Total pages in book: 161
Estimated words: 151410 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 757(@200wpm)___ 606(@250wpm)___ 505(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 151410 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 757(@200wpm)___ 606(@250wpm)___ 505(@300wpm)
Finally, the driver’s door opened and she got out. Adamo was right. She was tall and had good curves, but she definitely wasn’t dressed to impress today. She wore simple jeans and tight tee plus flip-flops and no makeup. I hoped she hadn’t forgone her face paint because she planned to ugly cry. She’d soon realize that crying didn’t work on me.
She hadn’t pulled the keys from the ignition so she was preparing for a quick escape. My interest was piqued. Her face didn’t conjure up any memories. I couldn’t even say if she was my type. I had been a mood fucker. One night, I picked the tall, model type who turned everyone’s head, and one night, the wallflower who gave you the blow job of a lifetime, risking lasting damage to her throat in gratitude for picking her.
She stopped in her tracks and looked at me, her expression filled with anxiety. “You don’t remember me, right?”
I shoved my hands into my pockets. “No, not at all.”
“I figured,” she said, her eyes darting to her car. I had a feeling there was someone in there. Did she bring her new lover for support?
Narrowing my eyes, I stalked toward the back door and opened it. She didn’t stop me, only watched.
I froze when I spotted a small child in a dirty child seat in the back seat. He was only in a diaper, which was probably enough in the blistering heat outside but not in the AC air inside the car.
I took a step back and glared at the woman. “I want a fucking explanation, and I want it ASAP, or this is going to become a very unpleasant experience for you.”
She came toward us and picked up the child, a boy I would guess from his facial features, from the seat. She held him as if he was a dirty mutt she’d found on the street and couldn’t wait to drop off at a shelter.
I had a fucking bad feeling about this.
She held him out to me in her outstretched arms. The boy stared at me with wide eyes.
Fuck it.
“He’s yours.” She tried to hand him over to me again. I took a step back, staring at the kid, then at the woman.
She put him down on the hot desert ground, and he crawled toward her legs, trying to be picked up again. The ground was probably blistering.
“Put that fucking towel under him or pick him up,” I snarled.
She reached for the dirty towel on the floorboard, thrust it on the ground, and set him down on it. “Stay,” she said impatiently as if he were a disobedient dog.
She met my gaze. “He’s your son.”
I shook my head. My son? What the fuck? I’d forgotten a condom on occasion in the past. Was this really coming back to bite me in the ass now?
“How do I know he’s mine?”
She glared. “I usually use a condom. You were the only one where I didn’t use protection.”
“If you went bareback with me, you might have fucked other guys bare too.”
“He’s yours! You can do a DNA test if you don’t believe me.”
I didn’t want to believe a fucking word out of her mouth. But I didn’t need a DNA test to know he was mine. Fucking mine. He had my eyes, and something about him just screamed Falcone. I couldn’t explain it.
“I’m not taking him back with me,” she said as if we were discussing a piece of furniture, not a kid. Didn’t women usually have motherly feelings for their brood? My mother would have chopped herself to pieces before she would have abandoned us, but of course I knew the stories about my crazy-ass grandmother who tried to kill my father and his brothers. Wasn’t it fitting that I had picked a crazy bitch for a fuck?
“I’m not taking him back,” she repeated as if I hadn’t heard her the first time.
“I don’t want him either!” I roared, fucking furious and also fucking overwhelmed for maybe the first time in my life. She’d popped him out of her vagina and taken—more or less—care of him since then. I was seeing him for the first time. If she didn’t have feelings for the kid, did she really expect me to have them? Fuck, feelings and I weren’t on a first-name basis.
He was a kid, all right, and had part of my DNA, but I didn’t feel like a father. I didn’t feel anything but utter confusion and rage.
She shrugged. “Then abandon him in the desert or drop him off in front of a hospital, or do what you do at night. Everyone knows what you are.”
Was she fucking serious? Was she really suggesting I kill that kid? Fuck, I was a psychotic fucker, no doubt about it, but even I had certain limits.