Finding Mayhem

by Layla Frost

To the cracked vases in danger of shattering completely… You’re stronger than you think.

I can’t believe it. How? I just… What? I’d felt off. Tired. No. Exhausted. Sick to my stomach in a way that went far beyond any stomach bug or flu I’d ever had. That nausea should’ve been a good indication of what was happening, but it hadn’t occurred to me since it wasn’t exclusive to the morning. Wasn’t morning sickness supposed to just be in the morning? Apparently not. Before I took the time to schlep myself to a doctor’s office—one of my least favorite places in the world—I’d decided to consult Dr. Google with my symptoms. Almost every result gave the same diagnosis. I thought there was no way. They were wrong. It was impossible. Yet as I stared down at the white stick in my shaking hands, I saw the undeniable proof of it.

How am I going to tell him? Like I’d summoned him from my thoughts, my fiancé burst through the bathroom door. I must’ve failed to lock it in my distracted hurry. Stupid. I didn’t even bother to hide what I held. His gaze was already zeroed in on it. “Well?” he prompted, his face carefully blank. I turned it so he could see. Two pink lines. Two very dark pink lines. “Honey,” he drawled, though his expression gave me nothing. My heart squeezed and my stomach felt hollow—though the pregnancy test confirmed it was very much not. It didn’t matter that he needed to leave for work—I’d thought he was already gone—Eddie closed the distance between us. I jolted as he suddenly dropped to his knees in front of me with no regard to how his clothes would rumple. His large hands wrapped around my sides, his thumbs stroking my still flat stomach. “I love you,” he whispered to my stomach, making my chest feel like it was going to burst. The feeling only grew when his hazel eyes looked up at me. “Are you happy?” It was unplanned. A total shock. So many thoughts and emotions rushed through my head, but there was happiness. A lot of it. I’m going to have a baby. I ran my hand through his hair, spotting more salt mixing with the pepper at his temples. It just added to his handsome features. Smiling down at him, I nodded, too overwhelmed to choke out the words. “Good, honey,” he whispered before grinning up at me. “I mean, good, Mama.” Mama. Planting a kiss on my stomach, Eddie stood and right...

Fuck, I was tired. Not just physically—though I was sure as shit that, too. Riding up the coast to Maine, then down to North Carolina before returning home to Massachusetts within two days would wear on anyone. After all those hours on my bike, my ass hurt. My thighs ached like I’d done a thousand squats. My arms muscles still twitched. Toxic sludge energy drinks and shitty gas station coffee were all that fueled my body. But it wasn’t the physical exhaustion that got to me. It was the mental kind. I was being a pussy. Knew it. Owned it. That shit might have been hard on me and my brothers, but it was far worse for the people we helped escape their nightmares. Their monsters. And there were always people. Always nightmares. Always fuckin’ monsters. And that was why the exhaustion had sunk deep into my bones, leaving me defeated. Discouraged. Kicked in the damn crotch and spit on. ’Cause it was never-fuckin’-ending.

I looked over to see a moving van parked at the curb next door. Usually, I was a nosy fucker, but I was too tired to give a damn. I hiked my pack up my arm and walked up my front steps. I didn’t give a damn who was moving into old Mrs. Anderson’s place. Right up until I glanced over to see a woman holding a big box. Fuckin’ hell. I might’ve been wiped, but I wasn’t dead. Even from a distance, I could see she was hot as hell. And a tiny thing—maybe five-three if I included the messy bun of dark hair on top of her head. Mrs. Anderson had been a shrill old bitch who’d hated me on sight and hadn’t been shy about showing it. She’d called the cops on me for every perceived slight—from my Harley being too loud to my lawn being too green. Honest to God, she’d claimed the unnaturally green lawn was proof I’d used chemicals like a front yard steroid scandal. Matters only got worse any time I had my brothers over. Especially my brother who was a brother. Seeing me having a drink in the privacy of my backyard with a Black biker automatically meant we’d been planning something evil. Running drugs, beating women, robbing houses, and whatever other bullshit accusations she’d spewed. Since our houses were single stories with a tall wooden fence separating our yards, she’d had to climb her frail ass up a ladder to spy on me. The nutjob. When I’d heard she died, I couldn’t say I was sad. I could, however, say I’d toasted whatever hell she burned in. They needed the luck. And then I’d pissed...

The dark stout hitting my taste buds and the knowledge I’d be sleeping in my own bed that night must’ve signaled to my brain that I was home and off the clock. My muscles loosened, and my shoulders relaxed. And then my damn phone rang. I pulled it from my pocket to hit ignore before I saw Judge’s name on the screen. My brother—though not by blood—and motorcycle club president. He knew I’d been coming home to crash. He’d been the one to order it. If he was calling, it was important. I swiped to answer, but before I could say anything, Judge rumbled, “Fuckin’ dickhead.” “Well, fuck you, too,” I said. “I’ll just hang up and go nap with my pussy.” “Don’t call Dumpster your pussy,” he bit out, but I could hear the smile in his voice. I was good at that. Getting people to smile. Cheering them up. Helping. “Maybe I meant a woman,” I said. “You looked dead on your feet an hour ago. Know you work fast, but not if you’re falling asleep on the bar.” He was right about me being dead on my feet. He was wrong about my inability to pull a woman in that state. Didn’t matter if I was too drunk, stoned, or tired to pick them up. They’d just take the initiative to come on to me. Not that I’d take them up on it. I wouldn’t go to their place—or the bathroom stall, alley, back seat of a car, the clubhouse—with a woman unless I could give her my A game. I had standards and a reputation, dammit. “What’s up?” I asked. “Need you to pay Danes a visit.” Fuckin’ hell. Helping people escape their monst...

It was getting harder and harder to bite my tongue around Danes, so I said, “Send Glitch.” “Can’t,” Judge shot back. “He doesn’t want Glitch involved anymore. Something about him trying to fuck his wife.” “What a load of bullshit.” “You sayin’ Glitch doesn’t wanna knock Mrs. Danes’ sensible shoes off?” “Hey, there’s nothing wrong with sensible shoes,” I heard O snap in the background. “I wear them at work, and unlike these shitkickers, they don’t give me blisters.” Ophelia used to work as a nurse in a ritzy retirement facility before Judge ‘temporarily restrained’ her. Kidnapped. He’d kidnapped her. Once she’d gotten a taste of Mayhem in her life, she’d quit to take care of our sorry asses. I, for one, appreciated having a nurse around. She’d patched us up when Haze and I were mysteriously jumped outside a bar. She had the best hangover remedies. She sure as shit had a better bedside manner for patching up road rash and busted knuckles than any of the brothers. And she asked fewer questions than a hospital would. “Hush, woman,” Judge said. “You worked in those heels and that sexy as fuck outfit you wore for me last week. Don’t ruin the fantasy.” Ophelia let out a soft laugh. “Your fantasy is me wearing that around other—” “Great. It’s fuckin’ ruined, princess,” Judge bit out. “That’s on you, psycho.” I was used to their back and forth. We all were. For as long as we’d been Court of Mayhem, Judge had lived and breathed the club—until Ophelia. We were happy he had something ...

