Misappropriate (11 page)

              Meggie kissed Dinah’s cheek, unable to ignore the anticipation of both Val and K-P. “I have to get going, so I can start cooking.”

              “You’re leaving him with us?” Dinah asked, hope flaring in her eyes.

              She nodded, actually leaving CJ with the boys, but Dinah didn’t need to know that.

              Soon, Meggie was on the road in her Beetle. Christopher had surprised her with the car for Christmas and she adored it. It gave her mobility and proved just the right size for her, since whenever they traveled together, they took a bigger vehicle if CJ accompanied them or went on the Harley if he didn’t.

              Meggie pulled up in front of the neat, little house, twenty minutes later. She didn’t have Zoann’s cell phone number because her sister-in-law owed Christopher all types of apologies. Meggie would prefer to never have anything to do with the mean, spiteful witch. However, Zoann wasn’t only Christopher’s sister, but she was CJ’s aunt and her son CJ’s cousin. Children shouldn’t have to suffer because of idiotic adults.

              Walking up to the door, Meggie rang the bell, wondering if Zoann was on duty at the hospital. A moment later, the woman swung open the door, answering the question. Her eyes widened in surprise when she saw Meggie while Meggie stared back, halfway expecting Zoann to slam the door in her face.

              Instead, her lips thinned. “Megan.”

              Meggie sniffed. “Zoann.”

              “What do you need?”

              Not to stand on the porch freezing half to death. Judging by the satisfaction in the other woman’s whiskey colored eyes, she knew it, too. Meggie clenched her jaw and mumbled
bitch
under her breath.

              “Obviously, I need to talk to you,” she snapped.

              Zoann glowered at her, the stubborn set of her jaw reminding Meggie of Christopher, even though brother and sister looked nothing alike. While Christopher had black hair and green eyes, his sister had a wealth of chestnut hair and whiskey colored eyes.

              “Do you want to come inside?” she asked sourly, stepping aside a fraction, the small space she cleared cuing Meggie in on the other woman’s preference.

              Not answering, Meggie scooted past her and closed her eyes in bliss at the warmth of the house. Baby things were scattered here and there, a play yard in one corner. A blue diaper sat on the patterned sofa. A huge photo of Patricia, Zoann, and the four other girls stood front and center on the wall above the sofa, irking Meggie to no end because another face belonged with them.

              “Aren’t you missing someone?” She folded her arms and thrust her chin toward the picture.

              Zoann shut the door with a definitive thud and leaned against it. She lifted a brow. “Am I?”

              Enough was enough. “I’m sorry about Patricia, Zoann. I didn’t know her very long, but I’ve grieved for her, too. She never met my son—“

              “Or mine,” Zoann spat, rocketing forward and stopping inches away from Meggie.

              Perfect distance for Meggie to slap some sense into her head. She narrowed her eyes. “Or yours. But the way you treated Christopher is unforgivable. You owe him an apology. All of you do.” All five of his sisters had been complete bitches to him at their mother’s funeral. “At this point, I don’t think groveling at his feet and begging his forgiveness would be too much to ask.”

              “If this is what you came to talk about,
leave
. Christopher is responsible—“

              “Oh my God,” Meggie shrieked, jabbing Zoann’s shoulder. “You’re such a bitch. Christopher isn’t responsible for anything. And if you ever say something like that to him again, I’ll make you sorry.” Forgetting her purpose for visiting her sister-in-law, Meggie stormed to the door. A baby’s cry halted her and she yanked the door open. “I came here on behalf of Val,
not
Christopher. Whatever’s going on between you and Val, get over it. He has every right to see his son just as if you were together.”

              Zoann turned on her heel and stomped toward the other room with a, “hold on a moment” tossed over her shoulder.

              As good as her word, she returned holding a little boy who had a mop of brown hair but eyes the color of Val’s, his mother’s full mouth and the impression his nose would take of the shape of his father. Plopping down in the rocking chair near the window, Zoann led her son to her nipple, then glared at Meggie.

              “You’re sticking your nose where it doesn’t belong—“

              “I beg to differ. My nose is exactly where it belongs. Those guys are my family and I won’t stand for anyone treating them less than they deserve.
Especially Christopher
,” she bit out.

