Overview: The members of the Sin City MC never leave before all the cards are played.
Being a wild card is par for the course for the Sin City MC’s Maxwell ‘Ice’ Winter. The current Road Captain is tasked with getting the men to their location and back again safely by knowing the back roads, law enforcement traps and safe places to tuck away if danger arises. What he’s not sure of are the five-year-old twins dropped suddenly into his care. While he’d been fighting with their mother for more visitation his life isn’t set up for full time daddy duty. And a score needed to be settled with whoever took their mother from them.
Bree Stanton is like most in Vegas, a transplant. Thousands of miles away from her family in Georgia she missed the old neighborhoods. Generations of people leaving, only to come back. There was no old lady sitting on a porch with the latest gossip. Instead she was met with people confused by her wave at the mailbox, shutting doors to her. All, but one, with a set of adorable twins making her feel like family. When the kids wander to her house because mommy won’t wake up she’s pulled into a world of chaos. One the woman used to the certainty of mathematics is unsure she can handle.
Between Ice’s need for revenge, the threat of the murderer returning and want to protect the littles calling her Auntie, Bree has to remember adrenaline fueled romances never work. Will her logical and cautious nature short her heart of a man worth taking a chance on? And can Ice settle his affairs and teach the first woman to break through his cold heart what it means to be claimed by Sin?
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| Ice by Michel Prince (Sin City MC) Book |
Ice by Michel Prince (Sin City MC) Book Read Online Chapter One
The rule is no sex in the champagne room, but Maxwell “Ice” Winter wasn’t in the champagne room. In fact, he’d never made it past the bar before the dancer approached him. A long ride had caused sore muscles and a crick in his neck that could easily be relieved with a burst of cum from his nuts into a myriad of places. Not having to trigger the release himself was part of the appeal as his fingers delved into the wet folds of the woman and his hard cock pressed into her backside. Sadly, his bad boy was tucked behind jeans, and currently, she was the only one of the two of them tipping ever closer to orgasm.
The dancer was topless, because people paid a higher cover charge at the Sin City Review to see the goods upon entering, with heels and a skirt short enough the well-formed curve of her ass was on full display. She was one of the newer women to strip at the club he helped manage as part of the Sin City MC because legitimate businesses were a necessary, and in this case useful, evil. While Ice did remember her mouth, names weren’t really his thing.
“Jesus, Ice,” she moaned, her hands bracing on the bar top. “Guess saying a hard ride deserves a good ride was the right come-on.”
Why did she think she needed to seduce him? Yo, asshole, dick to my mouth would have worked. Or Ice, you’re back, I’m wet. Hell, the women that stripped for them really didn’t need to open their mouths for speaking purposes. The fact she was taking three of his fingers and practically riding his palm as it pressed against her clit told him everything he needed to know about her.
“Maxwell Winter,” another woman called to him, the tone not as sexual, but he was being drawn into the arched neck of the bitch in front of him as his other hand kneaded the natural breast the dancer sported. It was an oddity in Vegas, and one he was appreciating, despite the probable daddy issues that more than likely had triggered the early development.
“The girl on the stage is gonna be mad we’re putting on a better show,” the dancer groaned as her arousal coated his fingers.
“I don’t split tips,” he joked into her ear as he nibbled on her neck. “They stick the bills in my ass cheeks, they’re mine.”
“So not fair,” she moaned back, her hand curling around his head, the dagger-style acrylic nails scraping along his scalp. “Your cock is gonna be filling my ass so much there won’t be room for even a single dollar.”
Game. Set. Match.
“Ice,” the woman behind him barked.
Letting out a groan of irritation, he lifted his right hand, still warm from the dancer’s breast. “Look, I’ve got two hands and the ability use them simultaneously. You want me to finger you into oblivion, saddle up to the bar. If not, back the fuck off and enjoy the show.”
Cool steel slapping around his wrist made him search his mind for why the woman’s voice had been vaguely familiar. When the other end of the handcuffs was latched to the brass bar that wrapped around the bar top, it came to him.
“Detective Nunez,” he said, stilling his fingers before slowly removing them from the dancer and squeezing the ass he would sadly not be exploring that night. “I’m not opposed to a little bondage play, but I’m saving pegging for my fiftieth birthday, and my safe word is petunia. I can usually get that word out around the ball gag.”
“Mr. Winter,” she bit, and he finally turned enough to see her as she passed him an antiseptic wipe.
“Judgy,” he joked, trying to figure out how to one-hand a wipe—a pussy, sure, but a wipe was flimsy and didn’t tend to lock around the digits. “This would be easier with two hands.”
