dad would never allow that.”
“Enough,” Dad ordered, his lips twitching with suppressed laughter.
“You want to lay him down?” my mom asked Emilia.
“I can just hold him,” she replied, shaking her head.
“That works,” Mom said, shrugging.
“Uh, I can hold him if you want.”
Emilia glanced at me and shook her head. “That’s alright. I’ve got him.”
I silently berated myself as everyone moved around the kitchen, filling their plates. I should have asked to hold him, not offered. It had sounded like I was doing her a favor when it was really the opposite. I was dying to hold him. I’d only gotten my hands on him once, and he’d been crying then. I wanted to know what it felt like to hold him while he slept.
As we all went to sit down, I realized that there weren’t enough chairs for everyone.
“Otto and Titus sit at the counter,” my dad ordered, realizing the same thing.
“Right,” Otto mumbled under his breath, spinning away from the table.
“Man, really?” I asked, staring at him. The kid was generally pretty easygoing. He had that whole middle-child-needs-more-attention thing going on, but he wasn’t usually such an ass.
“Everyone’s actin’ like the prodigal daughter just returned,” Otto said with an incredulous laugh. “Am I the only one here who remembers—”
I took a step forward and his mouth snapped shut.
“You see my kid right there?” I asked, my voice low, pointing to where Emilia was sitting. “He’s the reason you’re gonna keep a civil tongue in your head. Got it?”
“He’s asleep,” Otto shot back.
“Swear to God—” I muttered, taking a step forward.
“Fine,” Otto snapped, throwing himself onto a barstool. “I won’t say what everyone else is thinkin’.”
I stared at him for a moment, making sure he was actually done. Then, I set my plate down carefully on the counter so that I didn’t slam it and strode out of the kitchen. I needed a fucking breather. From the moment I’d walked in and seen Emilia and our son, I hadn’t had a single second of time when there wasn’t someone watching me.
Once I was outside, I gulped in the fresh air. It smelled like it was going to rain, even though there were barely any clouds in the sky.
Jesus.
I bent at the waist and braced my hands on my knees, trying to catch my breath.
I had a kid. We had a kid. A two-year-old kid. What the fuck did you even do with a two-year-old kid? My experience with them was pretty fucking limited. We always had kids of all ages around the club, but beyond chasing them with a squirt gun and making sure they didn’t run with anything sharp, I barely had anything to do with them. He wasn’t even old enough to play with a squirt gun, was he? I tried to remember when Myla was two, but it was all kind of a blur. I’d been too focused on chasing Emilia to spend much time with my baby sister.
How the fuck was I supposed to be someone’s father? And where the hell had they come from? I didn’t even know where they fucking lived.
I walked toward Emilia’s car and looked inside. It was packed from floorboard to roof with stuff. Did they live in her car? Is that why she’d come back? Was she homeless?
“You alright?” my dad asked, coming out onto the front porch.
“I’m fine.”
Dad chuckled. “No you’re not.”
I turned to face him. “What the fuck is even going on right now?”
“Your guess is as good as mine,” he replied, pulling a joint out of his shirt pocket. “Looks like you have a son.”