              “How do you know I haven’t given Val permission to visit—“

              Meggie snorted.

              “I resent the insinuation of that snort.”

              “As if it matters to me what you resent,” she retorted.

              “If he wanted to see his son so bad, he could’ve tried to reach me again himself instead of sending you.”

              “He didn’t send me,” Meggie said on a whisper-yell, well aware of the little boy laying with such contentment in his mother’s arms. Her own breasts tingled. “I came on my own when I saw him with CJ.”

              Zoann blinked and turned her head. “CJ? Your son?”

              “Yes. Christopher Joseph Foy Caldwell.”

              When Zoann fell into silence, Meggie turned to leave. There would be no happy ending here and time was fast slipping by. This had been a wasted trip, but she’d given it a shot. Over the months, she’d caught snippets of conversations between Val, Christopher, and the others about Val’s son, so she’d already guessed he’d been after Zoann to visit the baby and she’d turned him down again. And again. And again.

              “Christopher married you.”

              The dull statement once again halted Meggie. “At City Hall. We’re having a church wedding in a month.”

              Tears returned to Zoann’s eyes and she blinked them away—again. “He loves you.”

              “And I love him.”

              Her jaw tautened and bitterness turned down her mouth. “He’s a lying, murdering, cheating, stinking biker,” she spat. “Just like Val.”

              “I’m here to appeal to you to allow Val to see his son,” Meggie began, just as tight and fierce as Zoann. “I’m not here to listen to you disparage my husband.
Your
brother.”

              She glared at Meggie and eased the baby’s mouth away from her nipple. “Here, then. Take a photo of him and, then, please get out.”

              Yanking her cell phone from her jacket pocket, Meggie found the switch to the overhead light, pushed the button for the camera, and then leaned in to take shots. “Unless you’re trying to give Val a thrill, cover your nipple.”

              Zoann shot her a nasty look, then fastened her nursing bra and shoved her shirt down.

              “He’s beautiful,” Meggie said in an off-handed manner, snapping shots of the little boy from different angles.

              “He looks like his daddy,” Zoann whispered and bent down to kiss his forehead.

              Kinda. But if that’s what Zoann saw, then Meggie wouldn’t argue.

              “His name is Ryan,” she went on quietly. “Ryan Matthew Taylor.”

              “So Val’s last name is Taylor?” Satisfied with the number of photos she’d taken, Meggie pocketed her cell phone again. “Valentine Taylor. That’s an interesting name.”

              Zoann glanced away. “His road name is Valentine. His name is Matthew. Matthew Ryan Taylor.”

              Typical Zoann. She’d denied Val the pleasure of allowing his son to have his first name.

              “I’ll see you around,” Meggie said with a sigh. She wished Zoann didn’t have such a chip on her shoulder. Obviously, something had happened with the MC—besides the issues with Christopher—for Zoann to carry such enmity.

              “D-does V-val have an old lady?”

              So it did matter to her. Of course, it did. She wouldn’t be so bitter and angry if it didn’t. “Not that I know. He’s too busy being a murdering, whoring, stinking biker,” she added dryly.

              The doorbell sounded again and, since Meggie stood right in front of the door, she pulled it open, surprised when she found Ophelia on the other side. Ophelia was Christopher’s youngest sister, twenty-three, the closest in age to Meggie.

              Her eyes, a darker brown than Zoann’s, widened. When Meggie had spent time with everyone two Christmases ago, she and Ophelia had really taken to one another. All that vanished with the death of Patricia and their treatment of Christopher and Meggie hadn’t seen the woman since Patricia’s funeral.

              “Meggie?” Ophelia greeted with a tentative note. Her hair stood in gelled spikes, accentuating her heart shaped face.

              “Ophelia.”

              Ophelia pursed her mouth at Meggie’s chilly greeting. “H-how’s Chris?”

              “Perfect.”

              “Would you tell him—“ She licked her lips and glanced nervously in Zoann’s direction.

              “Go ahead, Fee,” Zoann said glumly. “It doesn’t matter.”

              “Tell him…tell him ‘hi’ for me?”

              Meggie shook her head. “Not unless an apology is included in that ‘hi’.”

