“Yeah. I got an emergency. Somewhere I gotta be, ASAP. I can’t bring Wren with me, though.” I glance at Wren, who’s finishing a second grilled cheese finger.
“What are you going to do with her?” Cady asks.
“I dunno. It ain’t like I got daycare lined up.” I rake my hand through my hair a second time. If Wren ends up staying with me for a while, I’ll have to tell the Lords about her, but right now is definitely not the time or the place for that.
Cady tilts her head at me, considering. Once again, I get the feeling she’s assessing me.
“How long do you have to be gone?” she asks.
I still don’t like that she’s prying, but right now I’m desperate. If she has any ideas, I’m open to them. “An hour, maybe a little longer. It’s just right here in town.”
“Well, I mean…” She crosses her arms, looks away. “I could ask Penny if you can leave her here, with me, I guess. If you’re sure that’s how long you’ll be.” She pauses. “And as long as you’re planning to come back.”
“What do you mean, if I’m planning to come back?” I glare at her. “Of course I’m coming back for her! What kind of guy do you think I am?”
She looks at me archly. “I don’t have any idea what kind of guy you are,” she points out. “So far, all I know is that you’re the kind of guy who comes in here with a kid but doesn’t know how old she is and can’t get her to talk.”
“Well, I’m not the kind of guy to abandon her,” I mutter under my breath. “Jesus.”
Cady narrows her eyes, like she’s trying to decide whether she believes me. Finally, she gives me a curt nod.
“I’ll check with Penny,” she sighs. “If she’s okay with it, you can leave Wren here with me, and come pick her back up when you’re done.”
I ain’t in the habit of taking help from strangers. Especially nosy, judgmental ones. But at this point, I don’t have a choice. Cady goes to the counter and murmurs a few words to Penny, then comes back and tells me it’s okay.
“I’ll be back as soon as I can,” I say standing. I pull out a few bills and toss them on the table. “Here’s for the meal, and here’s for taking up the table. If Wren wants anything else to eat, go ahead and give it to her, as long as it’s not crap.” I jab a finger at Cady. “And no more ice cream.”
I turn toward Wren to say goodbye. To my surprise, she’s stopped eating, and is staring at me with wide, frightened eyes.
Shit. My gut wrenches. I realize she probably does think I’m abandoning her. Just like her mother did a week ago.
“Hey. I’ll be back soon, Wren. Okay?” I say, looking her in the eyes.
Wren reaches for her Snoopy, and pulls it close to her, looking close to tears. She shakes her head violently, with a tiny little sound like a strangled cry. All of a sudden she looks like she might be on the verge of a full-blown meltdown.
“Aw, I promise, Wren. I’m coming back.” A weird lump forms in my throat. “You believe me, don’t you?”
Her lower lip trembles, but she doesn’t say a word. A tear falls onto her cheek. It just about breaks my damn heart.
My mind casts around for anything I can do or say so she doesn’t start crying. Thinking fast, I reach up and pull off the leather thong and medallion I always wear around my neck.
“Look.” Gently, I place it around Wren’s neck. I reach for her little hand and wrap it around the medallion, which hangs down almost to her waist. “That’s a very special necklace. I wear it all the time. Will you keep it safe for me until I get back? I’ll be here in time to take you home for dinner, and then you can watch Tangled.” That’s the movie from her backpack that seems to be her favorite one.
Wren swallows. Another tear falls onto her cheek. On impulse, I brush it away with a knuckle.
“Hey, it’s okay, Wren,” I say softly. “I promise you, I’m coming back. And I always keep my promises. Always.”
I make a crossing-heart gesture with my fingers, and then hold them up in a Boy Scout pledge.
Wren’s wide, frightened eyes bore into mine, like she’s trying to decide whether to trust me. I hold my breath.
Finally, she gives me the tiniest, teary nod.
I let it out.
“Good deal.” I give her a wide smile. As I do, it occurs to me I haven’t done that a lot. Shit, I should probably smile at her more. Maybe she’d be less scared of me.
