Page 6 of Sunshine
Horse-Face reads historical romance novels? Jesus. And if I wasn’t convinced by the title alone, I get a peek at the cover when she shuffles through the files and pulls one out. A bare-chested man and a woman with one of those puffy sleeved gowns.
What does my sister call these kinds of books? The corner of my mouth creeps up on one side in a smirk. Bodice-rippers. The judge in my case reads trashy bodice-ripper romances. My smirk drops instantly when I glance at her face though. Her mouth is a thin, downward line as her dark eyes bore into me.
Focus, Case, focus.
I swallow. Justice I-Hate-Men clenches her jaw at me and I realize I’ve missed something.
My lawyer hands over some papers and I scratch my head, wondering what I missed. Damn. If there’s ever a time I need to be paying attention, it’s now.
My mind wanders as I ogle the cover of her choice of personal reading material.
That’ll improve her opinion, Case. Good one. Why not scratch your balls too?
She looks over the papers impatiently as if she has better things to do today, like read bodice- ripper romances.
The wait feels interminable and I’m starting to sweat. Here I am, a six-foot-five, two-hundred- and-forty-pound man with tattoos and piercings, who’d spent five years undercover in one of the worst outlaw motorcycle clubs in the country, and I’m sweating over a four-foot-something, Croc-wearing, bodice-ripper-reading judge.
A judge that holds everything that matters to me in her small, dehydrated-looking hands.
Her gaze, sharp, intelligent and hawkish, flicks up to mine. I run a hand over my shaved head. I knew I should have grownmy hair back. Fuck. Shaved heads, piercings and tattoos didn’t give good impressions. And while I’d worn a suit that covered most of the tatts, I still had a Celtic triskele inked on the skin between my thumb and forefinger as well as the words love and hard on my fingers just beneath my knuckles. The symbolism of my commitment to my child and her deceased mother is lost on the judge. The Celtic triskele has many meanings but for me the three legs meant father-mother-child. And I refused to be shamed by it and all that is signifies.
“While it is clear you’re…” She glances down at the papers on her desk. “Reece’s biological father, and her maternal family is not contesting you taking custody of the child, it’s not going to be as simple as you thought.”
My lawyer starts to speak but the judge and her death stare shut him up.
“The reason you were all called here today, is because I received a petition for custody from…” She lifts one the papers on her desk and glances down her nose at it.
“Liam and Siobhan Callen.” The judge’s eyes jump to mine before I fully register her words. “The child’s paternal grandparents.”
It’s as if she’s clarifying my own parent’s names for me. I blink, my jaw going slack a moment before tightening into a tooth-grinding clench.
“Pardon me?” It comes out unintentionally hard and her eyes, a shrewd, almost black color, narrow just the slightest bit.
My lawyer shoots me a similarly scolding look before speaking himself. “Your Honor, the law always puts the child with her biological parent over a grandparent unless the parent is found to be unfit.”
Pursing her thin lips the Judge folds her hands in front of her. “That’s correct, council, and they are claiming just that.”
Before I can swear, my lawyer nudges me and I swallow my angry oaths. My fists clench at my thighs though, and I swallow a hard knot in my throat.
The judge’s eyes drop to my fists and then back to my face. “Do you have something to say?”
My lawyer leans close to my ear, warning me it’s a trap and I need to shut up and let him handle this.
I ignore him.
“I know judging is in your job title,” I pause, checking my tone, “but I think you might want to meet them before deciding which of us you trust. Sometimes money doesn’t equal upstanding.”
The judge gives a small snort. “The bar is quite low, I assure you. But would you like to hear why they’re claiming you’re unfit?”
I bite my tongue hard enough to taste copper and nod. Her eyes land on the tattoo on my hand.
“They’re claiming that after five years undercover in…” She glances down at the file. “Satan’s Ransom motorcycle club, that you’ve changed. And that you are more Paul ‘Python’ Keller than you are Case Callen.”
The words hit hard, hard enough to render me speechless and sweat and gooseflesh start to rise on my neck.
“Right now, your daughter has the stability of a two-parent household, a roof over her head, and everything she needs.” Leaning back in her chair, she assesses me for a long moment before adding, “Mr. and Mrs. Callen can offer similar circumstances. Can you?”
My heart sinks like a cannonball deep into the pit of my stomach. Fuck! I should have grown my hair, shaved off the beard, looked more respectable, even if that wasn’t truly what mattered.