              “I miss him, Meggie.”

              And she was sure Christopher missed his sisters, which she had no problem telling them.

              “Really?” Zoann called. “We hadn’t seen him in a year before my mother was killed and—“

              “And that ship’s sailed and is never returning to port,” Meggie called. “So get over it. He had his reasons for not visiting. You had no excuse for your attitude—“

              “We did,” Ophelia put in. “We were grieving.”

              “So was he. He needed you and you all let him down.”

              “Would you tell him I’m—“

              Meggie cut Ophelia off. Maybe, she was opening old wounds and maybe she was creating a bridge for the future, but these women were part of her family and someone had to extend the olive branch. Might as well be her since they shared some of Christopher’s DNA, especially the stubborn strand. “Some of the ladies are giving me a wedding shower at the club. I want you to come and you can apologize to him yourself.”

              “Really?”

              She nodded. After giving Ophelia all the information and discovering she was Zoann’s babysitter when Zoann went to work, Meggie got in her car and sped to the grocery store. While all the problems hadn’t been solved with this visit, it was a start.

Chapter 7

Christopher glared at Mortician and Val, who, along with a bunch of the other brothers, sat amongst some bitches. He flipped Mortician off when the man rolled his eyes and pointed to the big bouquet of red roses Christopher held.

He didn’t know all Megan’s plans, but he did know she was excited about this Valentine’s dinner she was planning for him. He couldn’t act like a dick and go to her without some of the bullshit girls liked to receive on Valentine’s Day.

When he stepped outside, he felt for the little jewelry box he’d hidden in his cut, the cold air blasting him. He paused to pull out a cigarette, then his lighter. Doing this shit one-handed irritated the fuck out of him. But he would’ve have to stomp one of those motherfuckers for some smart ass comment if he’d stayed in the clubhouse to do this shit, though it would’ve been easier because he could’ve set the roses down for a minute.             

Bin waved at him from where he lounged against a bike, talking to a new girl. Christopher nodded to the brother, released the smoke through his nose, wondering what the fuck about Bin pissed him the fuck off. Brought in by Traveler, Bin had patched in and he seemed reliable. He did what the fuck was asked of him, never complaining about assignments. And, yet, the motherfucker just rubbed Christopher the wrong fucking way.

Much like Cee Cee. Fuck. That motherfucker did more than rub him the wrong fucking way. Christopher imagined strapping fuckhead down and borrowing his extremities to send to their rivals as a little ‘if-you-fuck-with-the-Dwellers-motherfuckers-this-could-be-your-fucking-arm’ message.

Or leg. Foot. Hand. Finger…

What the fuck ever.

Pushing Bin, Cee Cee, and all other fuckheads to the back of his mind, Christopher turned toward the thick stand of trees. The house he’d built for Megan rose up along the pathway. Their bedroom was on the third floor because Megan liked floor-to-ceiling windows and balconies, and Christopher wanted to keep her safe. CJ’s room was on that floor, too, but without all the glass and missing the balcony.

Fuck. This dinner meant a lot to her, so he couldn’t bring workplace bullshit to the table. He’d outline his plans for parts of Cee Cee later. Right now, he’d focus on his gorgeous, little wife.

The light gleamed from their bedroom, brighter amidst the canopy of trees. The cold air bit into his nose and cheeks, and he sniffled, shifting the flowers in his hands and flexing his fingers to bring warmth back to his arms and hands. Another light shone from the first floor and Christopher knew that was the kitchen where the back door was located. He suspected he’d find Megan there.

Enjoying his cigarette, he looked at the bare grounds. His girl had big plans for that, too. Once the house was built and the construction crew gone, he’d gotten the fuck out the way. He didn’t want to interfere with how Megan’s whole face lit up whenever she talked about how she’d decorate a certain room or what appliance she’d place in the kitchen. So he’d stayed the fuck out of it and, tonight, would be the first fucking time he’d set foot inside in weeks.

Taking one, last drag on his cigarette, he found his key and unlocked the gate. Once they moved in, he was going to choose some of his most reliable brothers to serve as security here. K-P had already volunteered to see to the guard dogs and, so far, the man was doing A-o-fucking-kay.