Page 110 of Not Mine to Rescue
His face flinched. He quickly diverted his eyes so I wouldn’t see the emotions he couldn’t hide otherwise. “One of these days, maybe soon, I’ll fuck up again.”
“Why are you saying that?” I kept my tone even, deliberately adding notes of concern so he would open up.
“Why do you think?”
His sarcastic tone grated. “I think it is important that you vocalize your insecurities so—”
“I’m not insecure.”
It was too easy to point out what he was doing. “You’re putting yourself down.”
Whatever was on his tongue got bitten off. His head reared back like I’d slapped him. “Maybe I am, but here’s the truth. You’re part of the system. The Destroyers do everything they can to not be part of it. Now, tell me, how we are going to be together with that working against us?”
“It’s happened before.”
“Not to us. And honestly? I doubt anyone made a match like this work for very long. A lawyer and a criminal? That’s no fairy tale.”
“I never asked for a fairy tale.”
He studied my face. “But you deserve one.”
I bit my lip. “See? That’s why it would work. You are ten times more compassionate than anyone I’ve ever met, outside my parents, that is.”
“But your parents don’t have a rap sheet.”
The lawyer in me fired back, “How do you know that?”
He grinned. “Because when Walt hired your firm, he did a background check on everyone employed by it.”
Well. “Okay, but let’s say they did, despite that, they’d still be great people. You are a great person. I know that because…”
“You can’t even finish that, can you?”
“I can. It’s just that I’m not sure you’ll listen.”
“See? That’s a red flag. And here’s another. You’ve got good parents. I don’t. My Mom? She doesn’t listen to anything hinting at authority. Dad? He makes money dealing drugs because he doesn’t want to work. And trust me, between them both, they fucked us up.”
“Wombat, don’t.”
“I can’t help it, Honor. I’m like Lemon. She picks up strays all the time. You know why? Our parents left us. She is filling the void they left. I am too.
“If the animal is wounded, hungry, at death’s door, she’ll take it in. She puts herself out there all the time and watches them die. Sure, some don’t. And through it, she tries so hard not to attach because she knows what the odds are. But she never stops trying. And I know myself. I want to attach myself to you and god help me, our kid. I’ll want to be its father and its friend and… I can’t even take care of my sister. Or the farm, or my dog. Or a damn owl. I’m going to be a shit father just like mine.”
His voice trailed off with a heartbreaking whisper.
I tried to reassure him. “I see you.”
“What? What do you see?”
“You care because that’s who you are.” Maybe that was the wrong way to address our problems. I focused on my insecurities. “I’m thirty-nine. Do you know what they call pregnancy when you are that age? Geriatric pregnancy.”
“You aren’t geriatric.”
He was wrong there. “The doctors call it that because the odds get so much worse after thirty-five. Birth defects, higher risk… and with my track record it is just…” I had to clamp down on my words because I’d started quivering so badly my voice wavered.
“I don’t care.” That came out in his big, bad biker voice.
I hated that tone. Was I wrong about him? My tone was too sharp when I asked, “What did you say?”