I hurt. My arms are noodles. My legs are noodles. Great, now I want noodles. Wrapped up in trying to ignore the ache that’d infused every inch of my body, my sudden craving for noodles, and the fact the tote wouldn’t unwedge itself from the van, I didn’t notice anyone. Not until I turned in a frustrated huff and ran into a wall. Since I was in the road, it seemed like an odd place for someone to suddenly build a wall. Unless a cartoon coyote built it to trick a roadrunner, of course. Not to mention, walls didn’t have arms that tried to reach out and steady me before I dodged them. They also weren’t made of solid muscle. “You okay?” the wall asked, his voice impossibly deep and rough. Instead of answering, I rushed to apologize. “I’m the one who ran into you. Are you okay? I’m so sorry, I didn’t realize you were there.” His lips hitched up on one side, a deep dimple forming. “I’m fine.” “Are you sure?” His smile—and two dimples—grew. “Yeah, I’m sure.” I could understand why my concern amused him. Given his size, I could launch myself at him at full force, and it’d likely feel like getting hit by a feather. Given his everything, I could launch myself at him for a variety of reasons. Hypothetically, not actually. Never actually. It was just the hormones speaking. Okay, and the fact he looked like a male model who’d stepped off the cover of a magazine—insanely tall, even more insanely muscular, with mussed blond hair and mesmerizing blue eyes. Maybe not a magazine. Since he wo...

“Where’s he?” Is there another model running around here? Because that’s the kind of scenery I’d enjoy way more than the rose bushes. From a distance, of course. “Who?” I asked. “Your man.” Caught off guard by his blunt and presumptuous question, a pang hit my chest. It knocked the air from my lungs and the sense from my head. I didn’t stop to think before saying, “It’s… I… He’s… gone.” As soon as the words left my mouth like water rushing past a broken dam, regret followed. It was stupid. I was stupid. Not just because of the unintentional show of emotion that suddenly clogged my throat. But also because of how careless my admission had been. It wasn’t that he was a wall of muscles. His visible tattoos didn’t make me jump to conclusions. It was that he was a… well, a he. A giant stranger, and I’d just blabbed that I was completely alone. That no one would notice me missing. I have no sense of self-preservation. I’m a walking true-crime podcast in the making. I opened my mouth to lie and say someone was just getting lunch, but my missing verbal dam suddenly decided to repair itself. I couldn’t push the words out. It didn’t matter anyway. There was no malice on the wall’s expression as it softened in sympathy. The way he looked at me was almost worse than if he’d been evil or skeevy. Not really, but it didn’t feel great. His voice was even gentler than the look on his face. “Go sit down, Mama.”

“You don’t feel comfortable inside, you can chill at my place while you wait. I’ve got a helluva setup in my backyard. Or sit in your van. Doesn’t matter, I’ll be fast.” I was lost. Completely. I blinked up at him, trying to piece together what the hell he was talking about. “Fast with what?” “Unloading your van.” I jerked back in surprise even as a swirl of warmth twisted in my chest at his kind offer. Still, I couldn’t accept. “I’m already doing it.” “But you shouldn’t be.” The friendly warmth cooled to iciness, and I shot him a glacier glare. “I’m pregnant, not incapable. I can carry boxes.” Kind of. There wasn’t much in the van, but the drive had been harder than I’d expected. My arms and legs were tired, and muscles I hadn’t even known existed were sore just from sitting. But I had the rental for another day. I could take my time. “Never said you couldn’t,” he shot back. “Got nothing to do with you being pregnant.” “Then what?” “Just ’cause you can do something doesn’t mean you gotta.” He lifted his chin toward the house. “Go sit, Mama.” It was the second time he’d called me that, and the second time it’d sent a potent rush of far too many emotions twisting through me. The hormones did that enough, I couldn’t let him add to the havoc. “Mac,” I blurted before amending, “my name is Mac.” “Hollywood,” he bizarrely said. “Uh, Vegas?” At his grin, I felt my own mouth pulling into a matching one, albeit smaller. I couldn’t even remember the last time that’d happened without...

heading toward the front door. He paused, touching the alarm panel before muttering, “Not surprised she had a security system and doorbell camera to rival a bank vault.” “It’s good?” “One of the best available. Fastest response time.” His lips quirked as he amended, “For commercially available.” Safe for me and Squish. Exactly what I need. “You have the passcode?” he asked. I had the instructions on how to reset it, but that was basically the same thing, so I nodded. He walked outside, and my attempt to follow was promptly shut down. First by a look, then by him outright telling me to accept the help and stop being a pain in the ass. He said it while grinning his dimpled smile, so he didn’t actually seem upset, but I took the warning and waited by the door. I studied his retreating back—more specifically, the emblem on the leather vest. A skull and crossed gavels with the name Court of Mayhem. I knew nothing about biker clubs, but it was a cool name and a very coordinated design. I didn’t bother to give him my thoughts on the artistic design when he returned with the tote that’d been giving me so much trouble.

“You got another truck coming with furniture and shit?” “What do you mean?” I gestured to all the lace doilies, floral everything, vintage fabrics, and creepy bear tchotchkes. “This is my stuff.” Hollywood didn’t laugh at my attempt at a joke. And it was a joke because the furniture in the house was older than me and ugly as sin. But crazily enough, it was like he could see the emotion swirling in my stomach until I wanted to vomit worse than when I’d had morning sickness. There was that same softness in his gaze. It irked me. “I’m getting new stuff,” I told him so he’d stop looking at me like that. “I’m using what’s here until I pick it out.” It was his turn to joke as he ran a large hand over the plastic-covered couch. “At least your aunt kept her furniture fresh.” When he looked at me, though, there was something in his blue eyes. An edge. “You two close?” I thought about lying. It’d be easier than fielding follow-up questions. But I kept it simple and told him the truth. “She was a stranger.” I may not have known him, but I was good at reading people. It was my job and my lifeline. I saw the way his shoulders loosened at my answer. How a hint of a smile pulled at his lips. It was guarded, but my answer had brought him some sense of relief. I just wasn’t sure why. I also didn’t really care.

“Thank you for your help.” When his eyes dropped to my belly, I wanted to bite his head off for the implication before I realized I was unconsciously rubbing it. Concern tightened his handsome features, and I was pretty sure I hated that worse than the sympathy. “You good?” At his softly spoken question, I had my confirmation. Yup. Definitely hate it more. “Just tight muscles and a long day,” I said, forcing a bigger smile. I was good at that. Or so I thought. But suddenly I wasn’t so confident because Hollywood’s gaze zeroed in on my mouth and his own curved into a small scowl. Go. Go. Get out! In a blink, his odd look was gone as he closed the distance between us. And I closed the distance between me and the door, needing all the space I could get from this badass wall who could read me too well. “You need anything, I’m right next door. My prez’s old lady is a nurse. Day or night. Got it?” Not really. I had critical thinking skills, so I deduced he was talking about the Court of Mayhem president—and not the president of the country. I’d just never had friendly neighbors who helped unload vans and offered more than the occasional greeting. “Once again, I’m only pregnant, not deathly ill.” I gave a small laugh as I added, “I’m just embarrassingly out of shape.” An engine revved, and I jolted. My gaze flew outside to see a little red car speed by, the back all souped-up with spoilers and fins and whatever else people did to make their cars sound like they didn’t have muffle...

