Page 16 of Renegade Ruin

If you say so.

“As I was saying, at least the staff showed some promise by going to bat against Vaughn during the draft. The prickly old bastard looked like he was going to have an aneurysm when they outvoted him and took Ramiro over Watts.”

I hate that fucker.

A soft chuckle escapes me, the end morphing into a choked sob. “I wish you were here.”

“He does too.”

I drop Jackson’s leg harder than I should and whip around and see Lana Roberts, Jackson’s mother, standing in the doorway. She looks a hell of a lot more put together than I do, but the fluorescent lighting does nothing to hide the dark purple circles marring the space beneath her eyes, and it only highlights the nest of brown locks on the top of her head.

My eyes fall to the little girl with pigtails at her side, softening when she takes off in a full run and jumps into my arms.

“Uncle Bish!” Phoebe exclaims, nuzzling her face in my neck.

“Hi, Short Stack,” I mutter, placing a kiss to the top of her mousy brown hair.

This little girl is the only light in this shitty situation. She’s the one person I’ve tried to shield from my downward spiral. Once a week I go out of my way to make sure I see her, usually at my favorite donut shop down the street from their apartment. But never here. Never in front of Jackson.

It hurts too damn much to see her smile at me while holding Jackson’s limp hand. That smile is an exact replica of Norah’s and set below brown eyes with flecks of yellow that she gets from her father. Which is why when I come to visit, I usually arrive at precisely eight-thirty-one. It’s the only way I can ensure Jackson’s mom has left to take Phoebe to school.

I set the excited nine-year-old down and look back at Lana, who is taking her time looking me over. “You look like shit, Bishop.”

“Swear jar, Nana,” Phoebe pipes up.

Lana rolls her eyes dramatically and I can’t help but laugh. Me and my mouth are one hundred percent the reason there is a swear jar in the Roberts household.

I cross my arms in an attempt to guard myself, knowing damn well it’s useless. “I’m aware. What are you guys doing here?”

“Nana took me to Renegade Hearts and said we could come see Daddy after.”

I turn away in the hopes neither of them sees how hearing about Willow’s foundation or the fact my goddaughter was there affects me. As someone who wants the best for this little girl, I hate that Willow is able to provide her support where I can’t. Mostly because I can barely help myself.

Schooling my features, I turn back to Phoebe. “Is that right?”

“Yup!” She pops the p at the end in the most adorable way. “Oh! Uncle Bish, I made you something!” Phoebe jumps excitedly on the balls of her feet before racing back to her grandmother.

Lana pulls an item wrapped in a dish towel with tiny ducks on it and offers it to her granddaughter, who turns around and dashes back so she can give it to me.

“I was going to leave it here for you, but now that you’re here, I can just give it to you.”

“Thanks, Phoebes,” I say with a smile, unwrapping the gift.

Inside sits a handmade ceramic mug, painted with uneven flowers and a tiny ladybug. It’s lopsided. The handle has a wonky curve, and the lip of the cup bows enough that any liquid would spill out.

I lift my gaze to Phoebe, who in all her innocence, stands there with her hands twisted in front of her, waiting for my reaction.

“I know you love dipping your donuts in coffee, so I wanted to make you something to put it in.”

“It’s perfect.” I reach out and mussy the top of her head with my hand. “Thank you.”

“Hey, Phoebes, why don’t you go grab a hot chocolate for the both of us from the nurses station? I’m sure Greta will be happy to see you.”

Phoebe gives her grandmother a narrow-eyed gaze that screams she’s Norah’s daughter. “Are you going to have an adult conversation?”

Lana returns with a pointed stare of her own. It’s one perfected by moms everywhere.

Letting out a sigh far too exasperated for a nine-year-old, Phoebe crosses her arms and huffs toward the door. “Fine.”

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