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Chapter 1
Andi

"I don't understand," I say, adjusting the squirming toddler in my arms. "What are you telling me, Amanda?"

My cousin's voice sounds thin and crackly on the other end of the phone. "You'll need to look after them for another week—maybe two."

I hear someone calling her name in the background as I struggle to process what my cousin has just dumped in my lap.

"But I can't. I have work."

"I know but you can—shit, I have to go," Amanda curses. "Our plane is boarding."

The shock of her announcement evaporates as reality punches me in the face.

"Amanda, wait! You can't do this to me, I—"

"Gotta go! Key to the house is in the letterbox. Rent's due tenth of the month. Kisses to the babies. Bye!"

The call disconnects before I can get another word in. I pull the phone from my shoulder, staring down at the blank screen.

"Fuck."

"Fah!" Abby repeats, smooshing my face between her tiny, sticky hands. "Fah, fah!"

Panic tears through me as I stare at the chaos that my living room has become. The one-bedroom apartment I've lived in for the last twelve months has been perfect for me—a single woman without so much as a goldfish.

For me and three kids? Not so much.

I lean down to set Abby on the floor as the weight of Amanda's decision settles on my shoulders.

"Go play with your sister," I murmur, tapping her on the bottom.

Abby rushes off, her chubby little legs barely able to keep up with her. My cousin has three kids under the age of three: twin girls, Abby and Amy, and a little boy, Adam. The A-Team are cute, I'll give them that, but I'm not prepared for the responsibility of three kids. My apartment isn't exactly kid-friendly.

I run a hand through my hair and over my face, silently screaming. Amanda isn't exactly the most responsible individual. She has a tendency to go off for a weekend, leaving me stuck literally holding the baby. But to do this for a week, maybe more? That is unusual, and I don't like it. I don't like any part of the nonsense I've been putting up with for years.

I blame her current boyfriend. The guy has been around for months, and he is bad news. Baby Adam is an example of that. Instead of Paul being at the birth, it was me holding Amanda's hand. But she’s too blind, by love or lust—probably his money—to see what a bad influence he is. But then, I can’t blame him entirely. The fact is, she’s a grown woman who should know better than to leave her kids to go chase a party. 

I guess I should be grateful that Paul is still around. At least he pays child support, unlike the twins' dad, who took off before they were even born. Between Paul and Amanda, they aren't exactly the most responsible parents. They mess up regularly, forgetting they have kids and leaving babysitters to call me when they don't show up at the appointed time. More than once, I've cancelled weekend plans or skipped work just to support my irresponsible cousin and her partner.

I adore my baby cousins, don't get me wrong. I love looking after them and being in their lives. But I’m not their parent. And as much as I hate to admit it, it’s becoming clearer and clearer that Amanda and Paul don't consider them their responsibility. 

My mind races as I look for other options. There is no way I can call Amanda's mom. My aunt is bad news all over. And my mom? Well, she might be even worse. 

An old-school hippie, they both aren’t exactly known for their reliability. Between the drugs, the debts, and the drinking—not to mention the deadbeat guys they bring home every weekend—they’re not exactly Ms. Reliable.

I run a hand through my hair, listening to the kids play. 

Amanda wasn’t always like this. We’d been close as kids, just us against a world that wanted to keep kicking us down to the dirt. But somewhere around our teens, we’d begun to drift. I wanted something better than a rusted trailer and a string of men who stayed long enough to drink all your beer but not long enough to pay for another six-pack. 

And Amanda… well, she’d chosen differently. 

I'd escaped our trailer park on my eighteenth birthday, working my butt off to get my GED and enroll in a course I knew would pay decent money. Being a mechanic isn't exactly the job of my dreams, but the money I make sure as hell makes up for it. 

While the kids I'd gone to school with had dreamed of fame and fortune, I'd wished for more than a hundred bucks in the bank, or a regular hot shower that didn't involve a rec center. Add in a night of not listening to sex through paper-thin walls, and all my dreams would have come true.

By all standard metrics, I could consider myself successful. And yet here I stood, a pseudo-single parent, looking after three kids who aren't my own, while my cousin goes off to God only knows where to party with only the devil knows who.

Shit. 

I pace as I consider the implications of Amanda's selfish decision. A weekend is different from a week or even two. One weekend in my apartment is tough but doable. A whole week or more? No way. I can't have three kids here. What will I do for childcare? For food? For sleeping arrangements?

The temporary cot will be okay for Adam, but the girls share my bed when they’re here, and I sleep on the pull-out couch which isn’t the best night's sleep—when I can sleep around a fussy baby and two hyperactive toddlers. 

And what about my job? I'll have to look after the kids while I'm at work. There is no way I can bring three babies into the workshop. I am a mechanic, and our workshop specializes in restoring cars and bikes. Hell, we even have the occasional truck. I am good at my job, and people love what I do. I have a little bit of sick leave saved up, but we are in the middle of a big project. I don't want to be the one to cause it to blow out.

Option one: I can call child services and turn the kids over to them, but having been through foster care, there is no way I am going to do that.

Option two: I can try calling Amanda, work out where she is, and drop the kids off, but I have no doubt that would just end up in the same situation within a couple of days. She'd come home, and the kids would be in the house alone. I'd get a call from one of the neighbors or Amanda, telling me to check on them. Alternatively, she'd complain and somehow get into my place, wrecking the joint because I hadn't given her what she wanted. It’s happened twice before.

