“Tell me we’re not staying with Grady and Holly.” It’s more of a demand than a question. I’ve only met Holly that once at the clubhouse, and she was perfectly nice. They’re pretty new, though, even if she is pregnant, and I don’t want to feel like an inconvenience. I eyeball Grady’s white house warily as we pass it without slowing. Nobody says a word, but I take this as a sign we aren’t staying with Grady and Holly. I breathe a sigh of relief and search the street for something small and quaint enough that I think Wyatt would have reasonably rented.
My mood sours as we approach the end of the street. In the distance sits a white farmhouse. The same white farmhouse that’s soured my mood to every farmhouse—whether that’s reasonable or not—because I once found Wyatt there, slumped over on the house’s porch. At the very least, it was empty, so nobody had called the cops. It’s not the house’s fault my man chose that exact spot to pass out after overindulging on God only knows what. But it doesn’t matter. The image of Wyatt looking half-dead is burned into my memory. It doesn’t matter that I used to love farmhouses—and I wanted a white one. It doesn’t matter that it’s perfectly set on the land, having disturbed as few trees as possible. There’s more trees around this home than the rest. The builder must have had a hell of a time keeping all those trees in place. Even Grady, who values his privacy more than almost anyone I know, chopped down a considerable number of trees around his property to make room to build. But not this stupid farmhouse. None of it matters because I still see Wyatt, with shallow breaths, a heart that isn’t beating properly, and glazed eyes, staring back at me from that fucking porch.
And it makes me want to burn the goddamn thing to the ground.
Right when I’m in the middle of a full-on hatefest, Jeremy slows the SUV as we approach the house and stops. He then backs the SUV into the farmhouse’s driveway, puts it in park, and cuts the engine. Bad memories aside, there’s no way I can afford to live in a house like this. If I’m being honest, there’s no way I can afford to live in any of these homes. Even the more modest ones. What the hell was Wyatt thinking?
“This isn’t right,” I say to no one in particular. Because it can’t be. The rent on a place like this alone must be at least triple my old little ranch in Detroit.
Jeremy and Diesel ignore me as they exit the vehicle and walk around to the back, where they start pulling out Piper’s mobile crib and setting it on the ground. Zander climbs out, and I unbuckle a sleeping Piper from her car seat. I catch sight of Jeremy tossing a set of keys at Zander and telling him to go explore just as I’m getting us out of the car. Deciding I won’t get anywhere with the guys, I follow my boy to the house in silence. He’s dragging his feet, but the moment he catches sight of the gleaming chrome-and-black Harley that’s set off to the side, he picks up his pace and rushes up the steps with an enthusiasm I haven’t seen in days. I bite my tongue when I feel the urge to tell him not to get comfortable.
I’ve never worked outside of the club before, but I can probably find something in town if I have to. Rig had promised my dad he’d keep me employed in something respectable. I’ve spent the last thirteen years keeping the books for the strip club the Detroit charter owns. It didn’t pay big, but it paid enough to afford the essentials and a few extras. Most old ladies don’t work. The club can be a little archaic about that stuff. The brothers like to show they can take care of their own, so it’s not something that’s done often, but when it is, it shouldn’t ever be out of necessity. Christ, even growing up in this shit I can see how outdated it is. Still, Wyatt and I aren’t technically together, so I can’t rely on him to foot the bill for us.
By the time we’re inside, my nerves are totally shot. I make quick work of identifying the dining room to the left and the living room to the right. There’s a staircase sidled up to the left wall that separates this space from the dining. Opposite the staircase, the wall dividing the living room and foyer is covered in black frames of various sizes and styles. We get closer only to find that they’re our photographs. All arranged nearly the same way they were on our living room wall back in Detroit. My mind races as I find my living room furniture already set up in a way that makes it look like it belongs. The dining room has a plethora of moving boxes, some stacked so high that they nearly tower over me. On the back end of the foyer is a large country kitchen with my kitchen table sitting center stage. To its left is what looks like a mud room and to the right is an open space that might be the family room. There’s nothing in there, so I can’t really tell what its function should be.
“Where’s Dad?” Zander’s voice is a mix of accusation and disappointment and booming with teenage theatrics. Piper jolts awake quickly in my arms and stares at her brother in indignation. Her lower lip trembles before she pulls it back and kicks at me to let her down. I lower her to the floor and do the irresponsible mom thing and let her wander off on her own for a minute. She’s still sleepy, so she’s kind of slow, so I don’t feel too awful about it.