Awkwardly, I reach out and touch her cheek again, then pull her booster seat closer and give her a careful hug. “I’ll see you soon, okay? You be good for Cady while I’m gone.”
Standing, I turn to the hot waitress, who is looking at me now with a different expression. One I can’t quite read.
“Thanks,” I mutter. I lean down, grab a crayon from the table, and scrawl on a napkin. “Here’s my number. If I don’t answer right away, I’ll get back to you as soon as I can.”
Cady is still scrutinizing me, but her features have softened a little.
“Okay,” she nods. “I’ll do my best to keep Wren entertained.”
4
Cady
Wren.
The name suits her. She’s a birdlike little thing. Small. Vulnerable-looking.
But wrens are supposed to be songbirds, I think. This one doesn’t say a word.
Wren has finished her food, finished coloring her placemat, and she’s starting to get antsy with Tank gone. I rack my brain, trying to think of what else there is for a little girl to do in a diner.
In a flash, it comes to me: the cell phone, the universal babysitter.
I slide into the booth next to her. “So, Wrenny-wrenny-bo-benny,” I chirp. “Did you get enough to eat? You want something else?”
Solemnly, she shakes her head no.
“You wanna watch some videos while we wait for your…” I stumble over what to call him, then remember the name Penny called him. “While we wait for Tank to get back?” I finish. “I bet we can find some funny videos on YouTube for you and Snoopy to watch.”
Wren nods. I do a quick search, and find an old Peanuts special that’s about forty-five minutes long. Jackpot. I pull the napkin holder over and prop the phone up against it. Before I can even tell her what to do, her little finger darts out to press the play button.
I stifle a laugh. Looks like she’ll be just fine for a while.
Pensively, I pick up the napkin with Tank’s number scrawled on it, and the cash he left behind. There’s easily enough here to pay for both of their meals twice over, plus a generous tip on top. It’s odd that he paid, given that the Lords eat here for free. I don’t know what to make of it.
I leave Wren engrossed in her cartoon, but keep a close eye on her as I move around the diner finishing up my tasks. While I work, my mind returns to the long-haired, brooding biker. Tank. That can’t be his real name, surely. It’s probably a club nickname, like the rest of the Lords who come in here have.
I’m struck again by how incredibly, improbably handsome and sexy he is. Especially close up. But he’s mean, too.
Well, not mean, exactly. Guarded. And kind of hostile. Closed off.
I can’t help but still be a little worried about Wren, being under his care. She doesn’t seem scared of him, though. Not exactly. Just intimidated.
She definitely didn’t want him to leave just now. My mind goes back to the tender way Tank brushed the tear from her cheek. I feel my face soften with the memory.
Wren doesn’t look like Tank at all. I suppose that’s not too surprising — she’s a girl, and barely three feet tall. Tank is huge, tattooed, and made of solid muscle. Their eyes are the same color, though. How the hell did he not even know Wren’s age? Plus, the way he explained to Penny how Wren was in his care made no sense at all.
“I’m watching her for a while.”
Like she wasn’t even his.
My stomach roils unpleasantly, my lip curling with the thoughts running through my head. What the hell is wrong with this douchebag, anyway? He’s got a kid with an ex-
girlfriend or something — and he doesn’t even like acknowledging that she’s his? That’s scumbag behavior.
Tank probably gets pretty much any woman he wants, he’s that good looking. Lord, is he ever. He’s tall — so tall I only come up to his chest — and his broad shoulders make him look unmovable and solid. His thighs fill out his worn jeans, the muscles so chiseled I can practically see their outline through the fabric. They draw the eye toward a promising package that it takes an effort not to check out.
He’s got a wary look about him. A gruff and serious expression on his face that gives the impression he’s constantly on the alert. He’s like a biker Adonis — a modern-day god, rough-hewn from stone and chrome. Hot, but dangerous. The kind of guy my brain would say is definitely not my type.
But my body begs to differ.