Option three, and perhaps the only one that is actually viable, is to bundle the kids up, take them back to their place, and look after them there until my cousin grows up and comes home to look after her own kids. And since I don't own a car or car seats, we'll have to take the bus.

"Damn you, Amanda," I mutter, beyond exasperated by this situation.

I glance at them, seeing Abby and Amy playing quietly with stuffed toys I bought them.

No one else will care for them as much as I will. Which means this is on me. All on me. 

With a heavy sigh I make my decision, glancing at my watch. 

It’s getting late in the evening, which means the kids need food, a bath, and bed, but there’s no way I can look after them tonight and get to work tomorrow. With a frustrated huff, I pull myself together and make mac and cheese for the twins, and heat some frozen breast milk for Adam.

I feed them quickly and shuffle them all into the bathroom for a quick wash before dressing them in pajamas. Assembling their multitude of things—diaper bags, a stroller, blankets, soft toys—I do a quick search on my phone for bus timetables and nearly lose my mind realizing it will take us nearly two hours via public transport for what is essentially a 15-minute drive. But such is the public transport system in small towns.

I live a town over from Amanda. While I might work in Stoneheart, living slightly away from the place I grew up gives me enough distance to carve out a life not tainted by the mistakes of my family. 

You might wonder why I don't order an Uber or a taxi—please. The one guy who offers it only works from ten till three during the day, his main customers being old ladies wanting to get to bridge.

With another heavy sigh, I lock up my apartment, adjusting the small bag of items I’ve thrown into my backpack. The twins are wearing some of those monkey harnesses, which I hate but work when I also have to deal with a stroller as well as carry their stuff. The bus ride itself isn't too bad; I manage to distract them with a movie on an iPad and a pair of headsets. Adam sleeps most of the way, waking occasionally for cuddles, a feed, and a diaper change, which I’ll deal with later.

Disaster strikes when the bus finally drops us off a 10-minute walk from Amanda's. The twins, now an hour past their bedtime, are exhausted and not at all willing or interested in walking a step further. It takes some maneuvering, but I manage to slip Abby beside Adam in the stroller and put Amy on my back in a backpack. I move the diaper bag to the stroller's overhang and determinedly shove our way forward as I trudge down the long, broken concrete sidewalk.

Amanda lives in a questionable area, which is no surprise. As a single mom of three whose sole income appears to come from welfare and boyfriends, she has a house whose rent seems dubiously connected to her ability to grant the landlord favors.

I’ve never asked what kind of favors cause goodness knows I don’t want to know. 

Once upon a time, this had been a lovely neighborhood with big old trees and quiet small houses. Now it’s a wasteland of derelict housing and cleared land. 

But there are flickers of life that demonstrate it might be about to undergo a gentle gentrification—the occasional house with new paint and shutters, a car that appears to be a little bit above the price range of the other clunkers around the place. But for the most part, the area is tired, old, and worn with a thin veneer of dilapidation. Old-timers sit on their porches in the summer bemoaning the state of the world while the younger generations trade drugs or guns, or move to the city in an attempt to better themselves.

Maybe one day the town will reclaim its former glory, but for the moment, it isn't the safest neighborhood.

After 10 minutes of pleading, cajoling, and dealing with a disgruntled set of toddlers, we finally make it to Amanda's house. I check the mailbox and, sure enough, I find the key to her house glinting in the dim, flickering streetlight. With a silent curse, I bundle the kids inside and flick on the lights.

It’s been over six months since I stepped foot in Amanda's house. Any babysitting had taken place in my apartment. The last time I'd been here was before Adam's birth when I had scrubbed the place from top to bottom and helped her set up the crib because, of course, Paul, the jerk, wasn't interested. But now, stepping inside, I realize that was a mistake. The place is filthy—boxes are stacked here and there coupled with piles of rubbish, dirty laundry, and diapers. The stench of the place nearly overwhelms me, and I gag.

The kids, sadly, take the stench in stride. 

Exhausted after a full day of work and this unexpected babysitting gig, I’m beginning to realize the extent of Amanda's problems. The knowledge hits me like a train, barreling over me, crushing me under the weight of responsibility. 

There’s no way Amanda is coming back, and there’s no way I can let these kids go.

Through the door of the house, the twins, exhausted beyond measure, have a meltdown which in turn wakes up the baby, who begins to scream. I drop my bags on the floor, overwhelmed by the mess, the smell, the noise, and the weight of the knowledge that I can't give them back to Amanda. They will need to become my wards. I'll need to take over their responsibility. My life as I know it, as I always imagined it, is about to change.

Freaking out, I quickly bustle around, double-checking that there isn't anything they can get hurt by. I bustle the twins into their bedroom and pop Adam in his crib. I close the door to the twins room, propping a chair under the knob to keep them safely inside. 

Tears prick my eyes, and a sick, almost nauseous feeling sweeps over me. 

I love them. I love Adam, Amy, and Abby, but I haven't asked for this. It isn't in my plans. I don't have the money to support them. I don't have the apartment or the time, but I'll have to make it work. 

I have to do this—for them. 

Dreams I have of a house and owning my own business begin to crumble as the weight of my reality rushes in. 

I need air. 

I stumble to the front door and outside onto the grass of the front yard, falling to my hands and knees in a daze as I gasp lungfuls of cool air, staring up into the dark. My breaths saw in and out too fast, too loud, too wretched. I’m cold and clammy, desperately clutching at the dead and dried grass under my palms. I open my mouth, a scream building in my throat, but nothing comes out.

