Page 103 of Blackout-

“Man, what are you doing?” I ask, glancing down at the photo. “That’s your fucking kid. Do you have any idea what I would do to have a goddamn photo of mine? To know I didn’t fucking imagine its existence or that the love I feel for it ain’t a fucking a lie?”

Just saying those words cause my throat to close and I struggle to tame my own emotions. I’d cut my fucking heart out to go back in time. Three weeks ago, my life wasn’t much better than it is now. I was feeling the pressure of my club and looking for any excuse to get high. But I could climb into bed with Lacey at the end of the day. I could rest my hands on her belly and talk with her about our child. I could look at the sonogram photo and dream of what she’d look like. If she’d have her mommy’s dark eyes and her heart-shaped lips.

Three weeks ago, there was a light at the end of the tunnel.

Now, everything is pitch black, and all I got are my fucking nightmares.

And here this fuck is, destroying the memory of his boy. Maybe it’s not a big deal to him. After all, he doesn’t need a picture to honor his son because he knows what it feels like to hold him in his arms. He knows the sound of his laugh and I bet he’s memorized his smile.

“You want some fatherly advice, Blackie?” he sneers, wrangling one hand free. He snatches the other back and takes a step closer, getting in my face. “You’re better off not knowing your kid. At least you won’t get attached. The kid will be better off too. He won’t be disappointed. I mean, look where you are. You think you’re any good for your kid? That you can give it everything it deserves. That you can love him. Protect him. That you can fucking heal him from the pain you cause because if you stick around, if he gets to know you, you’re only going to hurt him. You’re a fucking animal locked in a cage just like me and odds are, that’s all you’ll be.”

His words slap me in the face. They fucking sting but then again, the truth usually does. Biting the inside of my cheek, I remind myself this ain’t about me and I bend to pick up the pieces of the torn photo.

“Leave it,” he shouts as I straighten up.

Lifting the two halves, I study the boy for a moment before turning back to Bishop and holding the image up so he sees his sons toothless grin. This man has no idea how lucky he is.

“Look at him,” I demand.

“No,” he croaks, deliberately ignoring the damaged photograph. His jaw clenches and his features contort. “Don’t you fucking get it? I can’t look at him,” he seethes.

I can see this is going somewhere dark and uninviting. A place that sucks you in and strips you of your soul only to spit you out in pieces. I’ve been there. Hell, I’ve got a foot in the door. If I was smart, I’d leave him alone and respect his limits. But I’m not smart. I’m the fucking king of bad decisions.

“Why?” I press.

“Because I can’t save him,” he growls, dragging his fingers through his hair. He fists the ends and grinds his teeth as he stares at me with a vengeance. “You want to know my story, motherfucker? Huh? Is that what you want?”

Peering into his tortured eyes, I’m certain I don’t want to know his story and yet, I don’t object because pain recognizes pain. It fucking thrives on it. I want to know he’s just as fucking miserable as I am. That he’s not as lucky as I think he is. I want to know he’s lost every good thing in his life just as I have.

“Conner,” he says. “That’s the name his mother gave him. I didn’t have a say in it mainly because I didn’t give a fuck. Back then, a baby was nothing but a roadblock between me and my drugs.”

Shock courses through me and I take a step back as Bishop goes silent.

“What’s the matter?” he taunts. “Didn’t think there were track marks under all this ink?” he asks, bending his arms at the elbow to display his forearms.

I cup the back of my neck as I divert my eyes to the tattoos, wondering how I missed the signs. Back in the day, I could point an addict out from a mile away. Before I can give his admission anymore thought, Bishop brushes past me and my eyes follow him as he takes a seat on the bottom bunk. Propping his elbows on his knees, he lifts his eyes to me.

“You do drugs?”

If that ain’t a joke, I don’t know what is. Then again, this whole scenario is a bit of a mindfuck if you think about it. Ten minutes ago, I was ready to have this guy help me score some shit so I can escape my own misery and now I’m listening to him confess he suffers from the same hell. Either I wear my bad habits on my sleeve or Bishop still holds the ability to recognize one of his kind because he answers his own question.

“Yeah, you do,” he says, keeping his gaze steady. “What’s your poison?”

“Anything that gets the job done. I don’t discriminate,” I tell him evenly as I recall crushing the amphetamines and snorting them before the faulty drug deal with the cartel. Shaking the pathetic image from my mind, I cross my arms against my chest.

“You clean?” I question.

“Yeah, not that it matters,” he murmurs. “What’s that saying? A day late and a dollar short? That’s the story of my fucking life.”

I can relate to that. Life has taught me it doesn’t matter when we wake up and right our wrongs, if the timing is off, you’re fucked.

“You got right for your boy, though,” I comment. I might’ve missed the mark on realizing Bishop had a problem with drugs but there is no denying the man is straight as a pin right now. That’s gotta count for something.

“Don’t make me sound so noble,” he replies. “For three years of that boy’s life, I was the douchebag who ignored his baby mama’s phone calls. When he was born, Kiki, would call and ask me for money…”

His voice trails as he pauses for a beat.

“If I close my eyes, I can still hear her crying on the phone, telling me she didn’t have money for diapers and formula,” he reveals, shaking his head at the memory. “Conner was born with some stomach issue and he needed a special formula. One she couldn’t buy with her WIC checks,” he explains, pausing to draw in a breath. “Anyway, she’d call and instead of robbing houses to support my kid, I stole to feed my habit. I’d drag my ass to my dealer’s house and blow every fucking cent I had on heroin. The shit thing is I didn’t feel a lick of remorse until the high wore off and the truth hit me hard and still, I got high over and over because it’s always easier to run from your mistakes then face them head on.”

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