“Finally,” Danes bit out like he hadn’t just kept my ass waiting. He bounded down the steps, glaring at me the entire way. “You came highly recommended from my wife’s friends, but I’ve had nothing but trouble, and it’s getting old. Fast. Tell your boss I expect a discount this month. A sizable one.” Judge may have been president of the Court of Mayhem motorcycle club, but he wasn’t my boss. Not in the traditional sense. We all had our roles to play in the club, MayCo, and our other ventures. I didn’t bother to explain that since it’d likely be lost on him. And I didn’t have the time, patience, or enough crayons to dumb it down. I wanted to get in and get done. And get home in case my new neighbor’s stomach pain was more than sore muscles. I knew shit-all about pregnant women. I was an only kid—thank fuck—so no siblings popping out nieces or nephews. Swedes and Lash, the oldest of my Mayhem brothers, had kids, but they were teenagers. With the way he was going, it wouldn’t be long before Judge put his baby in his wife, but it hadn’t happened yet. That I knew of, at least. Either way, I had no fuckin’ clue if the pain Mac had experienced was normal. I also had no fuckin’ right to be concerned. Even if something was wrong, she wasn’t gonna come running to me. She’d made that shit clear when she’d been eager to get me outta her space. She’s a stranger. Don’t even know why I’m giving her headspace when I should be focused on the job. That was a lie. I knew why. The shadows in h...

When I reached the office where the security panel was, Danes tapped his foot impatiently. His gaze scanned me, looking for evidence that I’d gone Supermarket Sweep in those extra seconds I’d taken. As if I wanted any of his ugly shit. The silent accusation woulda pissed me off, but I had more important shit to focus on. I kept my emotions in check as I clicked around the control panel screen before taking out my cell and comparing it with the app Glitch had created. Our end showed everything was fine. What the fuck? Glitch is not gonna be happy. Another beep and flash. “Get it to stop doing that,” Danes ordered, his left eye twitching. “Gimme a second.” “Punch in a code or restart it or do something.” “You want fast, you need Glitch. He’s the nerd. But you’ve got me, and I need a minute.” The whole thing was acting odd. Settings toggled. Lights blinked even though nothing was being triggered. Screens changed when I wasn’t doing it. Another beep and another frustrated groan from the man lurking over my shoulder. Or under my shoulder since I had a good six inches on him in height. Probably a fuckuva lot more than that in another area. I wasn’t the one throwing my ego around ’cause I wasn’t the one compensating for something. “This is gonna take some time,” I told him. “Go grab a drink. Sit by the pool. Watch a movie.” Take a long walk off a short cliff. Play in traffic. Run with scissors. “I don’t have time. I’m hosting a party in four hours, and this can’t interrupt the ev...

I lifted my chin and continued what I was doing. A few minutes after he left, I gave up on the technological puzzle. Taking out my tools, I made quick work of gathering everything before disabling and removing the panel. It wouldn’t take Glitch long to get to the bottom of it. Then a few of my brothers would be back that night to set things right—preferably in the middle of his fancy-ass party. I made my way to the front door when the sound of glass crunched behind me. In a blink, my piece was in my hand, and I turned. Aiming it at a terrified housekeeper. Around her early twenties, she was too young to look so jaded and wary and terrified. She inched forward and opened her mouth before hesitating. Felt like shit about it, but I was too tired and impatient to wait her out. “Let’s go.” Her brows shot up. After a long moment, she admitted, “I cannot leave. I’m illegal.” Her heavy accent was Ukrainian. Maybe Polish. “Don’t give a damn, we’ll figure it out. You have anything you need to grab?” We did not have the time to pack her belongings. And even if we did, I didn’t have the energy to unload yet another moving van. But I wasn’t heartless. I wouldn’t make her leave behind family pictures or mementos or whatever shit normal people had. She just shook her head, already heading for the door. Decision made. I gave her my helmet and helped her onto the bike behind me before taking off for the gate. The closed gate. “Oh no,” she cried loudly. Defeated. But it was connected to our...

Snagging my bag from the couch, I held it out to Glitch. When he didn’t take it, I followed his line of sight to see him studying Katarzyna, his head tilted to the side. I shoved the pack into his stomach. “Glitch.” His focus shot to me as he took the bag with one hand and ran the other across his tattooed head. “Got everything?” “Yup.” That was all I said on that. I had no suspicions that I’d brought back a rat in terrified sheep clothing, but I still wasn’t talking in front of her. Too much was at risk. “That doesn’t explain her,” Judge said, jerking his head toward Katarzyna. “She yours?” Her wide eyes turned to me, filled with panic. Glitch, on the other hand, was stoic as he stiffly moved to set my pack on a nearby pew. Not a flicker of emotion. Ain’t that fuckin’ interesting… Ophelia chose that moment to join us. “How’d everything…” Her words trailed off as her eyes narrowed on my hand. “Is that one of my waffles?” “You got into the waffles already, you greedy bastard?” Swedes asked, trailing in behind his wife, Ria. Katarzyna trembled so hard, she practically vibrated behind me. Ophelia gave me a scowl that I knew was an act, but before she could open her mouth to throw her shitty version of shit-talk my way, Judge gave her ass a hard squeeze in a nonverbal warning. Unfortunately, no one did the same to Swedes. “Slaved away all morning on those. Doubt they were even fully frozen, and here you—” Nothing about the scowl that twisted Glitch’s face was fake. “Shut your ...

“She’s not mine,” I said firmly, answering Judge’s earlier question and everyone else’s silent one. “She was Danes’ housekeeper.” Before I knew what was happening, Glitch closed in on her, making Katarzyna let out a squeak as she backed up. She would’ve tumbled over the back of the couch if Glitch hadn’t grabbed her waist. “Whoa, brother.” I gripped his shoulder and tried to shift him from the terrified woman, but there was no moving him. No pulling his focus from her. His voice was soft. Gentle even. But there was barely concealed rage in his question when he asked, “How bad did he hurt you?” Our eyes shot to Katarzyna, whose face flushed as she shook her head. “He didn’t.” “Bullshit. Mrs. Danes told me. Begged me to make sure you got away safely.” Even as she tried to shrink in on herself again, her expression softened at that little crumb of consideration. “Why didn’t you give me a heads-up?” I asked Glitch, thinking how lucky it was I’d impulsively taken her with me. And working hard not to think about what could’ve happened had I left her behind. “Called and texted twenty fuckin’ times,” Glitch bit out, not looking away from Katarzyna. I pulled out my cell and saw he was wrong. Between calls and texts, it’d been closer to thirty. “Fuck, this is why we don’t change plans like this,” Judge said, though he didn’t look pissed. Just worried. When Kathy Danes had hired us for security, it hadn’t been a regular job. She’d wanted surveillance proof of her husband’s cheating. ...

“What the hell happened?” Between the lack of sleep, the changed plans, and the confusion, my brain was in a fog. Or on a bad shrooms trip without the shrooms. “Mrs. Danes told me she was about to leave for the salon when she saw Danes getting rough with Katarzyna,” Glitch said. “Rough how?” Judge bit out. “Yeah, how?” Ophelia echoed, looking just as furious. Maybe more. Judge called her princess, and it was fitting. She was a petite woman who liked makeup and skirts and all that shit. But I’d once watched her kick a man in the balls until he puked, so her fury wasn’t comical. It was legit. “Mr. Danes said… He’s a dupek.” Tears filled Katarzyna’s eyes as she flicked her wrist, finding the word. “Asshole.” “Already knew that,” Judge said. “What happened today?” When Katarzyna just stared up at Glitch, he filled us in on what Mrs. Danes had seen without breaking their eye contact. “He grabbed her tit hard enough to make her scream then he backhanded her. Made her nose bleed. Bleed.” The broken glass. The smudge of blood. That motherfucker. “We’ll handle it,” Judge said ominously. Katarzyna finally tore her attention from Glitch. “It’s not a big—” “We’ll handle it,” Glitch echoed. ...