A sob begins to build in my chest, pain shooting through my body. I’m heartsick for my little cousins who have been abandoned by the people who should care for them. I’m angry—no—furious, at Amanda and Paul. I’m scared, and frustrated, and terrified, and—

"Yo!" The rough call snaps me out of my shock, and I lift my head to see a man staring at me from across the road.

I can just make him out in the light of the streetlamp. He is huge—tall, broad, with thick shoulders and arms, and even thicker thighs. His hair has been cut short—almost to a buzz cut. On his feet are motorcycle boots, his legs encased in dark denim, and his broad chest is covered in a black shirt with some kind of graphic writing on it. But it is his vest that catches my attention. I recognize the patches that indicate a biker.

My boss wears a similar vest, and I know some of the other mechanics have begun hanging around with different gangs or clubs. I can never remember the difference. I keep my head down and do my work, and as long as they pay me well for that work, I don't care what they do in their off time.

My gaze flicks to the house behind him, noting that it is one of the few that appears to be in decent shape—fresh paint, good shutters, good security. It has a massive garage that looks like it has been remodeled recently, the door of which is open, and inside stands a bunch of other guys also watching me. They have busy hands as they huddle around a motorcycle, and I have no idea what I have stumbled into, but I don't like it one bit.

“You good?”

I blink slowly before answering him. “Yeah, I mean… yes. Sorry.” 

He jerks his head towards the house where the kids' screaming has taken on a new pitch. "You gonna deal with that?"

I blink, surprised and a little thrown. "Sorry?"

"Your kids. You gonna do something about them screaming?" he asks.

I glance back at the house and slowly climb to my feet, running a hand through my hair. "Yeah, I just... I just needed a minute," I stumble over my words, still trying to process everything.

"If you’re good, then you better do something before someone calls child services. Kids that small screaming like that.” 

Isn't that the truth? I think, shaking my head. They deserve better than a filthy house. They deserve better than being dumped on their aunt's doorstep every now and then. And they certainly deserve better than a belly full of shitty mac and cheese.

"Yeah," I agree. "Yeah, you're right." I push myself to my feet, dusting my knees and hands. "Sorry, I just... I needed a minute." I repeat, stumbling over my words, still trying to process the events that have led me to this moment.

He jerks his head once more towards the house. "Get your kids."

Your kids. 

His words are the slap I need to wake up. 

I nod, pivoting on the ball of my foot, rapidly powering towards the house, taking the three steps in one leap and scurrying inside. It would be just my luck if CPS shows up before I can make any kind of rational plan for the kids.

It takes me an hour to calm them down, requiring multiple songs, cuddles, and demands. Once they’re in bed, I pull out my phone and text my boss, asking if I can take a long weekend and apologizing for the inconvenience. I explain the issue, and because he’s a good guy, he gives me the whole weekend plus Monday at full pay. But then I look around and immediately realize there is no way I am going to be sleeping tonight. The kids' room isn't too bad, but the rest of the house is filthy. I don't know what Amanda has done, but it doesn't look like she has completed any kind of chores or cleaning in at least... God knows when. There is scum and mold growing on cups and plates in the kitchen sink, the trash is overflowing, and the laundry is piled high. It’s a miracle the kids have anything clean to wear.

With a deep, soul-wrenching sigh, I search for a pen and paper. I manage to find a pad and sit down at the kitchen counter, beginning to make a list of all the things I need to do and in what order.

There’s something reassuring about a list. You can tick off a list. You can add to it. You can see the process, what you need, and what you want all laid out. 

I find a modicum of comfort in putting the pen to paper. The action gives me some sense of control, some sense of pride when I finally cross things off. It gives me a goal to work towards that I desperately need when my life is spiraling. 

And my life is spiraling right now.

No matter how much I love these kids, they aren't mine. But they are about to be. Their future, their happiness, their lives, it is all about to become my responsibility. I have no idea how I’m going to make enough money to support three kids. The diapers alone are enough to consider mortgaging a house I don't own.

Oh God. Formula. I’ll need formula for Adam. 

Don't think about it, I tell myself as I add to the growing grocery list. Just take one thing at a time. 

First things first: a clean house, grocery list, and I'll need a car and car seats. 

I think wistfully of my motorcycle back at my apartment, tucked safely away. Of my beautiful bedroom and the little oasis I’d created for myself in my apartment. Of the gorgeous but breakable vase that sits in my kitchen. 

The apartment has been mine for three years now, and I have a nice nest egg going with the idea that maybe one day I could purchase something more permanent. But in a single breath of rancid air, that dream has disappeared.

I'll have to work out childcare, and pick up extra shifts to make ends meet. I have no clue how to do that when there are three kids to look after.

God, health insurance. Kids get sick all the time. How am I going to—nope, not now. 

A clean house. That has to be my first priority. The house needs to be clean. 

So, that's what I do. I start by writing down exactly what I need. It is a long list and ends with ordering groceries—though goodness knows how I’ll get them when I don’t have a car and there’s no delivery service out this way.

There'd be laundry and scrubbing and cleaning and—do we even have any cleaning products?

Jacked up on adrenaline and shock, I start in the kitchen, gagging as I begin to clean from one side to another. I haul garbage outside—garbage that is rotting and rancid, the smell of which is putrid. Condoms, used condoms, are tucked here and there, thrown into corners easily enough that I worry that the girls could have found them.