Nunez’s light gray power suit wasn’t exactly Hollywood styled. No high heels because he suspected Detective Nunez believed there was a chance she’d have to run after a person. With hair slicked back into a long ponytail and dark eyes glaring at him hard, even in the dim light of the club, he knew at some point the cuff around the pole was going to end up on his left wrist. Bringing his hands together, he cleaned his left hand and let out a long sigh.
Her presence had a handful of club members’ attention. Shit, they’d probably seen her before he did, and there better be a damn good explanation from the Prospect working the door. Raven? Bullet? One of those jackasses owed him a hard fuck from a soft woman. The more senior members were letting shit play out as they fingered the shots of hard liquor now sitting idle as they waited for a nod from Ice. Aries, the VP of the club, rested his massive forearms on the table in front of him. His squared jaw ticked a bit as Shadow, an Enforcer, leaned back in his chair as if he were watching a show, but Ice knew better. The man would pounce with barely a head nod from anyone thinking Ice couldn’t handle his current predicament.
“You know, pulling out cuffs in the Review can go one of two ways, but it’s ballsy either way.”
“Are you done?” she sniped, having never been one to suffer fools.
Angling his hand toward the hard lump tucked behind his zipper, he growled at her. “Does it look like I’m done? No, I’m somewhere between sky blue and turquoise.”
“Tell me when you hit navy because at that point, amputation is the only way to go.”
“See, I want to hate you, Detective, but then you woo me back in with your attention to detail and care for the well-being of the citizens of Las Vegas,” he said, wondering what charge was going to have her dragging him down to the station house now. “But I wonder, does your old man know you hang out in strip clubs and handcuff innocent men?”
“The last thing you are, Maxwell, is innocent.”
“You sure? Because last time when you had me all trussed up, arms behind my back and straddling me—”
“When you were face-first in the dirt—”
“You tripped me,” he countered. “All because you wanted to say I was a bad boy.”
He leaned in closer to the woman, a mid-thirties, career-driven hard-ass with naturally tanned skin and a body being wasted in a shitty, off-the-rack pantsuit. Most importantly, the holstered gun on her hip had the leather strap snapped, telling him she wasn’t expecting a knockdown drag-out. Then again, she’d caught him with one hand locked into a very soft and sensual gash.
“You like the bad boys, don’t you, Detective,” he whispered as he leaned in close. “What the hell, I’m nowhere near fifty, but my birthday is right around the corner.”
“The only thing I’m interested in pegging you with, Ice”—her teeth snapped together when she said his road name, making him want to kiss the taste out of her mouth—“is a murder charge. Where have you been all day?”
“Murder, huh?” he replied with a sigh because for once it wasn’t him. “In the last twenty-four hours, sorry, can’t help you. I’ve been murder-free for at least thirty-six hours. You sure the coroner got the time of death right?”
Glancing over his shoulder, he saw one uniformed cop balancing between pissing himself and finding his inner alpha. There were things he could read when it came to men, the unease beyond the mask of security. It was why so many on the police force shouldn’t be; they were scared of their own shadow. This man knew he was the law, but understood in a bar full of men wearing leather, and not for kink, he was the outsider, the unwanted element that needed to be exterminated at worst and removed at best. While the Sin City MC tried to be a catch-and-release organization, things happened, and the desert just beyond the city was vast and unforgiving when it came to handling corpses. Heat, wind, and animals were hell on a rotting body. Ice never understood why people buried them. Coyotes were wily things that could scatter bones as the sand helped bring a person back to the dust they once were.
The only real unknown in the bar currently was the grandma, doing her best to keep her eyes downturned and not watch the man enjoying the pussy Ice had primed at a corner table. If Detective Nunez was off-the-rack, Grandma there was discount bin at the outlet mall. A button-down faux satin shirt with a high collar and tied bow reminded him of when the dancers had a longer song and needed to extend the tease. Only, her ankle-length skirt topped off with comfy sneakers wasn’t going to do it, even for the ones who liked a woman a bit seasoned. The ID tag hanging from the lanyard sporting the Clark County Human Services logo gave him pause.
“Who’s dead, and why is Grandma Moses here?”
“When was the last time you spoke to Misty?”
“Misty? Misty Gentry? Well, I mean Welch now, isn’t it? I’m pretty sure she suckered that douche into marrying her.”
“Yes, Misty Welch, you do have joint custody of some sort with her, right?”
“I pay money, she lets me see my kids every third weekend for about twelve hours,” he bit, the custody arrangement amped up for the good of their babies to keep him away.
