Shadow & Soul (The Night Horde SoCal Book 2) Page 3

  She smiled back, and for a timeless second, they just looked at each other.

  Then his eyes fell, and the moment was gone. “See ya,” he said again, and this time when he turned, he didn’t pause. Faith watched him walk back to the shop.

  She knew he’d never touch her. No man ever would, not as long as her father was anywhere within striking distance—and certainly no man in the club would come near her, even if she were of age. But if anybody ever would, she knew she wanted it to be him.

  Michael.

  CHAPTER TWO

  “PA! PA! PAPAPAPAPAPAPA! PA!”

  Demon’s eyes flew open at the sounds of his son’s shrieks, magnified by the baby monitor sitting on the bedside table. He didn’t really need the monitor; his room and Tucker’s were separated only by a bathroom, but Bibi had bought it, and he felt better having it around.

  Without bothering to put on a shirt, Demon stumbled through the walkthrough bathroom—Bibi had called this a ‘Jack and Jill suite,’ but he didn’t know why—and into his son’s room. He was standing in his crib sobbing, his face red. The room reeked of urine and sweat.

  Fuck. Another night terror. What was going on in that two-year-old head that had made this happen? What had he seen already?

  Demon knew the horrors a foster kid could see and experience. He knew them firsthand and intimately. But Tucker had only been away from family for a few weeks, and Sid, Muse’s old lady, who was a social worker and had once been Tucker’s caseworker, had told Demon that his first placement had been a good one. His second placement was here, with family. Until Demon could get custody of him himself.

  Tucker’s worst home had been with his own junkie gash of a mother. If he’d seen anything to break his little mind, it had been with her.

  Seeing his father, Tucker raised his arms, and his shrieking intensified. Demon went to him and picked him up, holding him close, ignoring the sopping wet that had maxed out Tucker’s diaper and soaked his pajamas. Once he had his arms around his son, the shrieking settled into hiccupping gasps, and Tucker let his head drop to his father’s shoulder.

  “Hey, hey, Motor Man. It’s okay. Pa’s here.” He’d thought he’d be ‘Dad’ or ‘Daddy,’ but Tucker called him ‘Pa.’ Since Tucker hardly talked at all, Demon wasn’t about to try to change it.

  “Pa,” his son sighed.

  “Bad dreams, buddy?”

  Tucker nodded, his sweaty hair ruffling against Demon’s bare shoulder. His little body was still racked with those hiccupping gasps.

  “Okay. Let’s get you into the bath and get you cleaned up.” He carried Tucker into the bathroom and set him on the floor, then turned the tub faucet on and massaged the taps until he had a good temperature. Tucker busied himself in the cupboard under the sink, pulling out plastic boats and rubber ducks and other animals.

  “C’mere, buddy. Let’s get that thing off you.”

  Tucker shook his head, giving his father a determined look. His eyes were still wet from his tears, but his heavy gasps were fading out. His terror was behind him.

  “Boats.” He hit the ‘T’ extra hard. His speech therapist was working with him on completing his word sounds or something like that.

  The thought of his kid getting worked over by a ‘therapist,’ even a ‘speech therapist,’ made Demon’s stomach hurt. No ‘therapist’ had ever done anything for him but make his life harder. And it had never been a walk in the fucking park to begin with. But Tucker’s new caseworker, Rex, said it was ‘strongly recommended,’ and Bibi, who was Tucker’s official legal guardian, told him that he really wasn’t talking like he should be, and that doing what the caseworker recommended would help Demon’s case to get custody for himself.

  So twice a week either Bibi or Demon took Tucker to ‘go play with Miss Kathy.’ And Demon supposed maybe it was helping. He did have more words now, anyway. Sometimes even little sentences.

  He turned off the faucet and added a couple of drops of lavender oil, which smelled weird, but not exactly bad, and Bibi had said it would be soothing after a night terror. As he swirled his hand in the warm water, moving the oil around, he said. “Okay. Bring your boats.”

  Tucker grinned at him, and Demon’s heart did a thing it only did when his son looked at him like that—like he was a good guy. Like Tucker loved him. Like he trusted him.

  He was sure he didn’t deserve that. He knew he was loved—by Bibi and Hoosier, by his brothers, by his son. He held that knowledge, and the love he felt for all of them, close. But most people, even those who loved him, kept a shade of wariness in their eyes, too. That, he knew he deserved. He had trouble controlling himself when he got emotional. He’d only ever really hurt one person he cared about, physically at least: Tucker’s mom. And by the time he’d hurt her, they hadn’t cared about each other at all. But still, he’d almost killed her.

  It didn’t matter that she’d known she was pushing all his bright-red buttons over and over; it didn’t matter that she’d done it to fuck him up, that she’d hated him so much by then that she’d been willing to take the weight of his fists just so she could bring him down. He’d beaten her almost to death, and that was the biggest reason that he was sitting on the floor in Bibi and Hoosier’s ‘Jack and Jill’ bathroom, basically babysitting his own son.

  The people who loved him knew what he was capable of. So their love was tinged with caution.

  Tucker was the only person in his life who’d ever looked at him with open trust.