I toss Amanda's scummy sheets in the washer and uncover an ancient laundry basket. Emptying two of the boxes that had been stacked in the living room, I begin to sort clothing into what is salvageable and what needs to be tossed. Load after load, I begin to make a dent as I clean the house from top to bottom. Here and there, I find stacks of cash and jewelry tucked into little hiding spots. I don't ask questions. Honestly, I don't want to know. I just pile it all up on the kitchen counter, desperately trying to ignore the pit that has begun to form in my belly.

At around 3 AM, I finally put clean sheets on the bed in Amanda's room. Fifteen garbage bags of junk line her front porch, but at least the house is functional, clean, and I have a list of groceries I’ll need tomorrow, the top of which includes cleaning products. I have no idea how I’m going to get those grocery items, but I’ll deal with that tomorrow. I take a quick shower, scrubbing off the grime, dirt, mold, and filth caking my skin and clothing from cleaning the house.

Tomorrow morning will come soon enough.

Chapter 2
Andi

Day one of my new life as a parent to three children starts as any parent would understand: way too early.

I wake to find a child peering at me from the side of the bed.

"Wawy, wawy," Amy says, touching my face. "Potty."

With a groan, I roll out of bed and stumble to my feet, guiding her to the toilet. She does her business, kicking her tiny chubby legs as she chats on about everything and nothing. She keeps gesturing to the bathroom, and I interpret her hand movements as approval for the cleaning job I did last night.

I poke my head into their bedroom and note that Adam is still fast asleep after his 4 AM feed, while Abby has managed to climb out of her bed and now sits on the floor of their bedroom playing with stuffed toys. I didn’t clean their bedroom last night, opting to let them sleep, but it’s on my list for today after breakfast and shopping.

I take the twins into the kitchen and make them some cereal, watching carefully as they use their fingers to fish out the soggy pieces. It’s always been like this, and I’m starting to realize this is less a quirk of a two-year-old and more that they’ve never been taught how to use spoons or cutlery. 

Just another thing to add to my list.

It’s Friday, and normally on a Friday, I’d be finishing up my jobs for the week, but today it feels like I’m beginning the rest of my life. I sip some shitty instant coffee I uncover in the back of Amanda's next-to-bare cupboard and start making plans for the day.

First, I need to buy a car. I can’t wait. If one of the kids gets sick, I need a way to get to the hospital and cart them around. I’ll need to put my bike up for sale. I know it’ll fetch a pretty penny, but God, what a blow. That bike is everything I’ve ever wanted. I worked my ass off for that bike, saving up for twelve months to buy an absolute wreck of a Harley. Over the next year, I slowly restored it myself. Every beautiful inch of it is my blood, sweat, and tears. She purrs like a tiger, flies across the road like a graceful gazelle—delicate but solid.

The bike is perfect in every single way, every decal from the powder blue down to the gorgeous hand-pressed silver with march violets. She’s the first thing I ever earned that showed me I was a success, that I could do this, that life could be better. My favorite time of the year is in the middle of summer when I take a week off and just ride her into the sunset. Wherever I land is where I set up camp. I love that. I love the feeling of freedom, of adventure, of knowing that my entire world is the bike between my legs and the open road.

I close my eyes, biting back tears as I realize I have to give up the one thing in my life that has brought me so much joy.

I’ve had offers on her before—thirty, forty grand. She’s a classic, and she’s my daily. Forty grand. If I can get that for her, I can’t pass up that kind of money when I need to pay for childcare, rent, and a bunch of other stuff I had no idea kids bring with them.

 It hurts. It hurts so bad.

Knowing it’s better to rip the band-aid off rather than draw out the pain, I dial my boss. He picks up on the second ring.

"Yo, you okay?" he asks, his voice heavy with concern.

Duck has owned the mechanic's shop for close to thirty years. Now in his late sixties, the guy has forgotten more about engines and motorcycles than I could ever hope to learn in a lifetime.

"Yeah," I lie. "Just peachy."

"So, what's going on? Your cousin bail again?"

I make a noise of affirmation. "Yeah, but this time I—" I swallow hard. The words I’m about to say will turn what is in theory a decision into reality. Sucking in a deep breath, I do what I have to do.

"Yeah, this time I don’t think it’s changing. I’m gonna take custody of the kids."

"Damn. That’s rough."

I nod, aware he can’t see me but unable to speak around the thick lump of emotion filling my throat.

"What do you need?" His question doesn’t surprise me. Duck’s a good guy. He might be a biker and a mechanic, but he knows his stuff, and he cares about each of us. He’s also the first guy to take a chance on me when I was fresh out of school, and for that, I’m grateful, considering how many other places took one look at my gender and decided I was better off in the office than under the hood.

“I need to sell my bike.” 

He sucks in a breath. "You sure?"

I swallow. "Yeah."

"What price are you looking for?"

"As much as I can get."

"Got it." I hear him moving around, shuffling. "I might have someone. Let me give them a call."

I push away any regrets I might be entertaining as I watch the girls slurping their milk. "Thanks, I appreciate it."

"Anything else you need? Aside from a shoulder to cry on?"

I chuckle. "You know any good babysitters? Or maybe we could turn the back office into a daycare?"

Duck snorts. "Over my dead body. Don’t get me wrong, my grandkids are cute and all, but no one wants them running around during office hours."

I sigh. "Look, I don’t mean to be rude, but about our health insurance..."

"Don’t worry about it," he says, cutting me off. "You’re covered."

I exhale heavily. "Thanks, I really appreciate it, Duck."

"Seriously, don’t sweat it, kid. We’ve got your back. Now, you need a car?"

