Total pages in book: 139
Estimated words: 133511 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 668(@200wpm)___ 534(@250wpm)___ 445(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 133511 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 668(@200wpm)___ 534(@250wpm)___ 445(@300wpm)
All I could think about was how much he’d hurt me the last time we talked.
I glanced around in near panic, wondering if I should just leave. The guard standing next to me—the one who’d escorted us in—caught my eye.
“They’ll be here in a minute,” she said in a low voice, offering a reassuring smile. She didn’t look like she should be working in a prison. The woman was probably around Loni’s age, and while she wasn’t exactly model gorgeous she wasn’t unattractive, either. She looked down at Izzy, her face softening even more.
“I’m sorry I had to search the diaper bag,” she added. “You wouldn’t believe how many people try to sneak contraband.”
“I understand,” I said quietly, although the reality was I could hardly wrap my head around it. How had I fallen into a world where people expected me to load my daughter’s diapers with drugs?
“You ready?” Puck asked, his face grim and blank as always. Painter’s best friend made me uncomfortable, but I couldn’t deny he’d been a huge help. Sometimes it seemed like I couldn’t turn around without finding some biker checking up on me. This was good and bad—I needed the help, but I hated feeling dependent. Much as I blamed Painter for what happened, I blamed the Reapers, too.
They’d dragged him down into this.
Them and their “club business.”
We stood awkwardly with the rest of the visitors, ranging from other young mothers with kids to people in their fifties and sixties. A few of the women could’ve passed for hookers—for all I knew, they were.
Do prostitutes visit their pimps in jail?
That was a dark thought, but darker still, how many women were forced into prostitution to support their kids once their fathers were locked up? I looked down at Izzy, sleeping peacefully in my arms, and knew I’d do anything to take care of her. Anything at all.
A door at the far end of the room opened, and then men wearing orange jumpsuits started walking in. A little boy next to me shouted “Daddy!” as he tore off toward a scary-looking Hispanic guy covered in gang tattoos. He smiled, swinging the boy up in his arms, holding him tight as he kissed his hair.
Then Painter came in.
My breath caught, a thousand different emotions fighting for control. Anger. Love. Hurt . . . Some detached part of me noted that he looked better than ever, although his face was harder than ever. His hair had grown out, hanging down to his shoulders loosely. Pale blue eyes searched for us, dropping instantly to the precious bundle of life in my arms.
He stopped walking, then swallowed.
“C’mon,” Puck said, reaching down to touch my elbow, urging me forward. I stepped toward Painter, our eyes locked on each other. Then I was standing in front of him, tense and uncomfortable. Puck wasn’t with me, I realized. He’d stepped back, offering what privacy he could under the circumstances.
“Hey,” I said softly.
“Hey,” Painter replied. “Thank you for coming.”
This was even harder than I’d imagined.
“I wanted you to meet her,” I told him, feeling uncertain. “You should know your daughter.”
He looked down, taking in the tiny, sleeping face. She’d been born with a head full of pale blonde fuzz. I’d put a little white headband on her with a flower on it—it matched her sundress, a gift from Loni.
“Can . . . can I hold her?” he asked softly.
“Sure.”
He put his arms out and I handed her over carefully, catching my breath when our skin touched. It was still there, the awareness between us. Intense and electric. Izzy startled, her little hands lifting up as her eyes opened.
Pale blue, just like his.
They stared at each other, father and daughter, and something inside my chest broke. He reached a finger toward her and little Isabella grabbed it tight, making a soft, gurgling noise.
“She’s perfect,” he whispered, and even though we were surrounded by people it felt like we were the only ones in the room. Just me, him, and our daughter . . .
“Do you want to sit down with her?” I asked.
“Yes.”
I looked around, finding an open table. “Let’s go over there.”
Painter walked over slowly and carefully, holding Izzy like she was made of spun glass. He seemed to be whispering to her, and any doubts I’d had that he’d love her disappeared. He’d already fallen for her—fallen for her just as hard and fast as I had the first time I saw her in the NICU.
“Em sent me pictures,” he said, once we were settled at a table. “She told me about when she was born, too. It sounds like you did an amazing job.”
“I tried. The C-section was rough—I really wanted to do it all natural, you know? They say that’s better for the baby. But I just couldn’t. I tried and tried, but she wasn’t coming.”