Page 2 of Heart of Stone (Stoneheart MC #1)

But there are flickers of life that demonstrate it might be about to undergo a gentle gentrification—the occasional house with new paint and shutters, a car that appears to be a little bit above the price range of the other clunkers around the place.

But for the most part, the area is tired, old, and worn with a thin veneer of dilapidation.

Old-timers sit on their porches in the summer bemoaning the state of the world while the younger generations trade drugs or guns, or move to the city in an attempt to better themselves.

Maybe one day the town will reclaim its former glory, but for the moment, it isn't the safest neighborhood.

After 10 minutes of pleading, cajoling, and dealing with a disgruntled set of toddlers, we finally make it to Amanda's house.

I check the mailbox and, sure enough, I find the key to her house glinting in the dim, flickering streetlight.

With a silent curse, I bundle the kids inside and flick on the lights.

It’s been over six months since I stepped foot in Amanda's house.

Any babysitting had taken place in my apartment.

The last time I'd been here was before Adam's birth when I had scrubbed the place from top to bottom and helped her set up the crib because, of course, Paul, the jerk, wasn't interested.

But now, stepping inside, I realize that was a mistake.

The place is filthy—boxes are stacked here and there coupled with piles of rubbish, dirty laundry, and diapers.

The stench of the place nearly overwhelms me, and I gag.

The kids, sadly, take the stench in stride.

Exhausted after a full day of work and this unexpected babysitting gig, I’m beginning to realize the extent of Amanda's problems. The knowledge hits me like a train, barreling over me, crushing me under the weight of responsibility.

There’s no way Amanda is coming back, and there’s no way I can let these kids go.

Through the door of the house, the twins, exhausted beyond measure, have a meltdown which in turn wakes up the baby, who begins to scream.

I drop my bags on the floor, overwhelmed by the mess, the smell, the noise, and the weight of the knowledge that I can't give them back to Amanda.

They will need to become my wards. I'll need to take over their responsibility.

My life as I know it, as I always imagined it, is about to change.

Freaking out, I quickly bustle around, double-checking that there isn't anything they can get hurt by. I bustle the twins into their bedroom and pop Adam in his crib. I close the door to the twins room, propping a chair under the knob to keep them safely inside.

Tears prick my eyes, and a sick, almost nauseous feeling sweeps over me.

I love them. I love Adam, Amy, and Abby, but I haven't asked for this. It isn't in my plans. I don't have the money to support them. I don't have the apartment or the time, but I'll have to make it work.

I have to do this—for them.

Dreams I have of a house and owning my own business begin to crumble as the weight of my reality rushes in.

I need air.

I stumble to the front door and outside onto the grass of the front yard, falling to my hands and knees in a daze as I gasp lungfuls of cool air, staring up into the dark.

My breaths saw in and out too fast, too loud, too wretched.

I’m cold and clammy, desperately clutching at the dead and dried grass under my palms. I open my mouth, a scream building in my throat, but nothing comes out.

A sob begins to build in my chest, pain shooting through my body. I’m heartsick for my little cousins who have been abandoned by the people who should care for them. I’m angry—no—furious, at Amanda and Paul. I’m scared, and frustrated, and terrified, and?—

"Yo!" The rough call snaps me out of my shock, and I lift my head to see a man staring at me from across the road.

I can just make him out in the light of the streetlamp.

He is huge—tall, broad, with thick shoulders and arms, and even thicker thighs.

His hair has been cut short—almost to a buzz cut.

On his feet are motorcycle boots, his legs encased in dark denim, and his broad chest is covered in a black shirt with some kind of graphic writing on it.

But it is his vest that catches my attention.

I recognize the patches that indicate a biker.

My boss wears a similar vest, and I know some of the other mechanics have begun hanging around with different gangs or clubs. I can never remember the difference. I keep my head down and do my work, and as long as they pay me well for that work, I don't care what they do in their off time.

My gaze flicks to the house behind him, noting that it is one of the few that appears to be in decent shape—fresh paint, good shutters, good security.

It has a massive garage that looks like it has been remodeled recently, the door of which is open, and inside stands a bunch of other guys also watching me.

They have busy hands as they huddle around a motorcycle, and I have no idea what I have stumbled into, but I don't like it one bit.

“You good?”

I blink slowly before answering him. “Yeah, I mean… yes. Sorry.”

He jerks his head towards the house where the kids' screaming has taken on a new pitch. "You gonna deal with that?"

I blink, surprised and a little thrown. "Sorry?"

"Your kids. You gonna do something about them screaming?" he asks.

I glance back at the house and slowly climb to my feet, running a hand through my hair. "Yeah, I just... I just needed a minute," I stumble over my words, still trying to process everything.