  No. Not true. One other. But not for a very long time. And he hadn’t deserved that trust at all.

  He would deserve his son’s trust. Whatever he had to do, he would be strong and steady, calm and controlled with his boy. He would eat his gun before he’d hurt Tucker—or allow anyone else to, ever again.

  And that was why he would hurt Tucker’s mother again—and this time on purpose—if she ever crossed his path again. She’d disappeared right after DCFS took Tucker from her, and that was the one smart move that cunt had ever made.

  ~oOo~

  After he washed Tucker, and himself, up, Demon let him play in the bath while he went back into the bedroom and changed the crib bedding. He gathered up the soiled pajamas and bedclothes and made a little bundle on the bathroom floor. He’d get them in the wash once Tucker was back in bed.

  The lavender oil was supposed to be soothing, and Tucker was indeed calm and happy as Demon drained the tub and wrapped him up in a towel, but he was wide awake. It was the middle of the night, and Demon was opening at the bike shop in the morning. Since the club had gone outlaw again, he was doing long shifts at Virtuoso Cycles, picking up repair and maintenance jobs his brothers didn’t have time for.

  They were doing all they could to help him keep his nose clean. Though he’d loved the outlaw life, and he’d needed the release that kind of work had given him, he’d been frantic and furious when the club had voted to go back to it. That life had to be behind him. Now he had to focus on his kid. He had to stay out of the fray. He could not get arrested again, and he absolutely could not do time again.

  They all understood, so now he was all but managing the bike shop. And making about half the bank his brothers were. But it was worth it, if it meant he could finally get custody and get DCFS out of their fucking lives.

  Once he had Tucker in a clean diaper and pajamas, he carried him out to the kitchen. “You want some milk, Motor Man?” Warm milk seemed to make Tucker sleepy. At almost three in the morning, Demon wasn’t averse to a little trickery.

  Tucker nodded, and Demon got to work, taking down a small saucepan from the rack hanging over Bibi’s island and pouring a little whole milk into it, all while Tucker rested on his hip. He’d come to understand why women always seemed to jut a hip out when they held a child. They were making a ledge. Demon’s hips didn’t work that way, so he kept his arm under his son’s little bottom, and Tucker held on with his legs and arms.

  When Demon turned the gas flame on under the saucepan, Tucker tensed,
his blue eyes wide. “No, Tuck! Hot! Hot!” he said, his little voice emphatic. He shook a hand as if he’d just touched a hot thing and then blew hard on his fingers, his cheeks puffing out.

  Demon smiled and caught those fingers in his hand and brought them to his lips for a kiss. “That’s right. The stove is hot, huh? Only big people can touch it.” A couple of weeks ago, Tucker had touched his fingertips to a pot on the stove. Bibi had been about a second too slow to stop him. He’d ended up with blisters on the tips of three fingers, and Demon had been terrified that Rex, or Miss Kathy, or somebody would use that as a reason to take him from Bibi and Hoosier. Rex had asked about it, but nobody had made it into a deal. Kids got hurt sometimes.

  And Demon felt better that even a fantastic mom like Bibi could screw up once in awhile.

  As he poured warmed milk into one of Tucker’s sippy cups, he noticed a tented piece of paper on the counter—from the magnetic pad Bibi kept on the side of the fridge for her grocery list. On it, she’d written, Had to go out. Might be away until breakfast. If so, will call. No worries, though. Love you, B.

  Demon set the paper back down and finished preparing Tucker’s milk. That was a little weird, Bibi going out in the middle of the night, but not entirely unheard of. She was involved in every little thing everywhere. She was probably helping somebody out. He chuckled. Maybe she was delivering a baby or something. With Bibi, it could be just about anything.

  That thought, though, made him pause as he was handing the cup to Tucker. How pregnant was Riley? Like seven months or something, he thought. Not so far gone that Bart had stayed back from the run most of the club was on right now. Damn, Demon hoped it wasn’t that.

  Tucker grunted in frustration, his hand extended. “Mook!”

  “Sorry, bud. Here ya go. Let’s watch some TV. You want Cars?”

  He shook his head. “Mins!”

  Despicable Me it was. He carried his son into the family room and settled onto Bibi and Hoosier’s ultra-comfortable sectional sofa. They had a big television installed over the fireplace and an elaborate home theater system that filled a built-in bookcase at one side. He got the movie going and settled back, with his son reclining against his chest, sucking lazily at his cup of warm milk. Demon pulled a throw off the back of the sectional and covered them both with it. He turned off the lamp on the table behind them.

  They were alone in the house. The erratic glow of the television was the only light in the room. His son lay quietly on his lap, one hand holding his cup to his mouth, the other plucking absently at the leg of Demon’s sweatpants. He smelled of lavender and baby shampoo. They both did.

  Moments like this were the only times Demon ever knew genuine peace.

  ~oOo~

  Tucker was sound asleep, his half-finished milk forgotten, less than half an hour into the movie, but Demon was in no hurry to put him back to bed. He liked this movie; it was funny and pretty cute. Way better than some of the other movies Tucker liked—and some of the TV shows made him want to tear his eyeballs out.

