Moved to the US, got his citizenship, played for Texas City FC for all of six months before tragedy struck.
He’d killed his wife and unborn child in a drunk-driving accident.
Though, that accident wasn’t his fault.
A man driving a big rig had pulled out in front of him, and Courtland had nowhere to go but straight at it. It’d decapitated his wife, and would’ve killed Court, too, had his seat not malfunctioned and broken, forcing him flat on his back.
After the accident, they’d taken Court’s blood alcohol and found him over the legal limit.
Though Courtland had vehemently denied being drunk, or having a single ounce of alcohol, no one believed him.
Not until a year later when it was found out that he had what doctors called Auto Brewery Syndrome. A condition that ferments ingested sugars into significant amounts of alcohol, leading to intoxication without drinking.
Even after discovering the syndrome, the courts refused to hear arguments about appeals, which eventually led to Apollo breaking him out.
Needless to say, Court hated the world.
And Charleigh…well, she was going to be the one to eventually break him out of his downward spiral.
He tossed the keys into the air, caught them, then helped us push it into the bay, and waved us off without saying a word.
Denver and I were laughing, while Nettie was confused.
“What the hell was that?” she asked when we were far enough away.
“That was Courtland,” Denver said simply. “And he was in a good mood.”
The rest of the evening went really well, despite my exhaustion.
Several of the Dixie Wardens MC Montana Chapter were in attendance for the dinner, as well as Romeo and Mable.
There was Creed and Birdee, Denver and his girls. My uncle Major and my aunt Sorcha, Hux, and Gentry. Black came by for a bite to eat, but didn’t stay long because he had to get back to the sheriff’s station where he was busy with a case.
Several of the prospects were in and out, grabbing a quick bite to eat as well.
Weaver and Eddy didn’t come, having decided on a quiet night in, but that didn’t seem to bother Nettie at all.
I wasn’t joining in on the conversation too much. I had better things to do. Like watch Nettie smile. Watch her laugh. Watch those little lines at the corner of her eyes crease. Watch the way her head tilted back when someone said something hilarious to her. Watch the way her hand paused midway to her mouth with a fry when someone said something that caused her to think.
To say I was obsessed with her would be an understatement.
But this Nettie—the carefree wild child that she’d once been—was the one who did things to my soul.
I loved all the sides of Antoinette Reilley Wheeler. But this one—her smiling, happy, carefree self—this was the one that I missed in my darkest of nights. The happy that I’d so cruelly ripped away when I refused to believe my mother was torturing her.
Suddenly, her eyes went wide, and she whipped her head toward me.
My stomach twisted. “What is it?”
So attuned to her that I was, I caught her hand moving down to her belly.
Fear roared through my veins like a silent reaper, ready to steal away all the happy I’d soaked in over the last couple of hours.
She reached for my hand instead of answering and placed it on her belly.
She pressed it hard, much harder than I ever would have, and waited, her eyes on me.
Then I felt it.
