Haunt (Bayonet Scars #6) (18 page)

“Last time I was here, Wyatt had gone off the deep end,” I say honestly. I don’t lie to my kids, and even if the truth sucks, I’m going to respect Zander enough to give it to him. “I know he’s different now. I don’t doubt that. Just can’t always keep the memories at bay is all.”

The tension in the vehicle skyrockets. Zander doesn’t move, but his face forms into a glower. I probably shouldn’t have said anything. It’s an awkward thing, talking about my old man to his brothers,
his men
, but I can’t tiptoe around the reality of the situation with my kid. If the guys don’t like it, they don’t have to listen, much less talk to me. I’m being uncooperative and I know it. I have a responsibility to my kid to protect his heart as much as I can, and part of that means not lying to him about what being an addict means.

Pushing everything else mentally aside, I focus on the road ahead. The ground is a mix of loose gravel and dirt, giving the entire street a quiet, country feel. The homes are even farther apart here than they were before. They’re bigger, too. Grady got in on this neighborhood early enough and had the house built the way he wanted it, with some parts—like the garage—not being added on until later, thus making the whole thing more affordable than if he had bought it resale. One thing Dad always preached was investing. He encouraged his brothers to invest their money in something—mostly a house—because no matter how flush money may be at the time, the tides will turn and they’ll end up in the hole. My dad’s a real asshole, but he’s a smart asshole.

“Tell me we’re not staying with Grady and Holly.” It’s more of a demand than a question. I’ve only met Holly that once at the clubhouse, and she was perfectly nice. They’re pretty new, though, even if she is pregnant, and I don’t want to feel like an inconvenience. I eyeball Grady’s white house warily as we pass it without slowing. Nobody says a word, but I take this as a sign we aren’t staying with Grady and Holly. I breathe a sigh of relief and search the street for something small and quaint enough that I think Wyatt would have reasonably rented.

My mood sours as we approach the end of the street. In the distance sits a white farmhouse. The same white farmhouse that’s soured my mood to every farmhouse—whether that’s reasonable or not—because I once found Wyatt there, slumped over on the house’s porch. At the very least, it was empty, so nobody had called the cops. It’s not the house’s fault my man chose that exact spot to pass out after overindulging on God only knows what. But it doesn’t matter. The image of Wyatt looking half-dead is burned into my memory. It doesn’t matter that I used to love farmhouses—and I wanted a white one. It doesn’t matter that it’s perfectly set on the land, having disturbed as few trees as possible. There’s more trees around this home than the rest. The builder must have had a hell of a time keeping all those trees in place. Even Grady, who values his privacy more than almost anyone I know, chopped down a considerable number of trees around his property to make room to build. But not this stupid farmhouse. None of it matters because I still see Wyatt, with shallow breaths, a heart that isn’t beating properly, and glazed eyes, staring back at me from that fucking porch.

And it makes me want to burn the goddamn thing to the ground.

Right when I’m in the middle of a full-on hatefest, Jeremy slows the SUV as we approach the house and stops. He then backs the SUV into the farmhouse’s driveway, puts it in park, and cuts the engine. Bad memories aside, there’s no way I can afford to live in a house like this. If I’m being honest, there’s no way I can afford to live in any of these homes. Even the more modest ones. What the hell was Wyatt thinking?

“This isn’t right,” I say to no one in particular. Because it can’t be. The rent on a place like this alone must be at least triple my old little ranch in Detroit.

Jeremy and Diesel ignore me as they exit the vehicle and walk around to the back, where they start pulling out Piper’s mobile crib and setting it on the ground. Zander climbs out, and I unbuckle a sleeping Piper from her car seat. I catch sight of Jeremy tossing a set of keys at Zander and telling him to go explore just as I’m getting us out of the car. Deciding I won’t get anywhere with the guys, I follow my boy to the house in silence. He’s dragging his feet, but the moment he catches sight of the gleaming chrome-and-black Harley that’s set off to the side, he picks up his pace and rushes up the steps with an enthusiasm I haven’t seen in days. I bite my tongue when I feel the urge to tell him not to get comfortable.