"How—how did you know?"

"Call me a clairvoyant or the dad of six kids and 18 grandkids. Either way, you’re going to need transport, especially if you’re thinking of selling the bike."

"Yeah," I admit. "Amanda didn’t exactly leave me with the most useful of cars," I say, thinking of the wreck that’s been sitting in her yard for the last six months. Even I, as good as I am, wouldn’t dare attempt to salvage it. Sure, the parts would be useful, but the car itself is an absolute goner, the engine beyond repair.

"You got anything cheap?" I ask. "Something in my price range?"

"Take the loaner."

I sigh. "I can’t, Duck. That’s for customers."

"We look after family here," he says, ignoring my protests. "And you’re family, kid. Best employee I’ve had in 30 years."

Tears burn the back of my eyes. I’ve never had a dad—just one deadbeat after another that my mom brought home. Some were okay, offering me sweets or candy. Others tried to be a dad, disciplining me or urging my mom to take an interest in my life. But the rest? They all disappeared pretty quickly. The longest stuck around for three months; the shortest, a couple of days. I’m not unfair or resentful, never have been. But I regret not having good people in my life, and Duck and his wife, Maggie, are good people. Really good people.

"Thanks," I mutter, unable to convey exactly how grateful I am. "Add me for an extra shift or something. I’ll pay you back, I promise."

Duck makes a sound, a cross between amusement and annoyance. "You’ll do no such thing. Be here on Tuesday. If you need a sitter, you let me know. Mags would love to look after your kids."

I swallow hard. 

Your kids.

 That’s going to be me from now on. The single mom of three kids. 

Jesus Christ, what have I signed up for? What am I getting myself into? I can’t do this. Who am I to think I can take over as their parent? I’m no one.

“All right, got to go, girl,” Duck says. “I’ll get one of the boys to drop around the car.”

“Thanks,” I mutter. “Oh, by the way, let me text you the address. I’m staying at Amanda’s until I can work out what to do about an apartment. Mine isn’t exactly child-friendly.”

“Got it. Text me the address, and we’ll organize the drop-off today.”

“Appreciate it. Thanks, Duck.”

“Don’t mention it.”

He hangs up, and I stare down at my phone as Adam begins to make noises in the back bedroom. What the hell am I doing with my life?

It takes some wrangling, but I manage to get all three kids fed, clean, and out the door. Another bus ride across town takes us to one of those kids' stores, where I get all three of them measured up for car seats. A lot of money later, we’re off, headed to the real goal: lunch. I feed the twins McDonald’s while Adam nurses and I call my landlord. 

I moved to a month-to-month lease a few months back, which I never thought I’d need. I guess there’s a lot that I never thought I’d need. 

I phone in my notice and ask hopefully if he might have any two- or three-bedroom apartments in my price range. It seems my shitty luck is holding as the answer to this is a resounding no. 

After lunch, we troop over to the welfare office, where we sit in a long line in a cold, clinical waiting room with slightly flickering lights, waiting to be seen by a case manager. I don’t begrudge them the wait, but I get frustrated by the other people in the room who don’t seem to understand that juggling three kids while waiting to speak to someone has to be one of the nine circles of hell.

Finally, after three hours, two tantrums, and a ton of snacks, we’re ushered into a room.

“Sorry about the wait,” the woman says, tucking her grey-speckled hair behind her ears. She has a kind face but no-nonsense eyes, and her brisk manner puts me at ease. This is a woman who’s been around the system for a long time, and I can tell with one look that she knows her stuff.

“I’m Robin. How can I help?” 

I explain the issue with Amanda and Paul and the filth of the house. Thankfully, last night, I had the foresight to take pictures of the conditions the kids were living in. Robin writes up a report, admitting that, yeah, we’ll have to go through CPS, but since I’m already taking care of them and am happy to take on the responsibilities, there doesn’t seem to be any reason why I can’t continue doing so until the court-ordered mandate is imposed.

“Obviously we’ll have to give Amanda the opportunity to make her own case, but the fact that she’s currently unavailable—and we’ve both try calling her—speaks to her situation as a parent.” Robin taps a few more keys on her keyboard. “It’s not a good situation to be in, but I’m happy to approve you as the temporary guardian until further assessments to the situation can be made.” 

She hands me a bunch of paperwork—applications that are required for me to be considered a foster parent, classes, and all that stuff. Time I’ll have to spend away from them and my job. Time I’ll somehow have to find.

“How long will the assessments take?”

She shrugs. “The city is backed up with cases more urgent than yours. Could be a week, could be six months. I’ll do what I can.” 

She explains how welfare payments work and what I’m entitled to as a foster parent to support the kids. There are some discounts, like food vouchers and various items, but the most important thing is health care. 

“Are they vaccinated?” 

God, I have no idea. I don’t even know if they’ve had their hearing or eyes or teeth checked. Do kids need that this young? I have no idea.

“Don’t worry,” Robin says kindly, offering me a warm hug. “I’m here to help when you need it. Just know you’re doing a great job.” 

After another long bus ride home, there, sitting in Amanda’s driveway, is a car with a young guy leaning against it. I pause in the driveway, watching him with sharp eyes as he continues to text on his phone.

I peg him at early twenties, his face young but with an already hardened look to it. He wears thick boots, dark jeans, and a faded green shirt. Tattoos decorate one arm, and I get the impression that while he’s lean, the kid knows how to handle himself.

