Page 1 of Heart of Stone (Stoneheart MC #1)

ANDI

" I don't understand," I say, adjusting the squirming toddler in my arms. "What are you telling me, Amanda?"

My cousin's voice sounds thin and crackly on the other end of the phone. "You'll need to look after them for another week—maybe two."

I hear someone calling her name in the background as I struggle to process what my cousin has just dumped in my lap.

"But I can't. I have work."

"I know but you can—shit, I have to go," Amanda curses. "Our plane is boarding."

The shock of her announcement evaporates as reality punches me in the face.

"Amanda, wait! You can't do this to me, I?—"

"Gotta go! Key to the house is in the letterbox. Rent's due tenth of the month. Kisses to the babies. Bye!"

The call disconnects before I can get another word in. I pull the phone from my shoulder, staring down at the blank screen.

"Fuck."

"Fah!" Abby repeats, smooshing my face between her tiny, sticky hands. "Fah, fah!"

Panic tears through me as I stare at the chaos that my living room has become. The one-bedroom apartment I've lived in for the last twelve months has been perfect for me—a single woman without so much as a goldfish.

For me and three kids? Not so much.

I lean down to set Abby on the floor as the weight of Amanda's decision settles on my shoulders.

"Go play with your sister," I murmur, tapping her on the bottom.

Abby rushes off, her chubby little legs barely able to keep up with her.

My cousin has three kids under the age of three: twin girls, Abby and Amy, and a little boy, Adam.

The A-Team are cute, I'll give them that, but I'm not prepared for the responsibility of three kids.

My apartment isn't exactly kid-friendly.

I run a hand through my hair and over my face, silently screaming.

Amanda isn't exactly the most responsible individual.

She has a tendency to go off for a weekend, leaving me stuck literally holding the baby.

But to do this for a week, maybe more? That is unusual, and I don't like it.

I don't like any part of the nonsense I've been putting up with for years.

I blame her current boyfriend. The guy has been around for months, and he is bad news.

Baby Adam is an example of that. Instead of Paul being at the birth, it was me holding Amanda's hand. But she’s too blind, by love or lust—probably his money—to see what a bad influence he is.

But then, I can’t blame him entirely. The fact is, she’s a grown woman who should know better than to leave her kids to go chase a party.

I guess I should be grateful that Paul is still around.

At least he pays child support, unlike the twins' dad, who took off before they were even born.

Between Paul and Amanda, they aren't exactly the most responsible parents.

They mess up regularly, forgetting they have kids and leaving babysitters to call me when they don't show up at the appointed time.

More than once, I've cancelled weekend plans or skipped work just to support my irresponsible cousin and her partner.

I adore my baby cousins, don't get me wrong. I love looking after them and being in their lives. But I’m not their parent. And as much as I hate to admit it, it’s becoming clearer and clearer that Amanda and Paul don't consider them their responsibility.

My mind races as I look for other options. There is no way I can call Amanda's mom. My aunt is bad news all over. And my mom? Well, she might be even worse.

An old-school hippie, they both aren’t exactly known for their reliability. Between the drugs, the debts, and the drinking—not to mention the deadbeat guys they bring home every weekend—they’re not exactly Ms. Reliable.

I run a hand through my hair, listening to the kids play.

Amanda wasn’t always like this. We’d been close as kids, just us against a world that wanted to keep kicking us down to the dirt.

But somewhere around our teens, we’d begun to drift.

I wanted something better than a rusted trailer and a string of men who stayed long enough to drink all your beer but not long enough to pay for another six-pack.

And Amanda… well, she’d chosen differently.

I'd escaped our trailer park on my eighteenth birthday, working my butt off to get my GED and enroll in a course I knew would pay decent money. Being a mechanic isn't exactly the job of my dreams, but the money I make sure as hell makes up for it.

While the kids I'd gone to school with had dreamed of fame and fortune, I'd wished for more than a hundred bucks in the bank, or a regular hot shower that didn't involve a rec center. Add in a night of not listening to sex through paper-thin walls, and all my dreams would have come true.