I’ve never worked outside of the club before, but I can probably find something in town if I have to. Rig had promised my dad he’d keep me employed in something respectable. I’ve spent the last thirteen years keeping the books for the strip club the Detroit charter owns. It didn’t pay big, but it paid enough to afford the essentials and a few extras. Most old ladies don’t work. The club can be a little archaic about that stuff. The brothers like to show they can take care of their own, so it’s not something that’s done often, but when it is, it shouldn’t ever be out of necessity. Christ, even growing up in this shit I can see how outdated it is. Still, Wyatt and I aren’t technically together, so I can’t rely on him to foot the bill for us.

By the time we’re inside, my nerves are totally shot. I make quick work of identifying the dining room to the left and the living room to the right. There’s a staircase sidled up to the left wall that separates this space from the dining. Opposite the staircase, the wall dividing the living room and foyer is covered in black frames of various sizes and styles. We get closer only to find that they’re our photographs. All arranged nearly the same way they were on our living room wall back in Detroit. My mind races as I find my living room furniture already set up in a way that makes it look like it belongs. The dining room has a plethora of moving boxes, some stacked so high that they nearly tower over me. On the back end of the foyer is a large country kitchen with my kitchen table sitting center stage. To its left is what looks like a mud room and to the right is an open space that might be the family room. There’s nothing in there, so I can’t really tell what its function should be.

“Where’s Dad?” Zander’s voice is a mix of accusation and disappointment and booming with teenage theatrics. Piper jolts awake quickly in my arms and stares at her brother in indignation. Her lower lip trembles before she pulls it back and kicks at me to let her down. I lower her to the floor and do the irresponsible mom thing and let her wander off on her own for a minute. She’s still sleepy, so she’s kind of slow, so I don’t feel too awful about it.

Through the wall of kitchen windows that overlooks the backyard, something catches my eye. And when I see what it is, a smile brightens my face. I grab at Zander excitedly and pull him to the windows so he can see what I’m seeing.

Wyatt’s barbecuing.

“Your dad barbecues like a fucking boss,” I say. We watch as he stands over the grill, a grilling spatula in one hand, a bottle in the other. There’s a wooden table and chairs behind him, already made up, waiting for a family of four to join. A brand new highchair sits in place of the fourth chair, and my heart sings at the sight. He’s been waiting for us. My stomach rumbles, suddenly in dire need of food. Zander perks up instantly and rushes out the back. I almost follow when I remember I sent Baby Godzilla off on her own, and I go find her before joining my boys in the backyard.

CHAPTER 16

Somewhere in the back of my mind, I know I’ve dozed off during the movie. I don’t even care that I’m half-asleep, snoring softly, and with my mouth hanging open. In the background, I can hear the final scene of
Point Break
—the 1990 version, not the remake—on the TV. This is Wyatt’s favorite movie. It’s actually mine, too. As ridiculous as it sounds, we bonded over our shared love of the brotherhood between Bodhi and Utah. Wyatt used to tease me that I only fell for him because of his excellent taste in cinema. He was half-right, I think. Still, I never kept a copy of it in the house after we broke up. I couldn’t stand the idea of seeing it on a shelf, much less watching it without him. So this was Zander’s first watch, and it seems like he’s a fan.

“What happened to him?” Zander asks. He shifts in his seat, almost elbowing me in the arm before pulling away. The sofa dips, and I slump to the side just before a large warm body—Wyatt’s large warm body—pulls me against him. I do my level best not to tense up at the contact and to just go with it. We’ve had a good day—a really good day. Despite the fact that Wyatt did indeed move us into this blasted farmhouse, he’s made a point of making this a home for us. The kitchen already had an assortment of necessities that were brought over from my rental in Detroit, as well as a few new things he’d supplied. There’s still a lot of boxes to go through, but he’s already done so much.

I’m supposed to be asleep. I really did doze off sometime between Utah and Tyler hooking up and the botched bank robbery, and I didn’t come to until Utah was in Australia. Wyatt’s deep voice rumbles against my head as the credits roll. “He let him go.”

