Total pages in book: 63
Estimated words: 60234 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 301(@200wpm)___ 241(@250wpm)___ 201(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 60234 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 301(@200wpm)___ 241(@250wpm)___ 201(@300wpm)
I stay on the freeway until the Birchmont Bay exit comes into view. This is it. Healing my shit starts right here, and if I can deal with my folks, give them a chance to prove they’re better people today than they were back then, maybe there’s a chance for us. If they can accept me, there’s hope for us.
And if there’s hope for me and my folks, shit, that has to mean there’s hope for me and Maggie.
Doesn’t it?
I pull up in front of the house and shut off the engine. I stare at the pretentiousness of it all. Who the fuck needs this much house? I never even noticed it when I was a kid. I get off my bike and set my helmet on the seat. I look down and smile, realizing for the first time that I’m dressed in full MC gear.
My kutte hangs from my shoulders, my patches visible for anyone to see. My black jeans hang low on my hips, a black bandana holds my hair back, and my motorcycle boots sound loud and imposing as I make my way up the walk. This is me, and if there’s any hope for us, they have to take me as I am.
The door opens, and an older, slightly slimmer version of Ron Bishop greets me.
“Dad.” I blink in surprise at just how many years have gone by. For most of my life, he was the biggest, smartest man I knew.
“Kane. It’s really you!” He steps back and motions for me to step inside. I barely take two steps in before he grabs me in a bear hug, the way he did when I was a kid.
My body freezes instinctively at the unfamiliar touch, and I step back.
“Right. Sorry.” Dad’s shoulders fall in disappointment.
“It’s not you, Dad.” I try to explain, but I wonder if it’s even fucking worth it. “It was unexpected, and I still don’t do well with unexpected.”
Understanding about my PTSD flashes in his eyes, those baby blues so similar to my own. He clamps a hand on my shoulder. “How are you doing, son? I mean, really?”
I shrug. “Been better. Been worse. You?”
His lips part into a smile. “Pretty much the same. Retiring in a few years.”
“Wow. I didn’t think you’d ever retire.”
“We all get old at some point, son.” With his hand still on my shoulder, he guides me through the foyer and into the kitchen. “Christie, look who I found.”
My mother looks up with an annoyed expression that turns to shock and then…happiness? “Kane? Is that really my baby?” She drops the cucumber sandwich she was arranging on a silver platter and rushes around the marble island counter, pausing a foot away from me. “Can I hug you?”
I frown at her words, and she shrugs sheepishly.
“What? I’ve read up on your PTSD, which you’d know if you’d bothered to come around. Ever.” A smile softens the admonition, and I hold out my arms, accepting a decade’s worth of hugs in sixty long seconds.
“Last I heard, the freeway runs both ways.”
Mom chuckles against my chest, still squeezing the life out of me. When she pulls back, a small frown darkens her blond brows. “You’re still with those bikers?”
I nod. “I’m not with them, Mom. I am them.”
“You’re a doctor.” Her lips flatten into a single line, and she crosses her arms against her chest. “You are still a doctor, aren’t you?”
“I am. And I run a clinic that helps the community. Me and those bikers.”
“So you’re giving out antibiotics and birth control?”
I roll my eyes. “We help people with medical care, Mom. Whatever they need.”
Her shoulders fall. “At least you’re still a doctor. Are you hungry? Come and have a seat, and I’ll get you something to eat.” She turns over her shoulder. “Ellie, come and fix Kane something to eat.” Ellie’s the cook, and memories of her wonderful meals from my childhood make me smile.
“I’m fine, Mom.”
“I’m glad you came by,” she starts. “I wasn’t sure if you would.”
“Neither was I,” I admit easily. “But I’m here.”
“You are,” she smiles, touching my face like she can’t believe I’m here. “And I’m sorry, Kane. Sorry that I didn’t give you what you needed from a Mom. I regret it. I want you to know that, but I was too stubborn to fix it.”
That doesn’t surprise me, but the apology does. “I came here because I want to work on forgiving you. Both of you.”
“Whatever it takes,” my dad says. “Name it.”
“I don’t know. You abandoned me when I needed you. I was struggling so bad, I wasn’t sure if…well, it doesn’t matter now. The point is that I’m not all right, and trying to forgive you might help me get to ‘all right’.”
“That’s all we can ask of you, son.” My dad smiles, gripping my shoulder gently. “You decide how this goes, okay?”