The Boy I Grew Up With

That was an exaggeration, but she was happy.

I was still with my guys, I just wasn’t involved with the crew business.

Bren rolled her eyes, her hands sliding into her jeans pockets. “And the lie that you’re perpetuating, the one where you left your crew—you’re still spreading that?”

The guys started laughing.

My smirk went down a notch “That’s actually true. I’m out. These guys know it. They accept it, but that doesn’t mean I can’t hang out with them.” Or work with them in another capacity.

Bren nodded. Slowly. “Right.” She started for the door. Before opening it, she looked back. “And if something happens and you have to return to the crew life?”

My smirk was gone.

I straightened to my fullest height. “If something happens where I have to step in and save my brothers, I will. But it’ll be a quick trip in, and a quicker trip out. I left for Heather. After you, she’s my first priority.”

Bren’s normal stony exterior softened. She blinked a few times. A small grin tugged at her lips before she coughed and the old mask slipped back in place.

“Good,” she said, “because I love her. Not as much as you, but I still do. Don’t fuck it up, brother.”

The reversal of roles wasn’t lost on me. It made me feel all warm and cuddly, not feelings I was used to experiencing with my sister.

I touched two fingers to my forehead, giving her a small salute. “Will do, sister.”

She flicked her eyes up to the ceiling and stalked out, like the momentary showing of emotion was a bad memory for her. Which it might’ve been.

That’s just how Bren was.

Later that night, sitting on Heather’s porch, I told her about Bren’s visit.

“Wait. You didn’t tell me you had a client already,” she said. “Who is it?”

I slid my hand down her arm, moving to her waist, and I picked her up. Manny’s was full, with a line extending out into the parking lot. They’d had to get a pager system to alert people when they could get a table inside. Half the parking lot had people sitting in their vehicles waiting. The other half had a drink from the bar, hanging outside. All the tables in the back section were full.

But as always, Heather enjoyed the chaos. So instead of hanging out at my house, we were at hers, even with all the moving boxes cluttering up the kitchen and living room. She was moving into my place, after selling her half of the house to Brandon. That was the only thing she was allowed to sell, though. No more talk about selling Manny’s. I was biding my time, but it was in the back of my mind to wait and see how the bounty hunting business would do, then approach Heather about franchising Manny’s and setting up another one somewhere else.

We’d see, though. That was all future adventures, future projects. Right now, I was damned content with where we were.

“Hey.”

“What?”

Heather smacked my shoulder. “Who’s your client? Tell me.”

“Oh. You remember that Peter from a while back?”

She paused, frowning. Her eyebrows pinched together. “That slimeball lawyer? His employer’s son was that con guy, right? He take off again?”

I grinned now, because there was nothing not to smile about—finally. “No. The con man is in prison now, but turns out Peter has a few other clients that have people they want found too.”

“I thought you were a bounty-hunting business.”

“Bounty hunting.” I shrugged, tugging her to rest against me. As she did, I lifted my chin over the top of her head. It fit perfectly. “Or just searching for people. I’ll get paid either way. My only requirement is that the person we’re looking for deserves to be found.”

“And if someone tries to use you guys in a bad way?” Heather asked. “What if someone needs to stay lost for whatever reason?”

I smoothed her hair back, kissing her forehead. “Then we turn around and help them instead. No one is getting hurt on my watch.”

That meant her.

That meant Bren.

That meant my guys.

My hand dipped down to her stomach.

That meant the little one inside her.

Ginger Gypsy called Chad and had him share with me that she’d had a dream. She said our little girl who had passed was watching over us, and it struck me now what else she’d said.

She told Chad she’d dreamed of us on our porch. Everything was in place, and Heather was on my lap, my hand resting on her stomach. There was chaos surrounding us, but not where we were. We were peaceful.

I felt goosebumps rise on my arm as Heather fulfilled the last portion of Ginger Gypsy’s dream:

Her hand fell on top of mine, just as Ginger Gypsy had said it would.

And Naly was watching over us.

If I hadn’t known it then, I did now.

Heather, me, our family—we were going to be just fine.

Epilogue

Heather

“MOOOOM!”

A breath.

“MOOOOOM!”

I stepped out of my office at the end of the hall. “What? I’m here.”

I could hear him just inside the doorway. “Moooom!”

“Max!” I picked up my pace. This hallway was freaking long. “What’s wrong?”

He waddled two steps forward, just until he could turn to see me.

I stopped. My hand rose to my face, hiding my smile. I was already biting down on my lip.

My little boy.

He looked… Well, he looked like he was about to wade into zombie territory. He’d attached pillows to the top and bottom of his arms with duct tape—one pillow covered his wrist to his shoulder. He had the same on his legs, front and back. The pillows came to just past his knees, so he’d used some of the decorative pillows from the couch to cover the rest. They half covered his feet too. Two more decorative pillows covered his chest and back, and a round throw pillow covered his butt.

He also wore a full-face motorcycle helmet, with some of his blond curls sticking out.

I couldn’t.

I lost it.

“What are you doing?” I stopped laughing enough to ask.

“HUH?” he yelled.

“Max. Lift up the helmet.”

He tried. He really did. He reached up, but the pillows were in the way. Snorting, I crossed to help.

“No, no!” He waved his arms around, so I just lifted the shield over his eyes.

There, staring back at me, was my six-year-old Max Monroe. The same dark eyes as his father, but instead of Channing’s cockiness, Max’s eyes held pure innocence.

“Mom, this is very important.”

His little hands rested on my arms, as much as the pillows let them. They kept slipping off.

“Yes.” I wiped the smile from my face. He was being serious. I had to be serious too. He was sensitive sometimes.

I knelt down and rested my forehead to his. I whispered, “What’s going on?”

He whispered back, leaning into me, “I need you to check my junk area.”

Nope. Not a smattering of laughter could slip. He was dead serious.

“Why?”

“Because Maddy’s coming over to throw a baseball at me, and I can’t get hurt there. Uncle Logan always says junk shots are not cool. I can’t let her hurt me there. I’ll never be able to have children.”

He was six. Going on twenty.

I glanced down. There was no pillow in that crucial area, and he was right. Maddy Kade would throw at the one spot not covered. She had a wicked streak in her. She took after her Uncle Logan. ns class="adsbygoogle" style="display:block" data-ad-client="ca-pub-7451196230453695" data-ad-slot="9930101810" data-ad-format="auto" data-full-width-responsive="true">