Page 4 of Heart of Stone (Stoneheart MC #1)

“Obviously we’ll have to give Amanda the opportunity to make her own case, but the fact that she’s currently unavailable—and we’ve both try calling her—speaks to her situation as a parent.

” Robin taps a few more keys on her keyboard.

“It’s not a good situation to be in, but I’m happy to approve you as the temporary guardian until further assessments to the situation can be made. ”

She hands me a bunch of paperwork—applications that are required for me to be considered a foster parent, classes, and all that stuff. Time I’ll have to spend away from them and my job. Time I’ll somehow have to find.

“How long will the assessments take?”

She shrugs. “The city is backed up with cases more urgent than yours. Could be a week, could be six months. I’ll do what I can.”

She explains how welfare payments work and what I’m entitled to as a foster parent to support the kids. There are some discounts, like food vouchers and various items, but the most important thing is health care.

“Are they vaccinated?”

God, I have no idea. I don’t even know if they’ve had their hearing or eyes or teeth checked. Do kids need that this young? I have no idea.

“Don’t worry,” Robin says kindly, offering me a warm hug. “I’m here to help when you need it. Just know you’re doing a great job.”

After another long bus ride home, there, sitting in Amanda’s driveway, is a car with a young guy leaning against it. I pause in the driveway, watching him with sharp eyes as he continues to text on his phone.

I peg him at early twenties, his face young but with an already hardened look to it. He wears thick boots, dark jeans, and a faded green shirt. Tattoos decorate one arm, and I get the impression that while he’s lean, the kid knows how to handle himself.

The same patches that decorate his leather vest match the vest Duck wears. Stoneheart MC.

Duck tried to explain it to me once when I asked about it, and I think I understood a little bit.

The club is like a brotherhood filled with guys who live on the mountain.

They respect the law insomuch as they abide by some of it, but they do whatever they want otherwise.

If it doesn’t hurt others, they don’t see a problem with why they shouldn’t be doing it.

I just assume that means everything they do is illegal, but at the same time, I don’t really care. Duck is a great boss, and none of the bikers or their women who come in with their motorcycles or cars ever really give me trouble.

And sure, occasionally there’s one that catches my interest—I’m only human after all—but I never do anything about it. I have enough trouble in my life without adding a guy into the equation. If I need to scratch an itch, I go bar hopping.

You don’t mix business with pleasure, and you certainly don’t get involved with people from work.

The guy looks up from his phone, then nods in my direction. “Duck sent me,” he says, tipping his thumb towards the car. “Said you need this.”

“Couldn’t spare one of the guys at work or something?” I ask, painfully aware that I must look haggard, exhausted, and more than a little frazzled.

It’s been a long day. You’re allowed to have shitty hair.

The kid shrugs at my question.

“Well, thank you.” I let go of the twins’ monkey backpacks, allowing them to run up the driveway and head for the door. “Appreciate your time.”

The guy nods, reaching into one of his pockets to pull out some keys.

“Here,” he says, handing them over, “Duck said to tell you to give him a call if there’s any issues. Otherwise, he’ll see you Tuesday.”

He glances pointedly at the two girls currently pounding their little fists on the front door of Amanda’s house. “You need a hand with anything?”

I shake my head, more than slightly amused that he even offers. “No, but thanks. I really do appreciate it.”

“No problem.”

I glance around, noting that the kid doesn’t have a ride.

Shit.

“Hey, how are you getting back?” I brace myself, hoping against hope he’s got it covered.

He jerks his head to the house across the road. “I’m covered.”

I turn, taking in the numerous cars and bikes gracing my neighbor’s front yard. Their garage is open once again, and a multitude of people are standing inside, drinking, eating, and laughing.

For a brief moment, I want to dump the kids and walk across, grab a beer, and lose myself in that—in the carefreeness of them, in the way they seem to have no responsibilities, no worries.

Instead, I turn away, determinedly pushing the stroller toward the house. “Thanks again. Come on, kids, let’s go inside.”

The weight of responsibility settles on my shoulders once again. The courses I need to take, the CPS hoops to jump through—it all feels overwhelming.

Amy glances at me as I lift the stroller up the stairs. “Wawy, wawy,” she says in her determined little voice. “Noodles.”

I sigh, adding yet another thing to my to-do list.

“Mac and cheese,” I agree, forcing a smile. “Let’s get you guys inside and fed, hey?”

I go through the motions with them—feeding the baby, changing him, feeding the girls, washing them, tucking them all into bed and watching them fall asleep after two-and-a-half stories.

The thought of eating mac and cheese turns my stomach, so I do what any sane person would.