“Did he die?” Zander’s voice comes from across the room. My heart warms at my boy’s enthusiasm. I was worried the film would be too dated for him, but he’s a good egg.

“Probably, but it doesn’t really matter,” Wyatt says. “What’s important is that he got the chance to do something he loves. All men should be so lucky.”

There’s a long silence between the two that makes me uncomfortable. We had such a great dinner out in the backyard. Even my messy little girl ate the baby burger I made her without protest. Zander kept asking Wyatt how long we got to stay in this house for, and Wyatt kept saying forever. It bugged me, Wyatt telling him that. He can’t just promise shit to kids that he can’t follow through with. Z will hang onto that like a lifeline, and the minute his dad’s promise becomes a lie, it’s going to blow up. After dinner, Zander suggested a movie, and with little convincing, Wyatt got us to watch
Point Break
. We wedged ourselves onto the sofa—Wyatt and I on the ends with Zander in the middle—and it was so normal and perfect and right. Piper even fell asleep on her dad’s lap. He held her there until—well, for all I know he could still be holding her. At some point all the perfect family shit just became too much and I closed my eyes. I don’t hear her breathing, though, so she might be in her portable crib. I want to worry about where she is. I feel like I should. I can’t bring myself to though. She has Zander and Wyatt, so she’s safe and taken care of, even if I did fall down on the job. There’s this thing that happens with depression. Even when things don’t change, they feel like they suck or it’s all just numb. Then the really good stuff starts up, and I just can’t handle it. It’s like every ounce of hope is threatening to spill out and flood the world. And once the hope is out there, I’m raw. There’s nothing that can protect me from being destroyed by my dream falling apart again.

“Dad?”

“Yeah?” Wyatt’s voice is low and rough. Emotional. About a week ago Zander asked Wyatt what he should call him. It was awkward and sweet and so many things that it broke my heart. My boy never should have had to ask. He should have always had his dad, and his dad should have always had his son. And no amount of feeling like shit is going to give that back to either of them.

“Are you, um . . . do you . . . I mean,” Zander stumbles over his words.

“You can ask me anything. No joke. You ask, I’ll answer.”

“Do you like my mom?”

Well, that whole not being tense thing is totally not happening now. My entire body stiffens at the question.

“Fuck,” Wyatt says heartily. There’s a laugh in there somewhere judging by the shaking of his chest. “Boy, I love that woman something fierce.”

“Are you going to live with us? Are you getting back together?”

“We weren’t ever not together,” Wyatt says earnestly. “You know that tattoo your mom’s got on her back? And the one on her shoulder? Those tell the entire world that she’s mine. No man will ever have her without seeing
my
name on her skin. Nobody will ever see her body without knowing she belongs to Forsaken. I screwed up a lot, and we couldn’t be together back then, but you, me, Pips, and your mom? We’re family, and nothing beats that. I live where you live. I sleep where your mom sleeps. She doesn’t have to like it, and she doesn’t have to let me touch her, but I’m here.”

“Too far, man,” Zander says in disgust, his voice trailing off. I hold back the snicker in my throat. “A simple yes would have worked. I’m going to go shower now if I can find a towel.”

“How do you think you and your sister got here? We certainly didn’t make you while in separate rooms.” Wyatt’s taunting dissolves into full-on laughter. He turns his body into mine, wraps his arms around my waist and legs, and pulls me onto his lap. I try not to stir, but my stillness gives me away.

“You’re a shit liar.”

I peek one eye open slowly, met by Wyatt’s disapproving gaze. My eyes open and close rapidly in an attempt to portray an innocence we both know doesn’t exist. One of his hands finds its way to my chin. He holds it steady so I can’t pull away. I shift, only realizing too late it’s the wrong thing to do.

“Keep doing that and I’m going to be hard enough to fuck you on this tiny-ass couch.” Wyatt’s words tumble out all dark and rough but still soft somehow.

“This couch isn’t tiny. You’re just enormous,” I say in defense of my old-ass piece of furniture.

“And you still can’t fake sleep. After all these years you still think you can snow me,” he says. Very slowly, he leans in and our noses are side by side, our foreheads pressed into one another.