Judge tilted Ophelia’s face up and phrased his order like a request so his wife didn’t twist his nipples off. “Why don’t you and Ria take her to get cleaned up and changed into some of the spare shit from the guest closet? Get her fed, too.” The three women moved for the hallway as Glitch snagged my bag and we headed in the opposite direction. The former chapel dais had been walled over to make our meeting room, but some of the original detailing remained carved into the borders and stairs. Along with the dicks and tits and whatever other shit drunk brothers added. Our own personal touch on the place. Once we were locked inside, I flopped into my seat at the table and drained my coffee. If it wouldn’t be a cardinal biker sin, I’d have climbed onto the table and slept for a month. But of everything in that old church, the table was the one thing we all regarded as sacred. A symbol of our brotherhood, with gavel-shaped legs and the Court of Mayhem crest carved into the top and filled with resin to keep the surface smooth. No one ate at the table. No one kicked their feet up on the table. Hell, I wouldn’t even set my cup down. “Hollywood?” Judge called. And, based on his tone, not ...

Glitch grabbed the panel from my bag, he grilled me on the errors and what else I’d seen. We were supposed to have complete access to the panel, including making it malfunction if we needed an excuse to get into the house. Something had gone wrong, and it was frustrating as fuck for all of us, but especially the nerd who prided himself on his abilities. “That bastard messed with it,” he bit out. “I think he was trying to disable all their cameras without there being a record they were off.” All the better for cheating… Glitch grabbed his spare laptop from the shelf behind him and hooked it to the panel. “Wanted to do this at home with my whole setup, but I should be able to do what I need here so I can see what I’m working with before I go over there.” “Haze, Jury, and Scythe are going to deal with Danes,” Judge said. The three of them hadn’t been on the run from Maine to North Carolina, so it was smart to send them. Unlike me, they wouldn’t fall asleep “I am, too,” Glitch shot back, not asking. If I thought I could stay awake long enough, I’d have joined them. But I couldn’t even stay awake long enough for Glitch to do his thing. “Go take one of the spare rooms,” Judge ordered ...

“How’re you feeling?” If I never hear that question or tone again, it’ll be too soon. I didn’t say that, of course. Alice—my boss and hero—meant well. And to be fair, it was a good question considering… everything. “I’m good,” I told her honestly. For the most part, at least. “How’s the house?” Holding a bottle of cleaner in one gloved hand and a rag in the other, I used my shoulder to keep my cell against my ear as I scanned the kitchen around me. After moving in the day before, it felt like I’d been cleaning nonstop, but there was hardly any difference. Not in the dust. And certainly not in the smell. I wasn’t about to tell her that. It wouldn’t matter how much she’d already done for me, Alice would send in a cleaning crew and insist I sit on a throne of pillows like a delicate princess. Or a cracked vase on the verge of shattering completely. The last thing I wanted was to have strangers traipsing through the house already filled with a stranger’s things. The last thing I needed was to have idle time to let my thoughts wander. Staying busy was the best thing for me. Therapeutic. Cathartic. When Alice had inherited the house by default from a childless aunt she’d never even met, she’d planned to sell it. But as her coffee mug declared, she was, indeed, the Best Boss Ever. She’d insisted I move in and get what I desperately needed. Which was why I answered her with nothing but the truth. “It’s a fresh start.” “Exactly what you need.”

“You sure you feel all right?” “I’m okay. Honest.” “Well, don’t overdo it. And let me know if you need more time.” “I’ll check in Monday afternoon to tell you how it goes,” I said firmly because I would be working. But I also understood she needed reassurance. It was a risk. A big change. And there’d been a lot of that in my life. We clicked off, but I didn’t leave my spot at the window. Everything looked normal. Living alone in a new house, in a new state, I knew I was being paranoid. And yet… I could’ve sworn I heard something… With a sigh of frustration, I went to the door and cracked it open. No one. I was about to close it when I saw the folded paper taped to the wood. I snagged it to see Mac written in unfamiliar handwriting. My shoulders loosened as I opened it. An equally unfamiliar phone number was followed by a short note. Call or text if you need anything, neighbor. -Ward Ward. Not Hollywood. When he’d left the day before, I hadn’t meant to call him by his real name since he’d said everyone called him Hollywood. But it’d just slipped out. It suited him. But the nickname did, too. He had movie-star good looks. Not the classical kind of someone who’d always play the hero. He was too rough. Too masculine. Too dangerous. He’d be the villain. Or maybe the antihero. Yeah. The antihero. In the fictional movie I casted in my head, he’d be breaking bottles in a bar fight to protect his woman. And I’d be asleep in my bed across town. Because even in my imagination, I was ...

Returning to the kitchen, I used a faded peach magnet to hang Ward’s note on the avocado-green fridge. At least I thought it was a peach. It could’ve been a flower. Or a butt. I took off my rubber gloves and washed my hands before getting my leftovers from the fridge. When I popped the take-out container into the tiny microwave, I leaned back and closed my eyes. I relaxed my shoulders, unclenched my jaw, and cleared my busy mind. I inhaled deeply. And my eyes snapped open. The spaghetti and roasted veggies with marinara that I’d had delivered the night before had been fine. Decent, but not great. Veggies would never take the place of meatballs, and they certainly wouldn’t travel well. But they were full of good nutrients and the spaghetti had satisfied my noodle craving, so it’d been a win. At the heavenly smell that filled my nose, I wondered if maybe the flavor had increased as it sat overnight. It certainly smelled like it had. Much to my crushing disappointment, it soon became obvious that it wasn’t reheated pasta I smelled. It was something else traveling through the windows I’d cracked to dissipate the harsh cleaning fumes. Dammit. I slammed the windows shut before grabbing the plastic dish from the microwave. I poked at the noodles with a fork as I glared down at them. While the meal had been good enough the night before, it’d somehow turned both too mushy and too dry at the same time. It didn’t matter that I was starving, I couldn’t force myself to take a bite. My ...

All laughter on the other side of the fence cut off, and I cringed. I would’ve run inside if I was capable of getting up quickly. I was tempted to crawl my pregnant ass across the overgrown lawn, but I was too slow. And it was too late. “Mac?” a deep voice rumbled. I didn’t answer. I didn’t move. I barely breathed. Maybe he’ll think it came from a different direction. Or it was the wind. Or a bird. The Massachusetts Sneezing Weirdo bird, of the Tit family. “Mac,” he said again, just with no question in the tone. And from much closer. Way too close. I tipped my head back and brought my hand up to shield my eyes from the sun. It was unnecessary. The handsome wall peering over the fence did a good job of blocking out pretty much everything. “Oh, hey,” I said, playing it cool. As cool as lava. “What’s up?” “The fuck you doing?” I held up the plastic container. “Eating lunch.” “On the ground?” “Have you never heard of a picnic?” He raised a brow. “On the ground right next to my fence?” “Back support. It’s important for pregnant women.” That time, he didn’t verbally speak. But the pointed way he looked toward the garden bench, the small patio table and chair, and then back to me said everything. I cringed. “I’ll ask again, Mac… The fuck you doing?” “My food tastes awful—” “I can believe that ’cause it looks like shit, too.” “And whatever you’re cooking smells so good,” I continued like I hadn’t heard his insult—however truthful it may have been. “I thought if I was smelling your...

