He stumbles back a step. “Fuck…”
He won’t come, and I know that, but I don’t want to hurt him either.
There’s no chance I would win, anyway. He’s not wasted, and he’s got six or more inches in height on me.
“I’m sorry,” I whisper, and I don’t even know what I’m apologizing for.
I think it’s that I’m sad for him. He believes this is all there is to life. He’s only a few years older than I am, but he’ll spend his entire life with the club because that’s what his dad and brothers have done.
When I came to my first party at the clubhouse, I spotted him early on in the night. I hoped he would come and introduce himself, but that’s just not how things panned out.
“Go,” he says, backing up as he speaks. “Get as far away from here as you can, and if they catch you…”
I nod as pure relief washes through my system. “I’ll never say a word about seeing you. I swear.”
I take off for the road without looking back, but for years, I wonder what happened to Magnum and if they ever found out that he let me go.
Chapter Twelve
Patrick
I’m surprised to find Cormac in the living room with Charlotte’s son when I head downstairs early the next morning. Lukas—Lucky—whatever his name is, has a huge bin of blocks that I didn’t see Charlotte carry out to her vehicle last night.
“Good morning,” I say, taking a seat on the couch near where the two are seated on the floor. “I see the two of you have met.”
“Gorman comes to the libe-berry at story time,” Lucky says.
“Gorman?” I snort.
I can only assume the libe-berry is the library, but I truly have no idea who Gorman is.
“That’s how he says my name,” Cormac says, shoving his glasses up with his middle finger.
“So, you guys know each other from the library?” I ask as the wheels in my head start turning.
“Yep!” the kid says, shoving a yellow block on top of his tower. “Mommy takes me at story time.”
“Is that right?” I ask, chuckling. “And what does Gorman do at the library?”
“Who’s that?” Lucky asks, his little nose wrinkling.
“Ahh, my dear brotherCormac,” I say, quirking an eyebrow at the shady fucker in question. It’s also probably in poor taste to make fun of the way a child speaks.
“Oh, Cormac,” the boy says, pointing at my brother. It once again sounds likeGorman,and I barely hold back a laugh.
Children are excellent tattletales.
And I find itquitehumorous.
Cormac’s cheeks turn pink, and he shrugs. “I like the library.”
“Bullshit,” I say with a snort.
We have a full library on the second floor, and he could order anything that we don’t have on hand. We inherited many contacts from our fathers, including an antiques and rare books guy.
“Hey, watch the language,” Cormac says, nodding to the kid.
I blanch.