  But it was more than just enjoying a movie he’d seen about a hundred million times. He was warm and happy, snugged up with his son. Sure, he’d be wiped out for work, but he could just close his eyes right where he was and get a couple more hours of sleep.

  He was drowsing off when he heard the grind and squeak of the automatic garage door going up. Bibi was home. The door into the garage was in the family room, so Demon stayed put, knowing he’d be one of the first things Bibi saw when she came in.

  It took longer than he expected for the door to open—long enough that he was working out the logistics of laying Tucker down on the sofa without waking him so he could go out and make sure she didn’t need help. But then the door opened, and Bibi came through.

  She flipped the switch near the door, and the can lights over the fireplace came on, brightening up the room a little. Then she saw him and stopped in the doorway, her hand still on the knob, and just stared at him.

  He lifted his hand in a little wave and smiled. His voice low, he said, “Shh. Tucker had a rough spell. He’s okay now, though.”

  Still, Bibi just stood where she was, saying nothing—and that was not like her at all. She even pulled the door back toward her, almost as if she were thinking about reversing course.

  “You need help with something, Mama?” he asked, keeping his voice low and steady.

  Bibi sighed and then squared her shoulders, like she was about to face a firing squad or something. “No, baby. I brought a friend home, Deme.”

  “Okay…” He was curious, but more about Bibi acting strangely than anything else. The thought flickered briefly that maybe Beeb was bringing home a boy toy while Hoosier was off on the run, but he shooed that nutso notion away.

  She opened the door all the way and then stepped into the room.

  A woman stepped in behind her, looking even more reluctant than Bibi had been. He thought it was a woman, though maybe just a girl. She was petite, not more than five-two or five-three, wearing baggy sweatpants and a baggier hoodie, and those fucking ugly Eskimo boots lots of chicks used to wear. She had dark hair, caught up in some kind of disheveled knot on the back of her head.

  He hadn’t seen her face, because she was staring at those butt-ugly boots.

  And then she looked up. It took maybe three-quarters of one second for Demon to really see her, those fucking gorgeous eyes that had, long ago, looked up at him with perfect trust. By the time that first second was complete, his world had collapsed around him.

  “Hi, Michael,” she said. That beautiful, sweet voice cracked over his name. Oh, fuck. Oh, fuck. Oh, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck.

  Forgetting that his son was sleeping on his lap, Demon jumped up, remembering just in time to catch Tucker before he dropped him right on the floor. Fuck!

  Tucker woke and began to cry. “No, Pa!” he wailed as Demon tried to turn him and settle him on his shoulder. “No!”

  Bibi finally moved again and came to them. “I’ll take him, honey. I’ll rock him back to sleep. Okay?”

  Tucker turned at Bibi’s touch and held his arms out to her. Still staring at Faith—fucking hell, Faith was standing right there—Demon let his son go, and Bibi carried him, still crying, out of the room and down the hall.

  And then Demon was alone in a room with Faith Fordham.

  Sweet Jesus fuck. He didn’t know what to do.

  Maybe she didn’t, either. She hadn’t moved. The garage door was even still open.

  “Your son is beautiful.”

  She spoke hesitantly, shyly, and her voice broke again. Fuck, that hurt his heart so bad. Ten years had passed, but that span of time meant nothing. Nothing. He felt just as raw and broken as he’d been that night they’d ripped the Los Angeles patch off his kutte and taken his home away. The only home he’d ever had.

  How could that be? How could a decade just disappear? How could all that time not make things softer, easier to bear?

  She closed the door and took a step toward him—and he took one backward. If she came close, if she touched him, if he touched her, time would truly reverse. He could feel it. They’d end up back where they were the last time he’d laid eyes on her—him strung up in the shop and her screaming at her father to stop, to please stop, just stop.

  Faith’s mother holding her shoulders and making her see. Demon trying not to lose sight of her, knowing it was the end of them.

  The whole club watching it all go down.

  “Michael.” She took another step. He backed up again—and his calves hit the other side of the sectional. He was fucking trapped. Unless he turned tail and ran, he was trapped.

  And she kept coming, closing the distance between them. Ten feet, ten years.

  That was how it had always been between them—him trying to back away, knowing they were wrong, and her not letting him, knowing that he wanted what she did, knowing he wouldn’t be able to resist.

  But she’d been just a kid. He’d been a man. It didn�
��t matter whether they were five years apart in age or fifty. She’d been a kid, the daughter of one of his brothers. It had been on him to do the right thing, and he hadn’t.

  She stood right in front of him now, her expression tortured and afraid, mirroring what he felt in his own heart. Then she put her hands on his chest, and he realized he wasn’t wearing a shirt. He felt completely naked, exposed and bare. Her touch felt as intense as if she had lifted his very nerves in her hands, and his cock filled out immediately, so hard it ached. He knew it was obvious, tenting his sweatpants absurdly, but her eyes had not left his, and they still weren’t touching anywhere but her hands on his chest.

  “Michael.”

  He couldn’t remember if she’d said anything more than that one word since she’d walked in—which was one more word than he’d said. There were no words he could say.