Only the fact he actually did pay allowed him access because the judge couldn’t deny a father that accepted his responsibility. Hell, he’d accepted it even when he thought the slut was lying and saying he was the daddy. Of course, paying for the abortion wasn’t what she wanted, and the DNA test she slapped across his face did change his mind on the whole process. Actually, it was when the twins both wrapped a tiny fist around his two index fingers simultaneously. The whole dueling mine of the fraternal boy/girl twins softened him and even had him considering stepping back from the MC. He’d never leave, but he was the current Road Captain, and that put him front and center of most of the major moves the club made.
Misty had slashed that dream with her want of money and nothing else from him, part of why he’d stepped up and did more than fuck strippers at the Sin City Review. Vegas had a different view on employment and healthy family environments. Most knew there was a separation that could happen, and him helping run a strip club wasn’t any less honorable than being the grocery store manager.
“Who died?” he snarled, tugging at the now irritating handcuff, making the metal clink loudly. “Who the fuck was murdered?”
“Misty was found by one of her neighbors earlier today,” Detective Nunez said as cold rushed over his body.
“Aiden? Jane?” he insisted.
“With the same neighbor. I guess they wandered over confused and a bit hungry.” Detective Nunez glanced toward the social worker. “That’s why Grandma Moses is here. Mrs. Parker, can you please explain to him what is going on?”
“You’re Aiden and Jane’s biological father, is that correct?” the older woman with little sympathy left asked.
“Yes, DNA on file with the courts,” he said. “What about their stepfather?”
“We’re trying to find him. I guess he’s on some retreat up in the mountains,” she explained. “Or somewhere out of cell phone range at least. But at this time, you’re our best placement for the twins.”
“I’m the only placement for them,” he bit. “I’m their—” His right arm was going slightly numb, and in about two seconds, he was going to yank the bolts anchoring the brass bar to the bar top. “Take this shit off me. I have to get to my kids.”
Reluctantly Detective Nunez pulled her cuff key out, but didn’t release him. “First things first, where were you the last day or so?”
Escorting drugs, now being enjoyed by some frat boys in the back, from the border probably wasn’t the answer that would get the cuffs removed. Truth rarely did. “Visiting my grandma in Tucson.”
“Right, only your grandma died a while ago,” Detective Nunez said. Both of them were born and raised in Las Vegas and had very long memories. He’d known more than his fair share of social workers growing up, and it was often Officer Nunez dragging his delinquent ass back to Granny’s before he aged out. It had bonded the two of them. Five years older than him, the cop did have a good heart somewhere beyond her own mask. “I sent flowers. Did you get them?”
“Those were from you?” he said with absolutely zero memory from the week around his Granny’s funeral. “Bold choice.”
“She was a good woman. Don’t bring her into this.”
“My other grandma,” he lied because Nunez knew his mother had taken the identity of his father when she took off to places unknown while he was still struggling with his ABC’s. “Took one of those tests, turns out I’m like thirty percent Welsh and shit.”
“Right,” she snapped and unlocked the cuff around his wrist. “Any pictures from the family reunion?”
“No, but I bought a burrito,” he said, rubbing his wrist a bit before digging in his pocket for the change wrapped in a receipt. Smacking the timestamped alibi on the counter, he stepped to Mrs. Parker. “Where are my kids?”
“Not so fast,” Detective Nunez said. “You’re still a suspect.”
“There are a lot of sick and twisted things I’ve done to Misty. Got video I’m sure somewhere, but killing her, not my thing,” he snarled. “So unless you have real cause, I’m going to get my kids.”
* * *
Bree Stanton had been warned about moving to Vegas. The oversexed Sin City was a far cry from her outer-tier suburban Atlanta roots. Assuring her parents North Vegas was cookie-cutter McMansions with those who made money, not blew it on the slots, hadn’t quelled their unease. The fact she was currently babysitting the adorable twins of the local woman who’d become her best friend over the last three years wasn’t going to sit well with them either. How they’d ended up in her care was the issue. Watching Aiden and Jane Winter wasn’t odd. Finding their mother bloody, beaten, and unconscious was. Not unconscious, that would mean she was in a hospital recovering and not on a slab at the morgue. She’d attended a fair share of wakes over the years, but a dead body not trussed up with makeup in their Sunday best was different and would be forever seared into her brain.
She watched as the two kindergartners scribbled on the blank printer paper with her mix of highlighters and promo pens. Grabbing toys from the crime scene would have been wrong. Bree’s hand trembled hours later as she tried to process the broken picture frames and overturned furniture as she called out to Misty. Finding a shrink once her world stopped spinning would be a priority, one for all of them. Not that they were her wards or anything, but John Welch didn’t seem the type of stepfather who would step in and take care of the twins’ mental health, and someone had to.
