Page 89 of Inked Daddies

“Don’t make me poke your bullet hole, mister.” Not that I would. Just saying the words makes me sick. But I wasn’t about to listen to him insult the men I love.

He holds his hands up in submission. “Alright, alright. No need for further violence, little mama. We’re having a kid!” he practically shouts, eyes shining. “We’re gonna teach ’em to fish, fix cars, speak French, and bake cookies. All the important stuff.”

A giddy laugh bursts out of me. Even if we don’t know the logistics ofwhosebaby just yet, that detail doesn’t matter because we’re in this together.

And I don’t know why, but I love hearing him call melittle mama. But all the joy I’ve experienced in the past minute or two washes away when I see Dad’s face. He’s so disappointed in me,so angry. But knowing how the guys feel and knowing how I do too, I’m refusing to accept it.

I turn to face my father, who’s still posted up by the far wall, watching this display with arms crossed and brow furrowed. My chest tightens at the reminder that not everyone in this room is celebrating. “Dad,” I say quietly, stepping closer. “I know you’re still angry with me. But you’re going to be a grandfather. Do you…want to be in their life, or is this the end?”

There it is—the ultimatum I never wanted to deliver but had no choice in. I read his face as easily as any book. Fear, sadness, a distant longing, and behind it all, a seed of hope he’s trying to hide. I hold my breath, waiting.

He lets out a long, weary sigh. “Marie, you sure know how to corner a man. Truth is, after seeing how they saved my life tonight, I can’t rightly say they’d be bad fathers. I’ve seen them fight for the people they care about. Lord knows they’d do anything to protect you. And you them.”

“We came here to protectyou, Dad. Because we’re a family. It might not be the family you pictured, but we’re the ones you’ve got. That is, if you want us.”

He swallows something down. His anger, perhaps. He grimaces, then shrugs. “I don’t like my daughter in a relationship with three men, and I don’t like the gossip that’s going to come with it. But if we’re talking about my grandchild…well, I guess they could do worse than you boys.”

The guys breathe, and I think I do too. “Thank you. It means everything that you’ll be part of our child’s life. Even if it’s complicated right now.”

Dad just grunts. “One day at a time.”

A sudden, abrupt sway from Trick catches my attention. “Woah…is it just me, or is the room spinning?” Before any of us can respond, his knees buckle. Sam and Hugo both lunge forward, catching him under the arms.

“Easy, buddy,” Sam murmurs, guiding Trick down to the couch. “That bullet was no joke. You’re still losing blood, and you’ve got whiskey in your system.”

Trick’s eyelids flutter. “I’m fine, I’m fine. Just need a minute.”

I kneel beside him, tucking one of the throw pillows under his head. “You need more than a minute, you big dummy. You need rest. A hospital?—”

Hugo sets a careful hand on my shoulder. “We did all we could here. Another set of fresh bandages might help. Then, if his bleeding doesn’t stop soon, we’ll take him to the ER in the next parish. But let’s not drag him there if we can stabilize him ourselves.”

We divide and conquer the problem. Dad leaves for his first aid kit, Sam helps Trick get comfortable, and I run for towels while Hugo gloves up again to examine the wound.

When we finish rewrapping Trick’s leg, the wound is no longer bleeding through. He’s drifting in and out of consciousness, but he insists he feels “just peachy.” Sam elevates his leg on a couple of cushions, and we agree to keep an eye on him for the next few hours, in case we need an ER run.

Sunrise creeps through the cracked curtains of my father’s living room, illuminating the chaos left in the wake of last night’s fight. Outside, Auclair’s four finest are examining things, two coroner vans collecting whatever they find. Inside, there’s the splintereddoorframe, scuffed floors, an overturned lamp—signs that we narrowly escaped disaster.

Sheriff Copeland comes back in, a raised brow on her face when she looks at Trick. “Ezekiel 23:20. The donkey emissions scripture?”

He grins. “See? Enlightening.”

Her exasperated laugh echoes in my house. “Never change, Trick. Never change.”

“Don’t plan to. Except for my leg.” He yawns.

She looks at Sam, and he nods, letting her know Trick will be okay. She sighs, relieved. “Okay, big guy. Talk later.” She leaves.

My heart thumps hard in my chest as I look around at the men who mean the world to me. I’ve been cleaning, but my stomach growls loud enough that I know it’s time to eat, so I switch to cooking.

Golden light streams through the windows, highlighting just how trashed Dad’s house has become. I couldn’t see it all to clean it before. But with full morning sunlight, the damage is impossible to miss. The scuff marks on the walls, broken bits of furniture, a hole in the drywall. Dad eyes the damage with a resigned sigh.

“You just can’t have a peaceful night around here, can you?” I say softly, trying for a note of levity. My nerves still feel jittery from all the adrenaline.

Dad shakes his head. “Looks like we’ve got some fixing up to do.”

“We can handle most of the repairs,” Sam offers, voice firm. “It’s the least we can do, considering the damage is partly our fault.”

Hugo slides off the stool, rolling his sleeves. “I can work a hammer well enough,” he says with a half-smile, “although I suspect Sam’s better at it. Let’s see what we can do.”

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