Standing, I headed for the fence door as a tattooed arm reached over to unlock and swing it open. “You didn’t have to come over here,” I said. “I can manage this long, treacherous walk.” “Never said you couldn’t.” He stood back so I could exit. “Did you get my note?” “Yeah, thanks. That was neighborly of you.” “Never know when you’ll need a cup of sugar.” He snagged the plastic container from my hand and sneered. “Or edible food.” I craned my neck to scowl up at him. “Stop insulting my food. How do you know I didn’t cook it?” He placed a hand on my lower back to turn me toward his fence door that was right next to mine. “Did you?” “No.” A victorious smile started to curve his mouth until I added, “That’s better than I could do. I’m a shitty cook.” Like he thought that was hilarious and not a shortcoming, I got another of his deep laughs. Even if I was confused—and slightly envious—by how easily he was able to do that, I enjoyed how it looked up close. For a second, at least. Then I tore my eyes away just to see I wasn’t the only one staring. When I’d gotten dressed that morning, it’d been for comfort. For cleaning. For not seeing another living soul. My black leggings and tee weren’t bad—though they smelled like the chemically citrus cleaner—but they certainly didn’t match the level of attractiveness I was looking at. There was only one other woman, and she was stunning. A total smokeshow in biker boots paired with a white crop top and a pretty pink skirt—an odd mix that w...

When I didn’t move, Ward tugged one of the chairs out and touched my shoulder. I jolted before sitting as he tossed my lunch down on the table. “What do you want to drink? Got Coke, water, club soda. I can make you a nonalcoholic margarita—” I must’ve visibly perked up at that because he raised his chin. “Got it.” “No, water is fine.” He ignored me as he headed through the open sliding glass door. Judge stood and gripped Ophelia’s chin to tilt it up. “Hollywood said he stocked your pineapple vodka. You want that?” At her nod, he kissed the top of her head. “You got it, princess.” God. My heart. “Don’t bother fighting it,” Ophelia said, confusing me for a second. “They’re typical Mayhem men.” I knew what she meant because of the emblem on the back of the leather vests, but she explained anyway. “It’s their motorcycle club, and I think being bossy is part of the criteria to get patched in.” “I learned that yesterday.” At her raised brow, I explained, “When I was unloading the moving van, Ward tried to make me sit while he did it all.” “‘Tried’? You mean he didn’t get his way for once?” “No.” I raised my chin and fought to keep a straight face. “I stood while he did it.” “I bet he didn’t know what to do with himself,” Ophelia said with a laugh, making me lose the battle as I smiled. “How do you think I felt? I was losing a battle with a stuck tote, and suddenly there’s a wall of tattooed stranger ordering me to rest.” I shrugged. “But Ward unloaded it faster than I could’ve, ...

“It’s a great neighborhood. Safe and quiet.” She tilted her head toward the men. “Minus a little Mayhem. Plus, the houses are great for a little family…” Unlike Ward, she didn’t come right out and ask where my man was, but I could tell she wanted to. I didn’t know if it was the friendly vibe, the impending food, or the virgin margarita that was in the works. Whatever the reason, I answered her unasked question in a roundabout way. My hand moved to my stomach. “It’s the perfect size for me and Squish.” Strangers’ reactions to my pregnancy could be split into two groups. The first group was far too nosy, offering unsolicited advice and insensitive warnings about the sleepless nights to come. As if the unknown wasn’t terrifying enough. The second group didn’t even acknowledge my pregnancy until I brought it up. My water could break in front of them, and they still wouldn’t make any comment unless I did. Ophelia seemed to fall into the second group. Because once I mentioned Squish, all bets were off. Her small smile grew as she openly looked at my stomach for the first time—no more furtive glances. “How far along are you?” “Twenty-three weeks.” “That’s so exciting. Do you know what you’re having?” I shook my head, a cloud of emotions threatening to push in. Memories and plans and dreams. “It’s supposed to be a surprise.” “That makes it so much more exciting. Do you have a doctor here already? If not, I can give you a list of recommendations.” The pieces belatedly clicked toget...

Between Ward being neighborly and Ophelia being all kinds of friendly, it was almost more than I could stand. Before I could flee to my house like a hormonal freak, Ward and Judge returned. Even then, I was tempted to make up an excuse but quickly forgot my panic when a majestic margarita was set in front of me, blended and rimmed with salt. It didn’t even matter that it was missing the most important ingredient—booze—it was still refreshing. It was also a lot of effort for someone to go through just to make me feel included.

Ward took the seat next to me and pulled the container of spaghetti in front of him. “Can’t believe you were eating this shit.” I had no clue why I felt the need to defend my crappy lunch, but I did. “It’s not bad.” “It’s worse.” “It’s fine.” He scooped up a mix of veggies and noodles clumped together. Using the same fork that’d been in my mouth, he took a massive bite. His face instantly contorted, and I thought for sure he’d spit it out. He didn’t, but he did make a big show of forcing the mouthful down before chugging half his beer. “Fuck, that was nasty.” “You’re so dramatic,” I told him with my own dramatic eye roll. “No wonder you were trying to smell my cooking.” “Haze is the one cooking,” Judge pointed out. Ward waved away the valid point. “Semantics. I did the hard part.” He used the fork to lift the sad, soggy veggies. “Why the hell would you torture yourself with this shit?” I patted my stomach. “Balanced diets are important for pregnancy.” “And flavor isn’t a balanced diet?” “It has flavor.” “Bad.” He tossed the container into a nearby garbage bag. “The flavor it has is bad.” Before I could think up a comeback—or a lie because Ward was absolutely correct—Haze turned off the grill. “Come get it before I knock off a rack of ribs myself.” Ward stood. I was about to follow when he put a hand on my shoulder. At my questioning look, he said, “Relax, I’ll fix it. Want yours to go?” I should’ve said yes. I had chores to get back to if I wanted my house ready for work o...

“So there he was,” Ophelia forced out through her barely contained laughter, “in the kitchen. Naked. But not completely. Because he still wore his leather cut and his boots. But other than that, naked and hanging free.” “Hanging low. Hanging down. Hanging long,” I drawled, well on my way to drunk and stupid. Judge held up his pinky and wiggled it. “No one is talking to you,” I bit out. “Or about you. I can whip it—” Mac put her hand over my mouth, muffling my shit-talk. “Continue. Then what happened?” “Okay, so here’s the backstory you have to know,” O said, gesturing with her cup and causing some of the vodka and soda to slosh out. “Before Judge and I were us, I walked into the kitchen and saw him… adjusting himself in front of a Mrs. Butterworth syrup bottle.” “I’d been thinkin’ of O,” Judge clarified. “Not the plastic bottle’s tits.” “Sure, sure,” Mac muttered, making me chuckle. “But I like to give him a hard time about the moment he had with that syrup slut. So as a wedding present, the brothers gave him a life-sized cardboard cutout replica of the bottle.” The pieces began to click together in Mac’s head. Her gaze went between O and me. “Naked with the cardboard cutout?” “Gets worse,” I freely admitted. I had no shame. “Worse? Were there unfortunate papercuts?” I hissed and shifted in my seat, the phantom pain at that thought feeling damn real. “He was asleep on the cutout while spooning the actual bottle. And there was syrup…” O’s gaze pointedly dropped before comin...