The same patches that decorate his leather vest match the vest Duck wears. Stoneheart MC.
Duck tried to explain it to me once when I asked about it, and I think I understood a little bit. The club is like a brotherhood filled with guys who live on the mountain. They respect the law insomuch as they abide by some of it, but they do whatever they want otherwise. If it doesn’t hurt others, they don’t see a problem with why they shouldn’t be doing it.

I just assume that means everything they do is illegal, but at the same time, I don’t really care. Duck is a great boss, and none of the bikers or their women who come in with their motorcycles or cars ever really give me trouble.

And sure, occasionally there’s one that catches my interest—I’m only human after all—but I never do anything about it. I have enough trouble in my life without adding a guy into the equation. If I need to scratch an itch, I go bar hopping.
You don’t mix business with pleasure, and you certainly don’t get involved with people from work.

The guy looks up from his phone, then nods in my direction. “Duck sent me,” he says, tipping his thumb towards the car. “Said you need this.”

“Couldn’t spare one of the guys at work or something?” I ask, painfully aware that I must look haggard, exhausted, and more than a little frazzled. 

It’s been a long day. You’re allowed to have shitty hair. 

The kid shrugs at my question. 

“Well, thank you.” I let go of the twins’ monkey backpacks, allowing them to run up the driveway and head for the door. “Appreciate your time.”

The guy nods, reaching into one of his pockets to pull out some keys. 

“Here,” he says, handing them over, “Duck said to tell you to give him a call if there’s any issues. Otherwise, he’ll see you Tuesday.”

He glances pointedly at the two girls currently pounding their little fists on the front door of Amanda’s house. “You need a hand with anything?”

I shake my head, more than slightly amused that he even offers. “No, but thanks. I really do appreciate it.”

“No problem.”

I glance around, noting that the kid doesn’t have a ride. 

Shit.

“Hey, how are you getting back?” I brace myself, hoping against hope he’s got it covered. 

He jerks his head to the house across the road. “I’m covered.”

I turn, taking in the numerous cars and bikes gracing my neighbor’s front yard. Their garage is open once again, and a multitude of people are standing inside, drinking, eating, and laughing. 

For a brief moment, I want to dump the kids and walk across, grab a beer, and lose myself in that—in the carefreeness of them, in the way they seem to have no responsibilities, no worries.

Instead, I turn away, determinedly pushing the stroller toward the house. “Thanks again. Come on, kids, let’s go inside.”

The weight of responsibility settles on my shoulders once again. The courses I need to take, the CPS hoops to jump through—it all feels overwhelming.

Amy glances at me as I lift the stroller up the stairs. “Wawy, wawy,” she says in her determined little voice. “Noodles.”

I sigh, adding yet another thing to my to-do list. 

“Mac and cheese,” I agree, forcing a smile. “Let’s get you guys inside and fed, hey?”

I go through the motions with them—feeding the baby, changing him, feeding the girls, washing them, tucking them all into bed and watching them fall asleep after two-and-a-half stories. 

The thought of eating mac and cheese turns my stomach, so I do what any sane person would. I throw on a load of laundry then pull a six-pack from the fridge—one of the only things Amanda actually stocks regularly—order a giant pizza, and grab the baby monitor before going outside to sit on the porch. 

It’s there, with a beer cracked, that I sit in the dark, watching as the house across the street slowly grows wilder.

Motorcycles had rolled in throughout the afternoon and into the evening, bringing with them a parade of scantily clad women—some young, some old, some ancient. A few sport their own patches and vests, proudly declaring themselves “Property of” this guy or that. 

My pizza arrives and rather than retreat inside, I lounge on the porch, nursing my second beer and demolishing my hot-as-hell pizza. The steady rhythm of the twins breathing through the baby monitor is background noise to the party across the street, their music thumping loud enough to rattle my teeth.

As the night wears on, I duck inside twice to tend to Adam—feeding him, changing him, and tucking him back into bed. He’s so damn tiny, all scrunched-up face and miniature fingers and toes. He came early, staying in the NICU for two weeks before they let him come home. The girls are just as vulnerable, with Amanda’s dark hair and their dad’s big blue eyes, whoever the hell he is. Each of these kids is precious beyond words. I run my hand over their hair, planting kisses on their foreheads.

Part of me aches to be across the road, to lose myself in one final night of freedom, but I know this is where I belong. These are my kids now. The moment Amanda bailed and I stepped up, they became mine. And I’ll be damned if anyone tries to change that.

I still need to figure out what the fuck I’m doing with my life, but whatever comes next, it’ll revolve around these three. With Adam settled, I wander back out to the porch, plopping down and picking up my beer.

The front yard is a goddamn disaster zone. Weeds sprout defiantly from the dirt, while scraggly shrubs fight a losing battle against rusting cans and other trash. Smack in the middle sits Amanda’s car, a rusted-out hulk missing its tires and muffler. I took a crack at fixing it one afternoon, only to discover she hadn’t put oil in the damn thing for three years. When she finally did, the engine blew itself to kingdom come.

Cleaning up this mess is next on my endless to-do list. Tomorrow, I’ll get those car seats fitted, which means I can finally haul the kids to a real grocery store. No more mac and cheese and stale cereal. 

Christ, has Amanda really been living like this? The kitchen is a wasteland—three sad containers of frozen breast milk, half a carton of regular milk, and some bottom-shelf cereal. Oh, and enough beer to drown a small army. Even the freezer is stocked with vodka instead of kid-friendly treats like ice cream or popsicles.

