Page 7 of 23 Hours

Okay, so I heard her right the first time. This is a prank, it’s gotta be… or a giant misunderstanding.

Trying to take the high road and be diplomatic, I take a step closer to the gate, to see each other more clearly. She mimics my movement, swallowing the last couple of inches. I rest a hand on a bar. It’s chilly to the touch. “I caught that part. Sorry, lady, I dunno who you are, but I ain’t got a son.”

“Yes, you do. That’s what I’m saying, and you’re not listening. None of you are.” Her angry gaze flicks to my brothers accusatorily before returning to me.

I peek over at Dallas. “Is that what she told you guys?”

Picking his teeth with a toothpick, he shakes his head. “Nope. She said she needed to speak to you and wouldn’t leave when we asked her to, repeatedly.”

All right, so she’s belligerent, stubborn, and drives a yellow truck on steroids—if the one parked behind her is hers. She also has a son in jail and dresses like a biker chick with ripped jeans and a Metallica t-shirt. Her shoes are plain ole flip-flops. She’s ballsy enough to show up to a Sacred Sinners compound after sundown. Can’t say she looks all that threatening. Though, I’m convinced she’s batshit crazy. As a female, you don’t roll up this time of night unless you want one of two things—to get dick, or you’re lookin’ for trouble.

Wantin’ her gone before she draws a crowd, or Big catches wind and takes his rage out on her, I do my best to smooth over the situation. “Ma’am, please get back in your truck and go before things get unpleasant.”

What does she do when I offer an olive branch? This broad plants her tiny feet and glares. I’m not sure if I should be impressed or pissed. My dick, he’s a happy camper. We like ourselves spitfires, just not crazy ones who claim we got a kid when we don’t. Me and my pecker gotta have a little chat about what’s appropriate for hard-ons and what’s not—in the future—when I’m not busy with bullshit like this when I could be fucking.

“Hell no!” Her nostrils flare in indignation. “In case you still aren’t listening, things are already unpleasant. My son is in jail for the second time.Yourson, Adam. He’s almost twenty-two. You and I met at Sturgis twenty-three years ago, at the Black Falcon Saloon before they tore it down. I had brown hair then that reached my ass. We spent a day together.” The woman drops her hand to show her hair’s former length—to the hip.

“And? I’ve met and slept with a lot of chicks at Sturgis.” Three to six women every year for thirty-plus years. That’s a lot of pussy I can’t remember. Not that I should have to.

Her honey-eyed stare turns downright glacial. “You always bone ‘em bareback?”

Blimp sputters a laugh, then chokes on it.Asshole.

Licking the front of my teeth, I massage the nape of my neck, so I don’t go off on this woman for insulting me when she’s already fired up. “No. I don’t fuck bareback. Ever.” Sure, condoms have broken, and I might’ve skipped out on glovin’ up on a few rare occasions when I didn’t have one handy, and the woman was too hot to pass by. But I haven’t had a lapse in judgment in years… no… decades. With age comes wisdom. You know how that goes.

“Uh-huh.” Her head swivels with attitude. Purple hair sweeps across her shoulders. “Bet ya tell all the girls that. ‘I only go bare with you, baby, ’cause you’re special.’” The woman does a piss-poor job of mimicking the bass of my voice.

“I’ve never said that in my life,” I growl, tightening my fist around the gate.

“No? Then how did I wind up giving birth to Adam nine months later?”

How’s this my fault? She gets knocked up by some rando, and I’m the dickhead. None of this makes a lick of sense. Not her presence, her hostility toward me, nor the accusations. I’m through with the games.

“You realize that’s impossible, right? Who shows up twenty-two years after givin’ birth to a kid, to tell some man he’s the father? What do you want? Money? That why you’re here? I’ll give ya fifty bucks to go on your merry way, ma’am. Sorry for the mix-up. Good luck with Adam.” Too horny and aggravated to deal, I pull out my wallet, toss a wad of bills through the slats of the gate and turn to get the hell outta dodge. I’m done.

The bars rattle as I retreat. “My name isn’t ma’am, dickface. It’s Melanie… and I don’t want money. I want you to talk to him. Make him get his life together. A-another charge like this, and he could be down for years.” Desperation clings to her words, hollowing out my stomach.

I swallow hard.

Fuck.

Fuuuck.

Taking her sadness as my own when I shouldn’t, I stop but refuse to turn around. I gotta draw the line somewhere, even if every cell in my body wants to help. It’s fucked up, ain’t it? A woman I don’t even know rambles on about stuff that has nothing to do with me, and all it takes is for her veil of strength to drop, and I’m ready to rescue her. My mother sure did a number on me. May the bitch rot in hell.

Heaving a sigh, I reply when I should walk away. “Sorry to hear about Adam, Melanie. I am. I wish you the best of luck. Have a nice evening.” There, I said my peace. Through with this whole fucked-up ordeal, I leave my brothers to handle her when I know I can’t.

More gate rattling ensues. “Goddammit, asshole! Don’t walk away from me! Gunz! Erik! You never knew my name, so you made one up. You called me Kit!”

Wait.

I stop halfway to the clubhouse, a smashed shell casing underfoot. “I called you—”

“Kit.”

Scowling, I spin around to face everyone. “No.” That’s impossible.

“Yes.” Melanie’s chin lifts in defiance.

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