Kid: Cerberus MC Book 2 (4 page)

I take in every inch of him, noticing first his muscular arms and wide shoulders. I see part of a tattoo peeking out from the arm of his t-shirt. The tiny hint makes me want to see it all. I’ve always been partial to inked bodies, loving how a story can be told in ink rather than words.

His dark brown beard is ridiculously neat, trimmed to perfection. It surrounds pouty, kissable lips. I can’t help but wonder if he has chest hair. I’ve always been attracted to very masculine men. I realize how much of a freak I am, staring at this stranger, itching to see the rest of his tattoos and wondering what he’d look like naked, how my fingers would feel caressing his skin.

Soothing brown eyes look back at me, almost pleading with me to change my views of the world. His hair is longer on top than on the sides, tousled and messy as if he’s been running his hands through it for hours. Sexy, this man is incredibly sexy. He has an edge of danger to him, but at the same time, he seems completely approachable. He’s a wash of contradictions.

“I’m sorry about your fiancé,” he says reaching his hand out to take mine.

I pull away immediately, unable to hide the quiver in my lip at the mention of Alec.

“Don’t,” I say unsure of what the word is in reference to. Don’t touch me. Don’t mention the death of my best friend. Don’t walk out of here and leave me alone.

A few minutes of peace are all I’ve gotten since Alec’s death. A handful of times over the last couple of weeks my mind would shut down, and I forget, briefly, just how much I’ve lost. I got that reprieve looking at Kid until he ruined it by opening his mouth.

Why do people always feel the need to speak? Why verbalize the pain others are feeling? Sometimes just sitting, being available if needed is the best thing you can do.

“He’s my best friend,” I say on a choked sob. I have no idea why I’m telling him this. I don’t know why I feel the need to ease the hurt I saw in his eyes when I pulled my hand away from his touch. “
Was
. I lost my best friend.”

“Yeah,” he says, his voice full of sorrow. “I know what that feels like.”

I pull my eyes from looking at my own hands and look back at him. For the first time, I notice dog tags hanging around his neck. Small pieces of metal, unassuming for the most part, but I know they tell a story. Every soldier who wears them has one. It seems in a time of war, those stories get harder to tell.

Kid is young. I know he’s older than me. Even with an unmarred face and bright young eyes, he’s got an air about him that lets you know he’s seen more than most. He’s suffered more than most.

I immediately feel some sort of kindred-ship with him. I begin to shut the little part of myself down that he somehow forced me to open. He’s so young; there’s a good chance he’s still a soldier, and there’s no guarantee that any of them are safe. It’s best to just keep every one of them at a distance.

“You’re in the Army?” I finally manage to ask, angling my head at the tags around his neck.

I watch as he reaches his hand up and touches them as if he’s worn them so long he’s forgotten that they’re even there.

“I was in the Marines,” he answers quickly. “I’ve been out for a couple years now.”

“How old are you?” Was a soldier? No longer in the service? He doesn’t look old enough.

“Twenty-four.”

Six years older than me. I shake my head, knowing he sees nothing but a child sitting here in this bed. Not that I expect anything different, but I’m tired of being viewed as a child.

“And now what?” I ask pointing at his leather cut. “You’re in a one-percenter motorcycle gang?”

He smiles ear to ear at my question. He’s amused, but he doesn’t make me feel like an idiot for asking.

“You could say that, but we’re probably on the opposite end of the spectrum than what you’re thinking.”

So not criminals. I remember seeing them at the memorial. Bikers were manning most of the tables, serving the food, and if memory serves correctly, they all did it with a smile on their face. Maybe they weren’t there doing required community service for the probation department like I’d assumed to begin with.

“That didn’t go too well,” Kid says.

I frown at him, having no clue what he’s talking about. I was just mentally kicking myself in the ass for judging the bikers when I’ve been on the receiving end of that type of judgment more times than I’d care to count
. Hypocrite
.

“I’m sorry. What?”

“With your parents. It didn’t seem to go very well with them.”

“Were you eavesdropping?” I have no idea why I’m getting so angry, but defensiveness has been my go to reaction to most things the last five years of my life.

“Your dad seemed mad,” he says sitting back in the chair, putting slightly more distance between us. “If he was going to come in here and be a total dick, I wanted to be close. You don’t need that shit right now.”

I find myself leaning toward him, trying to close the distance I’ve managed to force him to create.

“He’s not my dad. They’re not my parents. I’m a foster.” I watch his face and wait for the sympathy and questions each and every person I’ve told that bit of information to have had in the past.

It doesn’t come. He looks at me just as he had before. Smiling, almost teasingly so.

“You’d be pretty upset too if someone was jeopardizing your paycheck.”

He quirks an eyebrow up at me.

“Foster parents get a check every month,” I explain. “Compensation for taking on wards of the state. Each kid they house brings in money each month.

He nods his head in understanding.

“Tough life,” he says. It’s filled with empathy and compassion and for some reason it rubs me completely wrong, but I let it go.

“You have no idea,” I mutter.

“And your real parents?”

Yeah, no chance in hell I’m opening that damn door. Unable to speak of my parents, I do what I always do and get defensive.

“What is this family fucking share time? Am I in some sort of big brother/ big biker program now?”

He shakes his head as if I’m amusing him. “Hardly,” he says with a smirk.

I’m pretty good at reading people. It comes from watching rather than interacting with most people over the years. The look on his face says nothing of wanting to counsel me. The gleam in his eye doesn’t hint at wanting to be any type of role model. It’s carnal, almost aggressive. All hidden behind a perfect smile and calm demeanor. It’s thrilling and utterly confusing all in one. He has to be mental. What kind of sexy biker wants a broken girl who’s been nothing but a bitch since she woke up from a failed suicide attempt?