I pull out my phone and start hunting for local childcare centers, praying I’ll find something—anything—that’s both taking new kids and won’t bankrupt me. Fat chance of that. Even with government assistance, affording decent care seems about as likely as winning the lottery.

I’m beyond frustrated, pissed off, and miserable, which is probably why I react the way I do when a biker parks on the sidewalk, yanks off his helmet, and tosses me a wink. I find myself raising my hand in greeting.

“You should come join us,” he says, nodding towards the rager across the street.

I size him up, taking a long pull from my beer. “Maybe.” I shrug. “Not exactly dressed for a party, though.”

His eyes rake over me, and I feel that look deep in my gut. My thighs clench involuntarily. For once, I’m glad to be sitting down. I know I’m not exactly most guys’ idea of eye candy—too muscular, broad-shouldered, with tits, ass, and thighs that are more Amazonian than pin-up girl. My waist nips in a bit, but most of my shirts don’t do me any favors. At just shy of six feet tall, with a job that leaves me bruised and grease-stained more often than not, I’m not winning any beauty pageants.

My dating history is a joke. Three boyfriends, each one a bigger disaster than the last. The first cheated, the second bailed when I wouldn’t indulge his kinks (sorry, but playing pony with a tail butt plug just isn’t my idea of a good time), and the third—well, he took the cake. Cleaned out my accounts, pawned everything I owned, and vanished. I was more pissed about losing my tools than I was about him leaving. Asshole.

“You look just fine to me,” the biker says, giving me an appreciative once-over that, I have to admit, strokes my ego a bit.

I hesitate, fiddling with the label on my beer as I weigh my options. If I bring the baby monitor, I could theoretically pop over, check out the scene, maybe grab another drink and shoot the shit for a bit before heading back if the kids need me.

In the end, though, I do the responsible thing. I raise my beer in a salute and shake my head, smiling ruefully.

“Thanks for the invite, but I’m good here. You have fun, though.”

He grins and shrugs. “Suit yourself. Offer stands if you change your mind.”

I watch him walk away, feeling a complicated mix of regret and relief. With a heavy sigh, I take another long swig of beer and settle in to let the music wash over me from afar.

Maybe in another life I’d accept.

But not this one.

Chapter 3
Hawk

The woman has fallen asleep.

Around me, music pulses loud enough to rattle the panes of the empty houses flanking my own. The brothers are drunk and rowdy, gunning their bikes and trash-talking on the front lawn. But the noise is nothing to the woman asleep on her porch across the street.

My jaw clenches, my fingers tightening around my beer bottle as I stare at her. If she’s out here, then who the hell is looking after her kids?

Not your problem.

I’d clocked her earlier in the evening and half-expected her to come across and ask us to turn the music down, but she’d sat on her porch, drinking her beer, eating her meal, and then falling asleep. 

If she’s that tired, she should be inside in bed, not out on a porch where any man and his dog can take advantage. 

I force myself to turn away before I do something stupid, like stalk across the road and shake some sense into her.

I turn back to the party, watching as women dance in the garage and on my lawn, trying to entice my brothers, whose hands linger on their bodies appreciatively. Here and there, people are fucking—and I have no doubt all of the rooms inside are taken up by at least one, if not more, couples.

“Great party.” Duck hands me a fresh beer.

I set my empty aside and accept the cool bottle with a muttered thanks. The old-timer leans against the rail beside me, settling in. Duck’s been with the Stoneheart Motorcycle Club for over forty years—patched in as a punk-ass twenty-year-old. The only time he hasn’t worn the colors was during his service in the army.

He looks a little like Santa with his beer gut, white hair, and gray-white beard. And while he might be the one who dresses up to delight the club kids at Christmas, I’ve been in more than one tangle where he’s saved my ass.

A good brother to have at your back. A better one to train you on how to become the new sergeant-at-arms.

He eyes the patch on my chest, the one that declares my position in the club. “How’s that feel?”

“Fucking good,” I admit. “How’s that feel?” I tilt my bottle toward the space where my patch used to sit on his cut.

“Fucking good,” he echoes with a chuckle. “I’m old, Hawk.” He claps a hand on my shoulder.. “Club chose you, and I’ve taught you all I know. You’ll do well by it.” He chuckles again, leaning back against the rail. “Besides, I don’t have the patience to deal with the prospects.”

“Speaking of, how’s the new kid working out?” I ask, referring to his latest apprentice. Duck owns the only garage in town—a profitable venture thanks to his stellar reputation and side hustle restoring classic vehicles. Last I heard, there’s a waitlist of rich pricks from out of state wanting Duck to give their cars a once-over.

Duck grimaces, shaking his head. “He’s not. Doesn’t want to listen to the girl. Shame. She’s a good teacher and knows her shit. Best employee I’ve ever had.”

I cock an eyebrow. “You keep saying that, but every time I come in, this mythical woman seems to be missing in action. I’m starting to believe she’s a fabrication of your imagination, old man.”

Duck nods toward the house across the road where Ms. Parent-of-the-Year nominee sleeps soundly on her porch. “Hard to say that when you’re living across from her.”

I blink, my brain slow to process. “Her?”

Duck nods. “Yep.” He lifts his beer, taking a long drag.

I glance back across, taking in the house with new eyes.

The neighborhood isn’t exactly up and coming. Filled with abandoned houses and questionable characters, it doesn’t scream “place to raise a family.” In fact, if I hadn’t seen her walking into the house carrying a baby and wrangling two toddlers, I’d have assumed the place was abandoned. A wreck of a car sits up on bricks, rusting gently in the front yard, fitting right in with the trash that pockmarks the dirt-and-weed lawn. The house itself has seen better days—with its sloping roof, broken gutters, and peeling paintwork.