"If you’re good, then you better do something before someone calls child services. Kids that small screaming like that.”

Isn't that the truth? I think, shaking my head. They deserve better than a filthy house. They deserve better than being dumped on their aunt's doorstep every now and then. And they certainly deserve better than a belly full of shitty mac and cheese.

"Yeah," I agree. "Yeah, you're right." I push myself to my feet, dusting my knees and hands. "Sorry, I just... I needed a minute." I repeat, stumbling over my words, still trying to process the events that have led me to this moment.

He jerks his head once more towards the house. "Get your kids."

Your kids.

His words are the slap I need to wake up.

I nod, pivoting on the ball of my foot, rapidly powering towards the house, taking the three steps in one leap and scurrying inside. It would be just my luck if CPS shows up before I can make any kind of rational plan for the kids.

It takes me an hour to calm them down, requiring multiple songs, cuddles, and demands.

Once they’re in bed, I pull out my phone and text my boss, asking if I can take a long weekend and apologizing for the inconvenience.

I explain the issue, and because he’s a good guy, he gives me the whole weekend plus Monday at full pay.

But then I look around and immediately realize there is no way I am going to be sleeping tonight.

The kids' room isn't too bad, but the rest of the house is filthy.

I don't know what Amanda has done, but it doesn't look like she has completed any kind of chores or cleaning in at least... God knows when. There is scum and mold growing on cups and plates in the kitchen sink, the trash is overflowing, and the laundry is piled high. It’s a miracle the kids have anything clean to wear.

With a deep, soul-wrenching sigh, I search for a pen and paper. I manage to find a pad and sit down at the kitchen counter, beginning to make a list of all the things I need to do and in what order.

There’s something reassuring about a list. You can tick off a list. You can add to it. You can see the process, what you need, and what you want all laid out.

I find a modicum of comfort in putting the pen to paper. The action gives me some sense of control, some sense of pride when I finally cross things off. It gives me a goal to work towards that I desperately need when my life is spiraling.

And my life is spiraling right now.

No matter how much I love these kids, they aren't mine. But they are about to be. Their future, their happiness, their lives, it is all about to become my responsibility. I have no idea how I’m going to make enough money to support three kids.

The diapers alone are enough to consider mortgaging a house I don't own.

Oh God. Formula. I’ll need formula for Adam.

Don't think about it , I tell myself as I add to the growing grocery list. Just take one thing at a time.

First things first: a clean house, grocery list, and I'll need a car and car seats.

I think wistfully of my motorcycle back at my apartment, tucked safely away. Of my beautiful bedroom and the little oasis I’d created for myself in my apartment. Of the gorgeous but breakable vase that sits in my kitchen.

The apartment has been mine for three years now, and I have a nice nest egg going with the idea that maybe one day I could purchase something more permanent. But in a single breath of rancid air, that dream has disappeared.

I'll have to work out childcare, and pick up extra shifts to make ends meet. I have no clue how to do that when there are three kids to look after.

God, health insurance. Kids get sick all the time. How am I going to—nope, not now.

A clean house. That has to be my first priority. The house needs to be clean.

So, that's what I do. I start by writing down exactly what I need. It is a long list and ends with ordering groceries—though goodness knows how I’ll get them when I don’t have a car and there’s no delivery service out this way.

There'd be laundry and scrubbing and cleaning and—do we even have any cleaning products?

Jacked up on adrenaline and shock, I start in the kitchen, gagging as I begin to clean from one side to another.

I haul garbage outside—garbage that is rotting and rancid, the smell of which is putrid.

Condoms, used condoms, are tucked here and there, thrown into corners easily enough that I worry that the girls could have found them.

I toss Amanda's scummy sheets in the washer and uncover an ancient laundry basket.

Emptying two of the boxes that had been stacked in the living room, I begin to sort clothing into what is salvageable and what needs to be tossed.

Load after load, I begin to make a dent as I clean the house from top to bottom.

Here and there, I find stacks of cash and jewelry tucked into little hiding spots.

I don't ask questions. Honestly, I don't want to know.

I just pile it all up on the kitchen counter, desperately trying to ignore the pit that has begun to form in my belly.

At around 3 AM, I finally put clean sheets on the bed in Amanda's room. Fifteen garbage bags of junk line her front porch, but at least the house is functional, clean, and I have a list of groceries I’ll need tomorrow, the top of which includes cleaning products.

I have no idea how I’m going to get those grocery items, but I’ll deal with that tomorrow.

I take a quick shower, scrubbing off the grime, dirt, mold, and filth caking my skin and clothing from cleaning the house.

Tomorrow morning will come soon enough.