“Uh, Alex,” I stutter, needing to sort this out but before I can yet again open my mouth, the man shocks me as he steps up to my chest, cups my cheek and whispers, “Cheryl and I are not together, we haven’t been since I found her fucking some other guy two months before she told me she was pregnant with Caleb and ensured to have gotten pregnant.”
Holy…
“She tried to trap you?” I gasp, and he hums as he gently rubs his thumb along my jaw sending electric shocks throughout my whole body.
Who, I mean why?
What the hell?
“She did and even went into early labor because of her drug use. I got full custody of Caleb, and for the first roughly five years of his life, she wasn’t involved until a court order explained she needed access. Caleb hasn’t wanted to know her. We’re not together, we haven’t been in eight years, she was lying to you today, she’s a patch chaser,” he explains, and I blink.
Okay, I don’t know what to say to that.
“What’s a patch chaser?” I ask, the only thing coming to mind, and he smirks.
“A woman who wants a cushy life not having to work,” he says, and I frown.
“Well, that sounds boring,” I mutter, and he chuckles before shocking me as he places a kiss on my forehead, and I suck in a breath at the intensity of the electricity I feel rush through me.
“Come on, darling, the barbecue is on,” he whispers against my skin before wrapping his arm around my waist like it is the most natural thing in the world and calls, “Come on kids,” before guiding me towards the back yard of his house and my body goes willingly, his touch setting me alight and it takes everything inme not to melt into his body all while my head muttersmine, mine, mine.
Ah crap, I am so screwed…
Chapter 11
Dirty – A Week Later
I smile softly as I watch Lyra and Caleb run around the sports hall while I refill drinks, and music fill my ears, the children giggling, the parents all talking and laughing.
This is probably my worst fucking nightmare, which says a lot since I’ve gone into a fucking gun fight with the Cartel before we became allies. But fuck, being stuck around mothers eyeing me, dads scowling since it’s apparently my fault their women like the rugged biker with tattoos and a man bun look. Teachers dropping hints for wanting more out of the club than we’re giving them already—yet here I am, pouring drinks for a bunch of kids, most not caring if they spill them all over the table.
Vultures, fucking all of them.
For the past forty minutes, I’ve been trying my hardest to ignore the eyes on me, continuously keeping myself busy, allwhile keeping my eyes on my kids. And I mean kids plural, and my woman, who is in a fucking gorgeous deep red wrap around dress that I want to unwrap, seems to be the only teacher ensuring everything is going smoothly.
Does it piss me off that the other teachers are busy chatting instead of helping my girl? Yeah, it does, but I’m also proud of her, of how much these children mean to her.
She’s fucking amazing, and I’m in awe of her.
Not once has she scolded a child when she’s talking to a parent, she kneels to their level and listens. Even if she’s in the middle of refilling the snack table, she stops again.
I’ve said it before, and I’ll say it again, my son was right, she’s mine. Over the past week, I’ve realized it. Now I just have to get her on board. Tank said to go slow, and I have, but it’s not fast enough for me and Cheryl's lying has made me speed things up.
I’m more touchy-feely with her, texting her every single fucking day and calling her in the evenings to ask about her day, fuck, her and Ly have been round for dinner four times in the past week, something I have sprung on her each time just so she shows up.
I want her, need her, and I will make her mine.
“Hey, Dirty,” a voice husks to my right, and I look away from my kids and lock eyes with Sandra’s light blue ones that eye me up, something I always fucking ignore.
Since Caleb’s been in this school, the woman is continuously trying to get my attention, or any brother really.
“Hey Sandra, how’s Tuck doing?” I ask the woman, ignoring her fuck me eyes as I pour some fruit juice for a sweaty, red-faced little boy who grins wide, a tooth missing at the front, and he says, “Thanks, Mr. Dirty,” and I chuckle.
I guess he’s in Holly's class.
“Go, Thomas, the adults are talking!” Sandra commands, and Thomas’s little face falls, and I frown.
What the hell?
