Beast: Learning to Breathe (Devil's Blaze MC #5)

“For Hayden,” she said. I pinpointed her in my gaze, a look that in all my years as enforcer of the Devil’s Blaze never failed me. Fuck, some men started begging when I looked at them like that. Not Charlie. She laughed, and went back to the other waitress—completely dismissing me. I growled again, for the good that did, and then I left.

“I like your truck,” Hayden says, kind of lost. She brings my attention back around to her, but her words annoy me. I tighten my hand on the steering wheel, as I spare her a quick glance. She’s finally eating the food that Charlie sent to her. My nose kind curls at the smell of it. Fried bananas? “It’s a really nice truck,” she says again, right before taking another bite of her sandwich.

It is a nice truck. I rode my bike into the city to get Hayden. Stopped at the first dealership I found and bought it. It’s a brand spankin’ new Ford F-150 and loaded with all the latest options. I figured if I was going to drive a cage, I’d do it in style. It was kind of cold driving my bike in town, but then I liked the cold getting into my lungs and the feel of the wind. I’ve lived my life on the back of a bike for a reason and since…since losing Annabelle I really didn’t care if I got in another car.

That day at Hayden’s however, when she needed to get to the hospital and there was no way for me to get her there quicker…it bothered me. It shouldn’t have, and I don’t like that it did…but it did. I’m not about to tell her that. Just like I’m not about to tell her the color of this truck reminded me of the color of her eyes. She’d probably make something out of that, and there’s nothing there. Gray is a good strong color. It’s not a fucking sissy color either. That’s all there is to it. No hidden meanings whatsoever.

“I really appreciate you helping me. Maggie and I are very grateful,” she says, and I don’t want to, but I can’t seem to stop myself.

“Maggie?” I can see out of the corner of my eye how she freezes when I ask my question.

Her lips move into a small smile, right before she pops another fry into her mouth. She had to be starving. Aren’t they supposed to feed you in a hospital? “My daughter,” she says, her hand going to the swell of her stomach. Her head leans down, this time there’s a full smile on her lips, and she almost appears happy. “I’m naming her after a Rod Stewart song, Maggie May. Maggie will probably never listen to Rod Stewart, but it’s a good song and a pretty name. She needs a pretty name.” Her rambling words make me feel weird.

There’s a slight chance I misjudged her. It appears she might genuinely care about her child, at least enough that she has already given her a name. On the heels of that emotion though is another one. One that is stronger and proves what a fucked-up, twisted asshole I really am. I resent that child in her stomach. A child that is completely innocent, but in this moment, I hate. I hate this faceless, unknown little girl who will be blessed with the name Maggie. I hate her name, and I hate her mother. What right do they have? Why does this woman get a child? What is so special about this unborn Maggie that she can have a life when my Annabelle can’t? My hands shake as I tighten them on the steering wheel.

Hayden rattles on beside me, but I’m tuning her out. I feel raw inside, and the misery is too close to the surface. I reach over and blast a Metallica song that comes on the radio, drowning Hayden’s voice out. Then I go back to concentrating on the road. Hayden gives up talking, sparing me a quick glance. She puts what’s left of her food back in the bag, and looks out the passenger window in silence.

Finally.





19





Hayden





“I guess he doesn’t like the name Maggie,” I whisper to the door that was just slammed in my face. Michael didn’t say another word from the time I told him the name of my daughter, to the time when he dropped me off at my house. By dropping me off, I mean he pulled into my driveway, jumped out, came around before I had a chance to move, undid my seatbelt, then picked me up, and carried me. He did all of this including managing to open my front door while still having me in his arms. A front door, which by the way, is brand new and solid wood. It has an oval, stained glass panel that depicts flowers and birds on it. It is beautiful. It also has a heavy-duty lock with a kick-ass handle and a deadbolt.

I wanted to ask where the door came from, but two things stopped me. One, I figured Michael wouldn’t answer, and two, I figured I already knew—especially since he had the keys. Keys which he dropped into my palm—also without another word, when he set me down in my living room. My legs were weak and only got weaker, when his big hand cupped one of mine, pulled it down between us and deposited the keys inside. I stared at the small silver keys that were united by a small, plain metal key ring. I was just gearing up to question him about it, when he stepped back and slammed the door in my face. Slammed. Not lightly, nope. He slammed the door so hard the walls rattled. I jumped, but not that much. I would have thought the windows would break from the force of the door slam. That’s when I looked around and noticed that every window had been replaced in the house. Every window. When I looked in Maggie’s room and saw the new window…I wanted to cry. They’re double insulated, with heavy duty locks and the outside is vinyl. I have no idea why he would do such a thing. I shudder to think how much it all cost him. Seeing it all confused me and even embarrassed me a little. Still, I was blown away.

Michael might not like me. I’m thinking that fact is pretty clear. I’ve been un-liked a lot in life, but none have made it as apparent as Michael has a knack for—even if he mostly stays silent. Yet, even if he doesn’t like me, he’s helped me. I have no idea why he has, but he has. So, one thought has settled into my heart, and this one thought seems to have pushed away the fear and even the hurt I held against my grouchy, next door neighbor.

Even if he doesn’t like me, he doesn’t want to see me or my daughter hurt.

That one thought is pretty freeing. It’s the closest I’ve come to feeling safe in my entire life. Maybe I felt safe with Maggie’s father…at least in the beginning, but that didn’t last long, and mostly was there because I was young and stupid. He sure never gave me any reason to feel safe. He definitely would have never put up a new door to keep me safe. Plus, if he found me unconscious on the floor, the only thing he might have done was step on me.

Michael may not know it, but with his actions, he’s given me a reason to like and trust him. It’s a strange feeling; one that almost feels like a miracle. Maybe Pastor Sturgill is right and my neighbor having the name of God’s favored archangel is a good thing. A sign that everything is okay.

I rub my stomach and whisper, “It’s going to be okay, Maggie.” She kicks against my stomach, and I’m taking that as her agreement.