“Your best employee has three kids and lets her house look like that?” I ask, wondering if she’s blowing the old guy. I’ve never once seen Duck stray from his old lady, Maggie, but stranger things have happened.

Duck snorts. “Hell no. The girl is neat as a pin. You know why the garage looks so good? All her.” He elbows me. “Nearly as anal as you are about that shit.”

I point my beer at her yard. “Evidence suggests otherwise.”

“That’s her sister’s place. Or is it her cousin’s?” Duck pauses, then shakes his head. “Anyway, she’s the one with three kids—all under three, mind you. Twin girls and a boy. Scatty as a bag of dropped marbles. Dumps the kids regularly to take off with different jackasses.”

“And your girl picks up the pieces?” I ask, putting it together.

“Yep.” He makes a frustrated sound. “She’s going for custody this time. The mother disappeared two days ago. Far as I know, she hasn’t heard a peep from her since.” Duck squints into the dark. “She still out there sleeping?”

I glance across the road, taking in the sleeping woman with new eyes. “Yeah.”

The word feels heavy, sticking in my throat as a touch of guilt twists in my chest. I can’t see her face from here, but the memory of it lingers—the weariness in her eyes, the quiet strength beneath it. I’d been so quick to judge, so certain I had her figured out. But now the edges of that certainty blur, leaving me unsettled. She’s not the person I assumed she was. 

Fuck. Maybe Axel’s right and I am getting jaded. 

Duck shakes his head. “Shit for her. Gonna be shit for me if we can’t make this work.”

I raise an eyebrow. “You’re gonna fire her?”

He shrugs. “Might not have any choice if she can’t make the hours work. Three kids on one wage as a single parent? And they ain’t school-aged yet. Childcare is expensive. I like her—she’s a hard worker, good at her job, committed. But I got a shop to run and other employees I have to pay too.”

It’s all bluster. I know Duck, the man is a fucking pushover. If he likes her, he’ll do whatever he can to keep her on. 

I lift my beer, taking a long pull as I consider her. “What’s her name?”

“Brandi—with an ‘i.’”

I snort, beer burning my nostrils as I cough. “You’re shitting me.” 

It was a long running joke that I’d called my first bike Brandi. Loved that thing before it got wrecked after a jackass backed into it in a parking lot. 

Fuck, I missed that bike. 

Duck thumps me on the back. “No shit. Girl goes by Andi, though. With an ‘i.’”

I glance back across the street, considering her. She sleeps, illuminated by a small light on her porch. Her head slumps to one side, her hands resting in her lap. Her ponytail has slipped, letting dark brown-red hair fall over her shoulder and down her breast. She wears a simple white shirt with dark-wash jeans, but that shirt is working harder than the devil to highlight her assets.

Curves. Curves for fucking days. An abundance of them that—had we met in any other circumstance—would have had me working to get her under me.

But I have new priorities now. Ones that don’t include getting involved with a woman and her kids.

“Nice girl,” Duck says offhandedly. “If you like curves, she’s a looker, that’s for sure.”

“No man?”

He shakes his head. “Never once got a hint of one sniffing around. Though the guys at the shop have tried.” He chuckles. “She puts them in their place quick smart.”

“She into girls?”

“Doubt it. Doesn’t check out the girls like she does some of the guys when they wander in. Never does a goddamn thing about it, though. Says a lot about her that she doesn’t shit where she eats.”

I lean against the porch railing. “You like her.”

He nods. “Thought about bringing her into the club for a while. She’d make someone a good old lady. Smart, organized, helpful, knows how to keep her mouth shut. But she’s cold—like ice. Puts up a wall to anyone trying to get close.” He makes a disgruntled sound in the back of his throat. “Shame. I expect it’ll be a while before any man bothers to see if she’s worth the defrost.”

“And is she?”

Duck chuckles. “You interested?” 

I nurse my beer, watching the woman sleep as I dissect Duck’s assessment of her. Good worker, clean, dedicated, responsible.

Might be a problem.

“Not in that way.” I glance at him. “How responsible we talking?”

He strokes his beard, considering. “I see what you’re getting at, and you may be right. Too responsible. She hears or sees something—especially with those kids in the house—she might call it in, get us on someone’s radar.”

The club chose this location for a reason. The area is quiet, filled with dilapidated housing and tenants who ignore any after-dark dealings.

The house itself has a small frontage—but some previous owner blew out the back end, adding a bunch of rooms and space. The backyard stretches the length of the block, complete with a carriage house we’d turned in the Chapel, a barn we’d converted into barracks for the prospects and visiting members, and an additional set of sheds. It had been a farmhouse back in the day before the city sprang up around it. After the financial crash in the early ’00s, our small town rapidly decayed as families defaulted and the local industry collapsed.

We’re just beginning to pull ourselves out of the mess.

It was a perk–or curse, depending on the day–of the job that I was tasked with protecting the club house, chapel and grounds. Free rent was always welcome, the headaches that came with cocky club members not so much. 

Duck clucks his tongue. “Though, in fairness to her, she’s not said boo about the stuff she sees at the garage.”

As sergeant-at-arms, it’s my responsibility to consider any and all threats to the club—and neutralize them before they become an issue.

And little Ms. Responsibility has just become a threat I need to handle.