I snagged empties and walked inside. I hadn’t even realized Judge followed until the door slid closed behind me. After petting Dumpster, he leaned against the doorway and crossed his arms and ankles. “She’s nice.” “Seems it,” I agreed as I grabbed ice and tossed it in my blender with the margarita mix. Once it was done, Judge said, “Should still tread lightly. Old lady Anderson—” “Was a stranger to her. And I’m not gonna be a dick to her just ’cause her aunt was a raging cunt to me. She’s pregnant, her man is dead, and like you said, she’s still nice even with all that. I’m not spilling Mayhem secrets over potato salad. I’m just making sure she feels like she has someone friendly around.” Judge lifted his hands. “Fair enough. Just don’t want your ass getting hauled off to jail ’cause she doesn’t like the way you mow your lawn.” “It was the way I watered it,” I corrected. Months may have passed, but my anger stoked at the memory of Mrs. Anderson gleefully watching my place get searched by hazmat and cops for the chemical warfare she’d sworn I had. Judge moved to grab the vodka. After a long moment, he asked, “Her man’s dead?” I lifted my chin, thinking about the haunted look in her eyes the day before. “Shit, that sucks.” Judge usually went heavy-handed on O’s drinks while he milked a beer or two. Instead, he went light before filling the rest with soda. O was tipsy, but she wasn’t drunk. Definitely not sloppy drunk. I was drunker than she was. At my raised brow, he smirked...

“All okay?” “Lash says there’s a message on the voicemail from Mr. Danes. Apparently, he’d like to offer payment to ensure none of our recordings are made public.” After I slept for nearly twenty hours, I’d woken up to the update that I hadn’t missed out on any fun. Jury, Scythe, and Haze showing up during his party had been enough to make him cooperate. They hadn’t even had to resort to any fun violence to get their warning across. Glitch hadn’t needed to, but he’d done it anyway—backhanding Danes so hard, his cheek had torn. Since the footage we’d captured while tailing him showed Danes engaging in a lot of sex and douchebaggery, there was a long list of people he wouldn’t want to see that. The top likely being his wife’s divorce attorney. The footage from the panel in his office showed him financially abusing his wife by openly refusing her access to her own documents and money every time she asked. It also showed him hiring escorts who did not come cheap—pun intended—so there was an even longer list of people he wouldn’t want to see that. The top two being his wife’s divorce attorney and the cops. He wasn’t gonna fight Mrs. Danes on the divorce or custody. It was a win. “What’re you gonna tell him?” I asked. “Jack-shit. I don’t owe him a response. Mrs. Danes and her attorney already have the footage. If it magically ends up plastered on the internet or emailed to his entire contact list…” He shrugged and grinned a cocky prick grin. “Couldn’t have happened to a more des...

“She doesn’t get it. She’s a total bitch.” “Everly,” I drawled, not bothering to suppress the sigh in my voice. To be fair, she didn’t, either. Except a dramatic eye roll accompanied her sigh. I could clearly see it despite my laggy computer screen. Actually, I was beginning to suspect I could clearly see it because it was a video call and not in-person. She’d never done anything like that before, but the online aspect seemed to make her feel more comfortable expressing herself. Albeit in a slightly disrespectful manner. Since I’d met with her a handful of times, and it was the first time she’d opened up, it was a win in my book. “Fine,” Everly said, flopping onto the pile of giant stuffed animals I kept in my office—or what used to be my office. “She seems like she doesn’t get it. And she acts like a total… witch.” Someone’s actions in a singular moment didn’t label them who they were. Or who they would always be. Someone could act like a bitch in heightened moments, but that didn’t make them a bitch. That said, Everly’s mom really was a total bitch. I didn’t say that, though.

I tried to make Everly see things from an empathetic point of view. “Put yourself in her position. She sees her little girl—” “I’m not a little girl,” Everly snapped. “I know that. You know that. But she’s your mom. To her, you’ll always be her little girl. And she sees you dating a guy who isn’t always the best for you.” “Yeah, he is. You and Mom don’t get it. Things were different back in your day,” she said, as if my day were decades ago. “Aaron’s not a bad guy. It’s just how relationships are now. They’re… situation-ships. Nothing is serious, and I just need to not be such a clingy pick-me.” “No,” I said firmly. “You’re right, Aaron isn’t a bad guy for wanting a casual relationship. No one says people have to be exclusive. But that only works if you are both in agreement and both following the same rules.” “We are.” “You’re not. You can’t force yourself to be okay with Aaron dating other people. That doesn’t make you clingy, it just means you want different things.” I braced for her to end the call when I pushed on the crux of the problem and why I’d become involved. “You’ve quit all your extracurricular activities for him. Your grades have slipped. That’s not healthy or fair, Ev.” “Love isn’t fair, Mac,” she cried, tossing one of the stuffed animals across the room in a fit of teenage angst. “It’s about sacrifices and pain and everything else.” “Not like that, Ev. And any sacrifices should be equal. He expects you to dedicate all your time and energy to him while he i...

My first week working from home had been a wild success. Well, minus that Monday. After staying too long at the cookout, my redecorating plans fell behind schedule. I’d been fortunate that Alice’s aunt had left behind a beautiful wooden desk in the corner of the living room. Since that sucker was too heavy to move, I’d tried to set a nice background. Tried. There was only so much I could do when even the wallpaper was ugly as sin. Every student I video-chatted with that first day had roasted me like a marshmallow over Ward’s fire pit. I didn’t care. That kind of joking was how teenagers showed affection and acceptance. Like hazing. I was pretty sure. Maybe. Hopefully. That was what I told myself, at least. After that first day—and a ton of cleaning—things had slowly begun to settle. The students seemed to prefer the virtual meetings. I got follow-up emails from students who’d ghosted me. At the request of one student, I’d created a messaging number so I could text without having to share my actual phone number. I’d expected to be inundated with inappropriate or prank messages, but I hadn’t. Well, not yet. Instead, it’d opened another avenue of communication that the kids felt mo...