Hell, as good-looking as Tank is, he probably fucks women at the drop of a hat, and doesn’t even give one single shit who he impregnates. The dude probably has kids all over the place that he doesn’t acknowledge.
Unfortunately, I’m well acquainted with guys like that. After all, I used to be married to one.
Still am, technically, I guess.
I clench my jaw in disgust, turning away from Wren so she won’t see my sour expression. She’s not paying any attention, though, her eyes glued to my phone screen.
I shouldn’t care about any of this, but I can’t help wanting know more about what’s going on with this situation. Part of me still wonders whether I should call the police. But Penny seems to think Tank is a decent guy. And honestly, it’s not like I actually think he abducted Wren or something.
Ugh, dammit, I’m so conflicted.
At the end of my shift, though, Tank still isn’t back. Even though he promised he’d only be gone an hour, two hours have already passed. Apprehension growing in my gut, I stick around a little longer to wait for him, because I’m not about to saddle Penny with having to watch over Wren. But eventually, the dinner rush is about to start, and I decide I need to make a move.
I pull the napkin with Tank’s number out of my apron and try to call him. The phone goes straight to voice mail, like it’s been turned off. Dammit. Swearing under my breath, I send him a pointed text:
This is Cady. ETA?
I wait a few minutes, but there’s no response. It doesn’t look like the text has been read, either.
Keeping one eye on Wren’s booth, I wander back to the kitchen, where I find Penny arguing with the cook.
“Hey, so it’s been over two hours,” I say nervously. “You think that guy just skated on the little kid?”
“Tank? No. He wouldn’t do that.” Penny gives an emphatic shake of her head. “Besides, it’s not like he’s some stranger. He ain’t gonna skip town.”
I’m only slightly reassured.
“You try contacting him?” Penny asks.
“I texted,” I shrug. “No answer. And I feel bad for Wren. She’s really good at entertaining herself, but she’s getting damn antsy in that booth.” I make a snap decision. “I’ll tell you what. Why don’t I take her home with me? There’s probably more to entertain her at my place, and it’s not far away. Can you let Tank know to come pick her up there when he gets back?”
“Will do.” Penny nods. “Are you working tomorrow?”
I shake my head. “Thursday.”
“Okay. I’ll come out with you and say goodbye to the kid.”
The studio I rent is above Sunderland’s Hardware. It’s not much, but it has the advantage of being only a couple blocks away from the diner. I sling Wren’s backpack over my shoulder, she takes my hand, and together we make the five-minute walk back to my place.
To say my apartment is bare-bones would be a severe understatement. But it suits me fine. It’s basically one large room, with ramshackle walls built around a bathroom, and a small kitchen area with apartment-sized appliances near the front door. I do have a queen-sized bed shoved into one corner, my one extravagance. Kitty-corner from that on the opposite side of the room, there’s a couch and chair, with a standing lamp and a beat-up trunk as a coffee table.
But what my apartment does have? Its biggest luxury?
Light.
The entire far wall facing the back of the building is windows. From waist-high, up to the ceiling. Granted, the view is of the hardware store’s parking lot, but that’s not what I care about. Those windows face north. Which means the daylight is always there, but the sunlight is never direct.
It’s perfect for painting, because the light is more constant. Meaning I can work all day if I want to on my days off.
Not that I’ve been doing much of that lately. Or at all, actually.
I’m not a professional painter. Far from it. But I have dreams. Well, had. Those dreams originally included college, and maybe a degree in art education. But that ended up not being in the cards. My declaration of independence from my family also meant that I declared independence from their dirty money. So now, I save what little I can from my tips for canvases, brushes, and paint.
And I dream of a future where I can make a living from bringing the pictures in my head to life.
A future that’s looking more distant all the time.
Little Wren walks into my studio like it’s either haunted or enchanted. Her eyes are immediately drawn to the rows of finished canvases on the floor, leaning against the wall next to the couch. I’m guessing she’s never seen that many paintings together at one time. And she’s probably never encountered one at kid’s eye level before.