By all standard metrics, I could consider myself successful. And yet here I stood, a pseudo-single parent, looking after three kids who aren't my own, while my cousin goes off to God only knows where to party with only the devil knows who.

Shit.

I pace as I consider the implications of Amanda's selfish decision. A weekend is different from a week or even two. One weekend in my apartment is tough but doable. A whole week or more? No way. I can't have three kids here. What will I do for childcare? For food? For sleeping arrangements?

The temporary cot will be okay for Adam, but the girls share my bed when they’re here, and I sleep on the pull-out couch which isn’t the best night's sleep—when I can sleep around a fussy baby and two hyperactive toddlers.

And what about my job? I'll have to look after the kids while I'm at work.

There is no way I can bring three babies into the workshop.

I am a mechanic, and our workshop specializes in restoring cars and bikes.

Hell, we even have the occasional truck.

I am good at my job, and people love what I do.

I have a little bit of sick leave saved up, but we are in the middle of a big project.

I don't want to be the one to cause it to blow out.

Option one: I can call child services and turn the kids over to them, but having been through foster care, there is no way I am going to do that.

Option two: I can try calling Amanda, work out where she is, and drop the kids off, but I have no doubt that would just end up in the same situation within a couple of days.

She'd come home, and the kids would be in the house alone.

I'd get a call from one of the neighbors or Amanda, telling me to check on them.

Alternatively, she'd complain and somehow get into my place, wrecking the joint because I hadn't given her what she wanted. It’s happened twice before.

Option three, and perhaps the only one that is actually viable, is to bundle the kids up, take them back to their place, and look after them there until my cousin grows up and comes home to look after her own kids. And since I don't own a car or car seats, we'll have to take the bus.

"Damn you, Amanda," I mutter, beyond exasperated by this situation.

I glance at them, seeing Abby and Amy playing quietly with stuffed toys I bought them.

No one else will care for them as much as I will. Which means this is on me. All on me.

With a heavy sigh I make my decision, glancing at my watch.

It’s getting late in the evening, which means the kids need food, a bath, and bed, but there’s no way I can look after them tonight and get to work tomorrow. With a frustrated huff, I pull myself together and make mac and cheese for the twins, and heat some frozen breast milk for Adam.

I feed them quickly and shuffle them all into the bathroom for a quick wash before dressing them in pajamas.

Assembling their multitude of things—diaper bags, a stroller, blankets, soft toys—I do a quick search on my phone for bus timetables and nearly lose my mind realizing it will take us nearly two hours via public transport for what is essentially a 15-minute drive.

But such is the public transport system in small towns.

I live a town over from Amanda. While I might work in Stoneheart, living slightly away from the place I grew up gives me enough distance to carve out a life not tainted by the mistakes of my family.

You might wonder why I don't order an Uber or a taxi—please. The one guy who offers it only works from ten till three during the day, his main customers being old ladies wanting to get to bridge.

With another heavy sigh, I lock up my apartment, adjusting the small bag of items I’ve thrown into my backpack.

The twins are wearing some of those monkey harnesses, which I hate but work when I also have to deal with a stroller as well as carry their stuff.

The bus ride itself isn't too bad; I manage to distract them with a movie on an iPad and a pair of headsets. Adam sleeps most of the way, waking occasionally for cuddles, a feed, and a diaper change, which I’ll deal with later.

Disaster strikes when the bus finally drops us off a 10-minute walk from Amanda's.

The twins, now an hour past their bedtime, are exhausted and not at all willing or interested in walking a step further.

It takes some maneuvering, but I manage to slip Abby beside Adam in the stroller and put Amy on my back in a backpack.

I move the diaper bag to the stroller's overhang and determinedly shove our way forward as I trudge down the long, broken concrete sidewalk.

Amanda lives in a questionable area, which is no surprise. As a single mom of three whose sole income appears to come from welfare and boyfriends, she has a house whose rent seems dubiously connected to her ability to grant the landlord favors.

I’ve never asked what kind of favors cause goodness knows I don’t want to know.

Once upon a time, this had been a lovely neighborhood with big old trees and quiet small houses. Now it’s a wasteland of derelict housing and cleared land.