Page 17 of Maverick
Could I not get a goddamn moment of peace? It was like that night five years ago all over again.
I pulled back, as did she, the moment broken and I looked down at the call from Prez. Fuck.
Fucking grumpy ass cockblocker.
Not that I’d do anything. She was sore from everything she’d gone through, and I didn’t want to hurt her. But damn did I want her, even bruised and battered, she was the most stunning woman I’d ever known. I was going to flay Hardy alive for what he did to her, for her wanting him dead, which only told me how horrific he had been to her. I didn’t want to admit how hard I was thinking she was okay with what I could do to him for her. Would she still accept me when I came home bloody?
“I gotta take this,” I told her. “Get some rest. I’ll be back later.”
She nodded, and I headed out of the apartment before I took the call.
“Yeah?” I answered, heading down to my bike on the street.
“Get your fucking ass to the clubhouse now.”
Well, fuck.
Tavi
Maverick’s bed had been so good that I’d fallen asleep in minutes rather than tossing and turning for hours like I normally did. I could smell his cologne, it was deep in the cotton of his navy blue sheets. Wrapping myself in them had been the balm my soul needed.
“Mama!”
My eyes shot open and I jolted up, my body screaming in protest at the sudden movement. I bit down on the pain and felt the tears prick into my eyes as Van jumped up on the big bed, scrambling over to get to me. His little body slammed into mine, his arms wrapping around my neck so tight, I may actually pass out.
But it felt so good.
The hug I didn’t realise I needed.
“Don’t cry, Mama,” he said, pulling back to look at my face. He didn’t recoil like I thought he might, but I could see the sadness in his eyes. “I make you better.”
His little lips pecked on my cheek and I felt my chest ache with the tenderness of my sweet, little boy. How he was a product of the maniacal Hardy, I had no idea.
Van hugged me again, and I looked up at Maverick in the doorway. He was leaning against the doorjamb, a little half-smirk on his face.
“Thank you,” I mouthed to him. He nodded, winked and left us alone.
“Have you been a good boy at the clubhouse?” I asked, once he had pulled away from my hug and sat there, playing with his red truck.
“Yes, and, and…they gived me orange carrots and I ated them all.”
I chuckled, before I corrected him. “Theygaveyoucarrotsand youatethem all.”
“But they orange.”
“Yes, baby, carrots are orange, but we just call them carrots. Oranges are fruit.”
“I don’ like oranges.”
What kid didn’t like orange juice? Mine, that’s who!
“I know, but that’s okay. I’m very proud of you for eating your vegetables and for being a good boy. Why don’t you eat carrots when I give them to you?”
Van giggled. “You don’ make them nice.”
Ouch! The brutal honesty of my kid strikes again, but I love him for it. I hoped he would never grow up. There was just something so fulfilling about having your baby with you. It made the rest of the world fall away until it was just you and him.
“I’ll try better.”