I throw on a load of laundry then pull a six-pack from the fridge—one of the only things Amanda actually stocks regularly—order a giant pizza, and grab the baby monitor before going outside to sit on the porch.

It’s there, with a beer cracked, that I sit in the dark, watching as the house across the street slowly grows wilder.

Motorcycles had rolled in throughout the afternoon and into the evening, bringing with them a parade of scantily clad women—some young, some old, some ancient. A few sport their own patches and vests, proudly declaring themselves “Property of” this guy or that.

My pizza arrives and rather than retreat inside, I lounge on the porch, nursing my second beer and demolishing my hot-as-hell pizza.

The steady rhythm of the twins breathing through the baby monitor is background noise to the party across the street, their music thumping loud enough to rattle my teeth.

As the night wears on, I duck inside twice to tend to Adam—feeding him, changing him, and tucking him back into bed.

He’s so damn tiny, all scrunched-up face and miniature fingers and toes.

He came early, staying in the NICU for two weeks before they let him come home.

The girls are just as vulnerable, with Amanda’s dark hair and their dad’s big blue eyes, whoever the hell he is.

Each of these kids is precious beyond words.

I run my hand over their hair, planting kisses on their foreheads.

Part of me aches to be across the road, to lose myself in one final night of freedom, but I know this is where I belong. These are my kids now. The moment Amanda bailed and I stepped up, they became mine. And I’ll be damned if anyone tries to change that.

I still need to figure out what the fuck I’m doing with my life, but whatever comes next, it’ll revolve around these three. With Adam settled, I wander back out to the porch, plopping down and picking up my beer.

The front yard is a goddamn disaster zone.

Weeds sprout defiantly from the dirt, while scraggly shrubs fight a losing battle against rusting cans and other trash.

Smack in the middle sits Amanda’s car, a rusted-out hulk missing its tires and muffler.

I took a crack at fixing it one afternoon, only to discover she hadn’t put oil in the damn thing for three years.

When she finally did, the engine blew itself to kingdom come.

Cleaning up this mess is next on my endless to-do list. Tomorrow, I’ll get those car seats fitted, which means I can finally haul the kids to a real grocery store. No more mac and cheese and stale cereal.

Christ, has Amanda really been living like this?

The kitchen is a wasteland—three sad containers of frozen breast milk, half a carton of regular milk, and some bottom-shelf cereal.

Oh, and enough beer to drown a small army.

Even the freezer is stocked with vodka instead of kid-friendly treats like ice cream or popsicles.

I pull out my phone and start hunting for local childcare centers, praying I’ll find something—anything—that’s both taking new kids and won’t bankrupt me. Fat chance of that. Even with government assistance, affording decent care seems about as likely as winning the lottery.

I’m beyond frustrated, pissed off, and miserable, which is probably why I react the way I do when a biker parks on the sidewalk, yanks off his helmet, and tosses me a wink. I find myself raising my hand in greeting.

“You should come join us,” he says, nodding towards the rager across the street.

I size him up, taking a long pull from my beer. “Maybe.” I shrug. “Not exactly dressed for a party, though.”

His eyes rake over me, and I feel that look deep in my gut.

My thighs clench involuntarily. For once, I’m glad to be sitting down.

I know I’m not exactly most guys’ idea of eye candy—too muscular, broad-shouldered, with tits, ass, and thighs that are more Amazonian than pin-up girl.

My waist nips in a bit, but most of my shirts don’t do me any favors.

At just shy of six feet tall, with a job that leaves me bruised and grease-stained more often than not, I’m not winning any beauty pageants.

My dating history is a joke. Three boyfriends, each one a bigger disaster than the last. The first cheated, the second bailed when I wouldn’t indulge his kinks (sorry, but playing pony with a tail butt plug just isn’t my idea of a good time), and the third—well, he took the cake.

Cleaned out my accounts, pawned everything I owned, and vanished.

I was more pissed about losing my tools than I was about him leaving. Asshole.

“You look just fine to me,” the biker says, giving me an appreciative once-over that, I have to admit, strokes my ego a bit.

I hesitate, fiddling with the label on my beer as I weigh my options. If I bring the baby monitor, I could theoretically pop over, check out the scene, maybe grab another drink and shoot the shit for a bit before heading back if the kids need me.

In the end, though, I do the responsible thing. I raise my beer in a salute and shake my head, smiling ruefully.

“Thanks for the invite, but I’m good here. You have fun, though.”

He grins and shrugs. “Suit yourself. Offer stands if you change your mind.”

I watch him walk away, feeling a complicated mix of regret and relief. With a heavy sigh, I take another long swig of beer and settle in to let the music wash over me from afar.

Maybe in another life I’d accept.

But not this one.