Page 24 of Heart of Stone (Stoneheart MC #1)

ANDI

I pull into the driveway, trying to ignore the party happening across the street at the clubhouse.

Music pulses through the night air as I check the rearview mirror.

Abby's still wheezing slightly in her car seat, but we’ve been discharged–thank god.

She has a follow up next week but all signs are good.

"Almost home, babies," I say, forcing cheer into my voice. "We’ll have a bath then bed, I think."

Amy tugs at her car seat straps. "Tummy funny."

She’s needed to go to the toilet since we left the hospital.

"I know, sweetie. Just hold on?—"

"Wawy," she whimpers. "Tummy."

I'm already moving, scrambling to unbuckle her, but I'm not fast enough. She makes a tiny hiccuping sound and then?—

Pink.

Pink everywhere .

The strawberry milk she'd insisted on having at the hospital cafeteria decorates her car seat, her clothes, and somehow manages to splash across both her sister and Adam.

For a moment, we all just stare at the carnage. Then Abby starts to scream, which sets off Adam.

“Ew! Ew! Ewwwwww!” Abby screams, holding her vomit covered shirt out.

Amy looks at me with huge eyes and says, "Oopsie."

The smell hits me a second later, a rancid scent of curled milk mixed with fries.

I gag, as Amy leans forward in her car seat and vomits all over the floor once more.

Galvanised into action, I leap out of the car, racing around to throw open Amy’s door and haul her out.

The belt is slippery with vomit, and I find myself struggling to hit the button as Abby and Adam wail, and Amy stares up at me with big, sorrowful eyes.

I can't help it. I start laughing.

Maybe it's hysteria, maybe it's exhaustion, maybe it’s the fact I’m standing in my driveway at midnight, covered in pink vomit while music talking about being in the club and getting nasty thumps from across the street.

Either way, the entire situation strikes me as hilarious.

The kids stop crying–seemingly startled by my breakdown.

Don’t worry, I am too.

"Wawy?" Amy's lower lip trembles.

"It's okay, baby." I wipe tears—from laughter or stress, I'm not sure—from my eyes. "Sometimes tummies do funny things."

"Pink," Abby points out helpfully between coughs.

"Very pink," I agree, surveying the damage. Three kids, two car seats and a capsule, plus the car to clean up. By myself.

Perfect.

"More tummy," Amy announces, her expression panicked.

"Oh no?—"

This time the pink milk hits my face and slides down my chest.

What kind of karma did I accrue in a previous life to deserve this?

"Inside," I declare, finally managing to unbuckle her car seat. "Everyone inside before anything else turns pink."

We make it halfway to the door before Adam spits up in solidarity with his sister.

I guess the family that sprays together, stays together.

It takes an hour to get everyone bathed and settled. An hour of tears, negotiations, and promises of a better tomorrow. Even Adam fights sleep, his tiny body wracked with hiccups from his crying jag.

Finally, finally , they're all clean and sleeping.

I strip the car seats, piling the covers into the washer before heading out to tackle the car itself. The night air is thick with humidity, and music still pounds from across the street as I dig through my cleaning supplies.

The smell of sour milk hits me as I open the back door. "Jesus."

Paper towels, cleaning spray, and determination–that's all I've got right now. I lean into the car, scrubbing at pink-tinged upholstery, trying not to gag.

Movement across the street catches my eye.

Hawk stands on his porch, illuminated by the party lights. Even from here, I can see the tension in his shoulders as he stares in my direction.

Our eyes meet.

For a moment, I think he might come over. That he might help, like he has so many times before.

Instead, he turns, heading for his bike.

The rumble of his engine is louder than the music as he rides away, leaving me alone with my pink-stained car and sleeping kids.

"Right," I mutter, turning back to my task. "This is what I wanted. To get rid of all the people I can’t rely on."

I scrub harder at a particularly stubborn spot, ignoring the burning in my eyes.

As I finish cleaning, the baby monitor crackles with the sound of vomiting.

Rushing inside, I find Abby leaning over the side of her bed, missing the bucket I put beside it just for this.

“Oh, baby.” I sweep her up, hurrying her into the bathroom as she begins to cry.

I want to weep alongside her.

I catch sight of myself in the mirror–I look exhausted, haggard.

I look like a single mom whose just spent the last three days in the hospital with her kid.

You've done hard things alone before, I silently tell myself as I hold Amy over the toilet, murmuring reassuring things to her. You can do it again.

I have to. I don’t have any other choice.