“What’s going on, Mom?” he mumbled, rubbing his eyes.
“Time for bed,” I replied.
“Oh, wait, I almost forgot.” Wingman patted his cut pockets until he found what he was looking for and pulled it out. He held up a small silver bell with a soft metallic chime on a length of red ribbon. “This is a present for you, little mobster.”
“Me?” Mikey said, surprised.
“It’s a guardian bell.” Wingman pressed the bell into Mikey’s open palm. “We wear them on our bikes for protection. To keep us safe. Ironside gave it to me when I was a Prospect. I thought a tough kid like you needed it more than me.”
Mikey curled his little fist around the bell with pride.
“But I don’t have a bike.”
“Thank God,” I mumbled under my breath.
I already prayed every day that my son would grow out of hisracing fast carsphase before he was old enough to get his driver’s license. Now I would have to worry about him becoming obsessed with getting a motorcycle on top of that. The stress was going to make me gray before I turned forty.
“You still think bikes are cool, right?” Wingman asked Mikey.
“Yeah,” Mikey said.
“Then that counts. You’re one of us. And you needed the right gear to show for it.”
My heart swelled with gratitude. A gesture like this would mean the world to Mikey and impact him for a long time in a good way. Life had clearly been hard on Wingman. But he chose to treat my little boy with kindness and show him what a real, kind man looked like.
Shifting Mikey in my arms, I sidled up to Wingman and kissed his cheek. He slipped his arm around my waist for a moment. The weight of his palm settled at the curve of my hip.
And every bone in my body ached to sink into him. To stay right here, curled up against his side.
But he was leaving. I couldn’t give my heart to another man who was ready to walk away and leave me behind with my boy.
“Good-night, Wingman,” I said. “And thank you again. For everything. Mikey and I had a wonderful time today.”
“You’re welcome, sweetheart. Merry Christmas, little mobster,” he added, giving Mikey a fist bump.
Chapter six
Wingman
Two days later, Elaine was back at work in the clubhouse. I tried to focus on anything else, but my gaze strayed to her anyway as she moved from one table to the next. Taking orders. Clearing away dishes. Delivering meals and drinks.
Our interactions were brief, polite. And carefully devoid of the flirtation we’d exchanged so easily before.
It didn’t help that the clubhouse was relatively quiet. A handful of bikers trickled in and out, loitering throughout the day. But for the most part, everyone seemed to be sleeping off their carb comas after gorging on Christmas food.
Without sufficient distraction to run interference, Elaine and I crossed paths over and over again. I was always aware of her presence when we were in the same room.
And I couldn’t ignore the fact that Ironside was watching me like a hawk.
The back of my neck prickled and I turned to see him seated on the other side of the bar. One boot propped against the edge of his table. Wreathed in a cloud of cigar smoke. His steady gray eyes were pinned on me.
Rising to my feet, I grabbed my chair and dragged it across the bar, placing it at his table.
“I recognize that look,” I said.
Ironside pulled a deep draw of his cigar and slowly blew a stream of smoke into the air away from me.
“What look?”