“Are you hungry?” He asks shifting in his seat, changing the subject completely.

“She can’t eat anything just yet,” a voice says coming through the door.

I watch as the nurse makes herself at home in the room. She checks the fluid level in my IV bag then proceeds to check my pulse, listen to my heart, and requests that I take deep breaths.

Her affect is very flat. Wrists are covered in more dark leather bands than I’ve ever seen on one person before. Jet black hair and eyes almost as dark stare back at me. She doesn’t say another word, just looks me in the eye to the point of uncomfortableness.

She turns to leave. “Less than an hour until visiting time is over,” she says to whoever may be listing. She walks out as silently as she entered.

Kid and I look at each other, dumbfounded, wondering if her visit just happened.

“She seems like a bowl of sunshine,” Kid finally says.

I laugh. “Fuck,” I groan. “I’m suicidal and don’t have shit on her emo ass.”

I laugh; Kid doesn’t find the humor in it. Tough crowd.

“Any idea when I’ll be able to get out of here?” She asks shifting her weight on the bed.

“I overheard some of the nurses talking earlier. They will release you after you’ve been cleared by the psych department.” I watch her face for a change in emotion. There is none. It makes me wonder if this isn’t her first time attempting to hurt herself.

“I can give you a ride tomorrow,” I offer. “I don’t mind taking you home.”

“I don’t have a home.” A simple statement. Not a plea for help. It doesn’t hold one ounce of expectancy or request for compassion.

It makes my blood run cold.

“Where have you been staying?”

She shakes her head as if trying to ward off painful thoughts. “That’s not even an option anymore.”

I want to offer to pay for a hotel for her; rent an apartment for her to live in. Hell, at this point I want to drag her home with me so I can keep an eye on her until this darkness passes in her life. I can’t of course. She’s underage, even if it’s less than a month until her birthday. Plus, I have no power over who comes and goes at the clubhouse. Brash decisions aren’t mine to make. I could lose my patch if I showed up with an underage, practically runaway, girl in tow.

I watch her hand as she worries with the gold band of her tiny engagement ring. Young love. I don’t have a clue about shit like that. The only thing I do know is from watching my friends. It’s a type of love that most of the time doesn’t work out, but carries feelings that can haunt you for the rest of your life. Most relationships don’t end in violence and death, so this situation is more complicated than just a simple break up.

“We’ll figure it out,” I say standing from the chair.

She looks up at me as if she’d forgotten I was sitting there. She’d been lost in memories, drowning in her pain.

She looks anxious as I straighten my shirt, making sure my cut is perfect before walking out of the room. It’s as if she doesn’t want me to go but is too afraid to ask me to stay. Stubborn girl.

“Try and get some rest,” I say leaning down close to her face.

She closes her eyes, and I kiss her forehead softly. I pull away and walk out before she has a chance to say another word.

***

It doesn’t surprise me to find Shadow waiting in the spacious living room at the clubhouse when I get home. We’ve texted back and forth throughout the day, so he’s well aware of what’s going on.

I’m more determined now on bringing Khloe here than I was an hour ago when I left the hospital. I have an overwhelming need to protect her, even if it’s from herself.

Kincaid and Emmalyn left after the BBQ to spend the rest of the weekend alone together. That leaves Shadow, as the club’s VP, in charge.

“She gonna be okay?” he asks before tipping his beer back.

“Complicated answer,” I say plopping down beside him. “She’s alive, but I wonder for how long. The way she talks and acts, she believes she doesn’t have a reason to live.”

“So more than just losing her fiancé?”

“Yeah,” I say rubbing a rough hand over my face. I’m exhausted. The whole day has been draining. “She’s in state custody. Her foster parents showed up. Hours after the fact, I might add. They went back and forth at each other. Her foster dad is a serious asshole.”

“Not like you to dislike someone so much,” he says.

“It’s not hard to hate this fucker, believe me.” I stare at the TV not really retaining anything I see.

“You think she’s going to hurt herself again?”

I nod my head. “I can see why she doesn’t want to go back to the foster home. I wouldn’t want to live with that prick either. I offered to take her home when she’s discharged from the hospital, but she told me she doesn’t have a home. She seems lost; hopeless.”

“Where are her parents?” Shadow leans forward and places his now empty beer bottle on the table in front of us.

“No clue. She shut me down completely when I asked. If they’re still alive, they can’t be any good since she’s been taken from their custody.”

He nods his head in understanding.

“I have no clue where she’s been staying, but from the conversation I overheard, it hasn’t been with the foster parents. She may have been living with the guy she was engaged to. They showed up and were pissed they got called into the hospital; not because she’s been gone.”

“That’s pretty fucked up,” Shadow huffs.

“I thought the same thing. She says they get a check every month while she’s in their care. That they’re only pissed because her not being there and hurting herself could make them lose part of that money if the state removes her.” I sit back further on the couch, drumming my fingers on my legs.

“Just fucking spit it out, Kid. You’re making me nervous all wired up as you are right now.”

I smile because I should’ve guessed Shadow would read me like an open book. His skill set may be intel and electronics but he’s sharp as a tack and can read a situation faster than most people can blink.

“I thought maybe she could stay here.”

He cocks an eyebrow at me. “You want the MC to harbor a kid who’s practically a runaway?”

“She’s not really a kid,” I counter. “She’s seventeen, will be eighteen in a month.”

“And in what capacity is she going to be staying here?”

“She just needs a place to stay, man. I figure if she goes somewhere and she’s not treated like shit, she may realize death isn’t necessary.” I shift uncomfortably under his scrutiny. He’s watching me as if by just a glance in my direction he can read me like a damn book. “Besides, her fiancé just died.”