“You’re a prick. A fuckin’ bootlicker, kiss-ass without a brain in his damn skull.” I didn’t say anything. The bastard was baiting me, and I wasn’t about to bite. I’d already happily beat his ass until he would piss, shit, and puke blood. Or he would’ve, if he was going to be alive that long. ’Cause once Nox arrived, the pathetic bastard tied to the chair wouldn’t survive the night. He knew it, too. That was why he was pushing me to kill him. To get it over with. Killian Nox was a friend to Mayhem, going back to his high school days when he ran the streets with Judge and Jury. Like us, he worked in the gray—though his was darker. He was a finder. People. Objects. Information. Similar to a PI, just with a metric fuck-ton more weaponry, manpower, and murder. On occasion, he helped our clients disappear from their monsters. Or helped us find the monsters and drag them into the light. He also loaned out his men when we needed backup. In return, we helped him with whatever his case called for. Information. Added muscle and manpower. Transport. Sniveling minion retrieval.

ignoring the fucker’s insults as I thought about dinner. Pizza, probably. I hadn’t been home since Monday, so whatever food I had in my fridge likely resembled a science experiment gone bad. Or blue cheese gone good. Either way, I didn’t wanna eat that shit. Since I had to swing by the clubhouse to retrieve Dumpster from O’s care, I’d raid that fridge first. Nothing went better with greasy pizza than toasted waffles. Or Swedes’s leftover fried chicken. Fuck, Nox better hurry up, or I’m gonna start getting hangry. Maybe I can convince Mac to come over for pizza. I’d taken off early Monday to work the job as a favor to Nox. I’d known it could take a while till I figured out which rat was the king rat. I just hadn’t known it’d take all damn week. Even though I hadn’t given her a heads-up I’d be gone, Mac hadn’t texted. Not that I’d expected her to. I’d never in my damn life met someone so stubbornly independent. Swear to Christ, it’d been like pulling teeth just to get her to come to the cookout. Was I that fuckin’ boring? That hideous to look at? That much of a cocky dickhead to be around? Fuck. My ego couldn’t take it. Especially ’cause I sure as shit didn’t think any of that about her. She was smart and funny and honest. And since I had eyes that worked and a brain in my head, I was also aware she was hot. Her being pregnant didn’t change a damn thing about that. I hadn’t expected it, but I’d had fun with her at my cookout. I liked the way she treated me—like a person and ...

Footsteps grew louder as they grew closer. The dickwad in the chair looked close to the pissing-shitting-puking part of the evening. Nox and one of his boys came into the room. Matt stopped just inside the door, taking his station as a stony sentry. Nox continued toward me, ignoring his prey in the chair. I’d like to say he focused on me for my charming personality and irresistible dimples, but it wasn’t that. It was a torture tactic that the ruthless, bearded bastard loved to use. Make his enemy sweat. Draw it out. The morbid anticipation and sick suspense became almost corporal as it filled the room. “Ay,” he greeted, forcing casual as he gave me a shoulder slap. “How’s it going?” “Can’t complain. How’s the wifey?” Nothing about the way he grinned was forced. “Fookin’ perfection. Fookin’ magic.” That was all he said about his pregnant wife, but it said enough. Ophelia wasn’t a Mayhem brother, but she was closer than some prospects or nomads. She went on runs, helped where needed, and Judge didn’t hold shit back if she asked. Nox’s wife, Augusta—or Gus—wasn’t like that. She preferred not to know the specifics, and he happily obliged. He didn’t want his shadows touching her sunshine. Like Judge and Ophelia, their system worked for them. “Getting excited?” I asked. “Getting busy.” At my brow raise, Nox shook his head as he ran a hand across his red beard. “Not like that, you fookin’ muppet. She’s got me rearranging the apartment, painting, all that shit. She’ll get it perfe...

guy in the chair started whimpering, but we both ignored it. If Nox was after him, it was because he deserved to suffer. And since I’d found him trying to roofie drinks in a douchebag bar, he deserved worse than whatever hell Nox was gonna put him through. Instead, I asked about the missing member of Nox’s usual trio. “Where’s Beck?” Matt gave a muffled laugh from his spot by the door. Nox shot me a deadpan look, already channeling his disappointed dad vibe. “Benched at my warehouse.” “Grounded,” Matt put in before going back to robotic. Every Mayhem brother had been benched at some point for already being too drunk, too high, or too exhausted when an impromptu job came in. Or for getting too heated, too invested, or too murderous when a job hit hard. But I’d never seen Matt or Beck step outta line. Hell, I barely saw them show emotion. Definitely nothing that’d get them pulled. “What for?” I asked. “Got a little too happy with a chef’s torch,” Nox said. Swedes had one of those from his days in the kitchen. He used it to light blunts, but it’d been for dessert. “Making a crème brûlée?” “Burning a fooker’s nipples off.” I could almost feel the phantom burn. “Shit.” “He got carried away, and my warehouse went up in flames before we even got the answers we needed.” Nox shook his head. “Real estate market is a bitch right now. Can’t have him incinerating my properties when there’s a shortage just ’cause the crazy bastard gets off on it.” I grimaced. It was no secret that Beck ...

What the fuck is that smell? If I didn’t know any better, I’d think Beck was nearby, burning nipples. When I climbed out of my car, the scent of smoke and burning garbage hit my nostrils worse than a right hook to the nose. I checked the hood of my car for signs of damage before walking around to see if I’d hit something and dragged it home. Like a decaying skunk. Coming up empty, I grabbed Dumpster and put her inside before searching for a fire. I followed the smell toward my backyard before stopping outside the gate. Light smoke billowed out of Mac’s back window. I ran around to the front, not bothering to knock as I threw the door open. Pure terror filled Mac’s face as she dropped the baking sheet she carried and screamed. “It’s me.” As if that meant anything. As if I had the right to be in there. I moved past her to check the kitchen, expecting flames or toxic chemicals or something to explain the nauseating smell. There was nothing. “What the hell are you doing in here?” Mac hissed, her hand to her chest. “Thought your house was on fire.” “Oh my God.” When I turned around to check her over, her face was bright red. The hair in her messy bun stuck out everywhere. Her cute as hell heart pajamas were coated in the same whatever that smudged her cheeks. And her dark eyes were wide as she blinked up at me. Beep! Beep! Beep! Her eyes widened farther as she practically jumped out of her damn skin. She didn’t move, her face contorting. I reached up and grabbed the smoke detec...

“The fuck happened?” “I was trying to cook dinner.” “What dinner?” ’Cause all I saw were burned… somethings. They looked how they smelled—like old, burned jock straps. She gestured to whatever those lumps were next to the dropped baking tray. “Cauliflower steaks.” Cauliflower. That made sense. “Where’re the steaks?” I’d planned on pizza, but if the steaks were still edible, I’d be good with that. “There are none. It’s cauliflower steaks.” It didn’t matter how much she repeated the words or how slow she said them, my brain couldn’t comprehend the idea of cauliflower being a steak. No way in hell. “You tried to make a vegetable into a steak?” I asked, fuckin’ horrified. I just walked out of an inevitable murder scene, but this is the true crime. “They’re supposed to be delicious if they’re cooked right,” she snapped defensively. “Mac, you could’ve cooked them exactly as the recipe stated, and they’d still be shit ’cause they’re cauliflower.” “They’re healthy.” “They’re shit.” I went to clean up the mess, ignoring her protests. The outside of the hunks of cauliflower resembled a full ashtray. Even with the charred and crumbling exterior, when the pieces broke, the inside was still raw. No one wanted a cauliflower steak, and they sure as shit didn’t want a rare one. “I don’t get it,” Mac said, scrolling on her phone. “I cooked it exactly.” I dumped the load in the garbage can and swiped her phone from her hold. “Give me that.” She reached for it, but I dodged away. “These were...