One of the canvases in particular seems to pull her in. She walks toward it like she’s mesmerized, dragging Snoopy by one paw. The painting depicts a young blond girl, three or four years older than Wren. The figure is almost life-size, painted from just above the knees, meaning her eyes are almost even with Wren’s. The girl in the painting is holding an origami bird in the palm of her hand. The bird is painted to look like it’s made of paper, of course — but not exactly. The moment I’ve tried to capture is an instant of magic. The moment when the bird becomes real and takes flight, transformed by the strength of the child’s imagination.
I’m proud of this painting. It’s one of the ones I’ve worked hardest on. And as Wren stands in front of it now, I realize no one else but me has ever seen it before.
The silent little girl is transfixed by the girl in the painting. As I watch her, Wren’s reaction of wonder means more to me than any art critic’s ever would. Because if a child can understand it — if it truly speaks to her — then I’ve succeeded in capturing the feeling I wanted with this painting. It’s almost as though I’ve made the girl in the painting live again.
My heart squeezes painfully.
Cassie.
The three of us stand frozen in a kind of triptych: me, staring at Wren, who’s staring at the painting of my little sister.
As I work to push down the sudden rawness of my grief, I notice that the long leather thong Tank placed around Wren’s neck before he left the diner has gotten rearranged. The medallion is now hanging down her back, instead of her front.
I swallow once, and clear my throat. “You know what, Wren?” I say, walking over to her and leaning down. “Let’s adjust this pretty necklace around your neck, okay? We’ll make it a little shorter for you, so it doesn’t fall off.”
I lift the necklace up and over her head. Bringing it close, I peer at the small silver oval hanging from the leather. It’s a patron saint medal. The kind Catholics wear. The image depicts a man with a round halo around his head, holding a cross. Silently, I read the inscription that curves around him.
Saint Gerard Pray for Us
I’m not Catholic, so I have no idea who Saint Gerard was, or what he’s supposed to protect people from. But I’m intrigued by why Tank would be wearing it.
I put a loose knot in the thong to shorten it, then place it back over Wren’s head. Tucking the medallion inside her shirt, I make a mental note to look up Saint Gerard later.
Since I do
n’t know how long I’m going to be babysitting Wren, I cast about for something to entertain her. I don’t have any toys in my apartment that a four-year-old kid would enjoy. I don’t have a TV, either. And even if I did, I think she’s had enough screen time for today.
But then it comes to me when I think about how transfixed Wren was by my painting of the origami girl. I decide to set her up to do some art work of her own. Surely I can do better for her here than some crayons and a placemat.
Rummaging around, I find an old painting smock of mine that’s not too long. I roll up the sleeves, and tie it around her so it sort of fits and doesn’t drag on the floor. Then I grab some old watercolors and paintbrushes, and spread out a length of butcher paper on the floor so she has room to work. I settle Snoopy in on the couch at a safe distance, and tell Wren she can paint whatever she likes.
Wren immediately slips into the zone and starts to paint, just like she did with the crayons in the diner.
I find some relaxing music on my phone and plug it into my speakers, filling the room with soft ambiance. I don’t often have visitors here, and normally I don’t mind being alone. But Wren’s presence is sort of comforting. She’s quiet as a mouse, but even so, just having her there is sweet. Homey, even. There are a couple of moments where looking over at her threatens to bring up more memories I’d rather not think about. But I manage to push them back down with some deep, cleansing breaths.
Wren doesn’t talk to me, of course. But when I come over to look at what she’s painting, she beams me a shy smile when I compliment her work. I’m not totally sure what her design is supposed to represent, but it is colorful, and really pretty in an abstract sort of way.
This has got to be the easiest babysitting gig ever. It’s so pleasant that I find myself relaxed and humming along with the music. I even consider whether I should take out a blank canvas and join her — something I haven’t done in months.
I’m contemplating whether I can allow myself a small glass of wine, when suddenly a loud, insistent pounding on the door shakes both of us out of our pleasant little bubble. I let out a startled yelp, and Wren a tiny shriek.
TANK: Lords of Carnage MC Page 3
