Mikey shrugged but he said nothing.
“It’s just a test,” I added. “Maybe one day he can become part of our family. Wouldn’t you like that?”
Mikey poked at his food with a frown.
“Do I have to call him Dad?”
“Not if you don’t want to, kiddo,” Wingman said.
Mikey fixed him with an unwavering stare.
“Will you be nice to my mom?”
“Every day, cross my heart,” Wingman replied. “And if I don’t keep my promise, you better kick my ass. You hear me? That’s what bikers do. They protect the people they love. And you’re a biker now, Mikey. You’ve got the guardian bell to prove it.”
I propped my chin in my hand with concern, watching Mikey’s expression as he processed this new piece of information.
“Do you wanna see the race track I built in the living room, Mr. Wingman?” he asked at last.
“Hell yeah, let’s go,” Wingman replied.
They scrambled out of their chairs together, racing each other to the living room.
“Wait a minute—you didn’t finish your dinner!” I called after them.
My protest fell on deaf ears. Mikey and Wingman were too busy making zooming noises with their toy cars as they circled the Christmas tree.
Then Mikey’s laughter peeled through the house, clear and beautiful and full of joy.
Wingman let out a whistle.
“You laugh just like your mama.”
I stifled a yawn as I dumped the last of dinner’s dishes in the sink, too tired to bother washing them tonight. Wingman came up behind me, sliding his arms around my waist. With his sleeves rolled up to his elbows, his tattooed forearm was on display. I couldn’t resist tracing the inked lines, savoring the flex and shift of tendons and muscle under my touch.
“Mikey’s asleep,” he murmured, kissing my neck. “The poor kid is worn out. He’s on the couch for now.”
“You two played for hours,” I said, leaning back into Wingman’s arms.
It felt so good to lean on someone for a change. To let go. To close my eyes and know that I didn’t have to do everything on my own.
“Couldn’t get enough of his race track,” Wingman replied. “I wish I had built something that awesome when I was a kid. I noticed he doesn’t have a toy motorcycle in his collection though.”
“God, no,” I said. “I don’t need to be giving him any ideas that he’ll grow into when he’s older.”
Wingman chuckled.
“If you’re shacking up with a biker, I’m bound to rub off on him. Are you sure you want that bad influence around your kid?”
I smiled softly, stroking his arm absently, tracing the ridges and valleys of his knuckles.
“You’ve shown him more love, attention, and respect than his own father ever did. You’re not a bad influence, Wingman.”
“Reese,” he whispered, slipping his hand under my dress. Following the lacy edge of my underwear. “If I’m going to be getting in your pants on a regular basis, you should probably call me Reese.”
I rolled my eyes.
“You’re cheapening the moment again.”