her sitting on the couch, a medical drama on TV. It’d been a while since I’d caught the reruns in the middle of the night, but I remembered it having a wordless theme song. Yet as it played, she quietly mouthed along. “What’re you singing?” I asked, making her jump. She opened her mouth, the denial on her tongue before she shook her head. “Whatever, this night can’t get any more embarrassing.” With a sigh, she paused the show. “I made up lyrics about touching butts for the song. Any further questions?” Yeah. Why the fuck are you so goddamn cute? I didn’t think she’d appreciate the question or my word choice, so I kept it to myself. “Thought you said you just went shopping.” “I did.” “Then where the hell’s the rest of your food?” She rolled her eyes at me. “I’m one woman, Ward.” “A pregnant woman.” Not that I knew what that meant beyond the pickles with ice cream cravings they showed on TV. I thought it was all about moderation and shit, but I must’ve been wrong. Her fridge was nothing but lean meats, vegetables, and more vegetables. She did have the pickles, but no ice cream in sight. “I have to eat healthy.” She put her hand on her stomach and looked down at it, her face solemn and her voice soft. “Squish counts on me.” Fuckin’ hell, damn, shit. The wind was knocked from my lungs, my chest tightened, and my gut twisted like I’d gone four rounds with a kicking donkey. I bottled all that shit up and focused on what was important. Finding Mac and Squish something healthy to ...

Something smelled good. With one foot still in the Uber, I inhaled again as my mouth watered. I was wrong. Something smelled amazing. And I bet I knew who was responsible. Climbing out of the Uber, I closed the car door and walked toward my house. Every step was a battle, and not just because my muscles ached from overdoing it. I was fighting the urge to veer into my neighbor’s backyard where the delicious scent was undoubtedly emanating from. Between the barbecue feast followed by pizza the night before, Ward had fed me enough. More than enough. I had leftover slices for at least a couple of days. I wasn’t going to intrude again. I had plans, anyway. Going inside, I dumped my load of replacement spices and cookie sheets onto the couch before grabbing the one from the small hardware store I’d impulsively stopped at. I pulled out the paper strips I’d collected. I wasn’t going to paint. That was a waste of time, money, and energy—none of which I had to spare. But I could pick paint colors and pass my suggestions on to Alice. Hopefully, that would calm my desire to go all HGTV on the place. It would be fun to imagine. To pretend. Taking the swatches and tape, I moved into the living room and held them up until I found a very light sage. I tapped that one before adding a blue-gray below it. I moved on to the bathroom, adding possible colors there. I had a lot of options. Anything was better than the teddy bear wallpaper. I forced myself to do a little more before giving up. I ...

I didn’t hear any voices. No friendly banter or shit-talk. Not even footsteps or movement. Carefully, I dragged the garden bench over to the fence and climbed up to stand on it. I was barely tall enough to see over into the empty yard. Something was definitely on the grill, the savory scent wafting up in the smoke, but the lid was closed. Well shit. Now what? “The fuck are you doing?” I jolted at the barked question and lost my footing. Had I been on a chair, I’d likely have toppled backward. Since I was on the sturdy bench, I simply stepped off and landed on my feet. “Christ, Mac!” Before I could let Ward know I was fine, the crazy man came vaulting over the fence. “How’d you—” “Are you okay?” His large hands cupped my cheeks as his panicked eyes scanned me. “I’m fine.” “The baby. Did you hit your stomach? Do you need to call 911? Did you fall?” “The baby is fine. I didn’t fall or hit my stomach. Everything is okay.” His shoulders visibly loosened. The concern. The panic. The relief. Tears filled my eyes, and the muscles that’d just relaxed in his body went taut again. “What’s wrong? Does something hurt?” “No, I’m…” I shook my head, dislodging his hold as I swiped at the tears and let out a self-deprecating laugh. “Just hormonal

“What were you doing up there?” His words were softer and gentler than his original question, though I got the feeling he wanted to bark it again. “I was looking for you.” That made him freeze. “Why?” “To say hi. Be neighborly.” He didn’t believe my bullshit for a single second. An arrogant smile spread across his face. “You want to know what I’m grilling.” “No,” I lied. “I smelled the food and figured you were out here, so I came to say hi.” “That’s it?” “That’s it.” “Okay.” Phew. He watched me for a long moment. “I gotta go pull the steaks off the grill.” Not phew. Un-phew. Opposite of phew. I salivated so much, I could’ve reversed a drought. “Real steak,” he added, teasing me with the food and the disdain in his voice. “None of that cauliflower shit.” “Sounds delicious,” I forced out. “Should be.” Another cocky smirk. “Steaks are my specialty.” He turned to leave, heading for the fence door instead of Olympic hurdling back over. My manners—fine, mostly my pride—wanted to let him go, but I couldn’t. “Ward.” He stopped and turned around, his brow raised expectantly. I inhaled deeply. “If you have leftovers…” “Made this for both of us.” My stomach warmed and swirled, and not jus...

wanna watch your show while we eat?” he asked. After we’d finished eating pizza the night before, he’d stuck around to stream a couple of old episodes of House. He was a shitty TV companion. He didn’t binge the way I did, so he had questions. A lot of them. But he also made a lot of jokes. He made interesting commentary. He made popcorn—and not the microwaved kind. He’d run home to get the kernels that cooked on the stove. I could forgive talking through the episodes if good snacks were involved. At my nod, he gave me a cool, badass one of his own. “I’ll be over in ten.” As he returned to his place, I wen...

At the knock on the door, my heart clenched, and my stomach fluttered in a way that had little to do with Squish. I’d thought our Friday dinner had been a one-time thing before he’d surprised me with steaks on Saturday. Eating delicious food and watching TV with him was a fun time. A great time. Probably one of the best I’d had in a while—dethroning the cookout. I hadn’t been expecting him to show up again for another round of dinner and binge. But I’d hoped. I opened the door to see Ward in his usual ensemble of worn jeans, long-sleeved tee, leather cut, and biker boots. In his hand was a plastic bag that he handed to me. “What’s up?” I asked. “Got some work to handle but wanted to drop off dinner.” Like all our conversations, I didn’t ask about his work, and he didn’t volunteer any information. He did, however, always ask about my work—though never anything that was too invasive of my kids’ privacy. Just how my day was, what I did, how I felt. It was very one-sided. As was our dinner arrangement, which seemed to entail him ordering or bringing me meals. Like the bag I held. “What is it?” “Comfort food.” I believed it because just the smell was warm and inviting and soothing. “Thanks.” “Welcome, neighbor.” He turned and jogged off my porch before adding, “Don’t watch our show without me.” “Can’t make any promises,” I called back. But when I ate, I did it while watching something else. It was the least I could do in return for the best fried chicken and sides I’d ever had.

“Hey, neighbor,” Ward greeted as he pushed through the door I cracked open. He kept going, carrying whatever into the kitchen. I followed, watching speechlessly as he opened my cupboards and pulled out plates and utensils. “You watch our show last night?” When I didn’t answer, he turned. “Mac.” “What?” I gave my head a little shake. “What’re you doing?” “Plating up dinner. Greek chicken.” I should’ve argued. He didn’t need to bring me food every night. I had a perfectly acceptable frozen dinner that I could microwave, no actual cooking necessary. He especially didn’t need to waste his night hanging out with me. I liked being alone. It wasn’t a big deal. But as I watched him plate up a fresh batch of the grilled romaine, I pressed my lips together. I would tell him to knock it off. Later. After dinner. And popcorn.