“Auntie Bree, look,” Jane said with a bright smile as she held up the stick-figured people in various sizes, shapes, and colors.
Was she supposed to be watching for emotional damage played out in a mix of pencil and markers? How did one deal with a child who came knocking, barefoot, on a neighbor’s door because “Mommy won’t make breakfast or play” at nearly noon? Thank God it was a weekend, or she would have been in her office. Then what would the kids have done?
Misty played it off when it came to the neighbors that were jealous of her, but the neighborhood was full of generational upper-middle-class people all striving to lose the middle moniker in their class. They didn’t appreciate a trailer park girl who’d found redemption with her prince in the local government. Pretty Woman gave a false narrative. Vivian would never be accepted, even with all of Edward’s money and power. Misty could play suburban mom all she wanted, but there was a stain shadowing her that couldn’t be rubbed out.
“It’s pretty, Jane,” Bree said, praying the young girl would somehow be able to survive this tragedy.
Once pictures were taken of their blood-covered feet, Bree had bathed the two kids and cleaned them up. A social worker had grabbed a few days’ worth of clothing from their rooms, and Bree made sure they were fed. As she tucked back the child’s dark brown hair with an old headband, Jane’s gray eyes blinked up at her. The kid had to have seen shit before because she wasn’t crying out for her mama or even drawing pictures without sunshine in the corner.
“I’ll give it to Mommy. It’ll make her smile,” Jane said, and clarification slammed into Bree. The kids had no idea their mother was dead. Who would broach the subject with them?
“Jane, has Mommy ever slept this hard before?” Bree wondered since there were weeks when she didn’t even get so much as a wave from Misty’s front door.
“Yeah, sometimes, but yelling makes you sleepy.”
“Does it now?” Bree questioned, hoping to pull any lost memory from the child as she rested her chin on her upturned palm.
“Yep, that’s why sometimes Mommy says, ‘Go outside and run around.’ It’s to make us sleepy like she gets.”
“She get sleepy with Daddy John?” Bree leaned forward and rested her forearms on her knees.
“All daddies make Mommy sleepy,” she replied. Jane let out a long sigh, then leaned in to tell a secret. “My’s and Aiddie’s daddy makes her the sleepiest.”
“From yelling?” Bree asked because she’d only caught glimpses of the kids’ father. What she knew of him came from Misty’s tales of misspent youth.
“They yell so much they have to take naps, but Daddy John makes them stop.”
Suddenly John’s demand to be in the house when the kids saw their father made sense. Misty liked to say she had a broken picker when it came to men. John aside, her past was filled with losers and assholes, but even he gave Bree vibes, telling her the picker was still broken.
It didn’t matter at this point. Police were supposed to be investigating. John was out of town, and if she wanted to be honest with herself, she wished it was him because the alternative was a random break-in, and the security of the bedroom neighborhood she’d found would be shattered.
“What’s Aiden drawing?”
“Motorcycles and cars,” Jane said, crinkling her nose and making all the dark freckles on her pale skin bunch together. “Car fumes and perfumes make boys dumb.”
Bree had to hold back a laugh on that one. The sass in Jane was as strong as the silence in Aiden. The last thing she needed to do was encourage the girl.
“I’m hungry,” she whined, and Aiden’s head perked up. He’d insisted she spike the thick black hair he had on the top of his head after he was dressed.
“I have some more grapes and strawberries.”
“Ugh, I suppose,” Jane replied, and Bree got up to make them up a plate with fruit, cheese, and crackers.
She wasn’t opposed to a night or two with the kids, but her fridge would need a serious filling to feed these two properly. Was it too late to order pizza for them? They couldn’t live on takeout alone. Then again, boxed meals and quick snacks were Misty’s go-tos. Bree did love the two urchins, and for some reason they’d picked her out as the safe neighbor. Maybe because her darker skin and buzzed short hair made her stand out as much as they did. Brand-named clothes aside, she wasn’t the typical resident in Creosote Springs. This wasn’t the affluent black neighborhood she was raised in, and the twins hadn’t started their life here either. According to Misty, she was trailer trash and only caught John’s eye when she was outside of the courthouse, crying as she struggled to wrangle the twins and tempt them with a near-empty bag of Goldfish.
The rumble of a motorcycle made both kids perk up all Pavlov’s dog style. Only a handful of times had she seen the man who triggered Misty to get a little lost look when explaining him. Usually he arrived in a pickup truck since a set of twins didn’t exactly fit on the back of an Indian Scout Bobber and the man wasn’t one to have a sidecar. The way Misty told it, the few times she was allowed to sit on the bike was to straddle the guy’s waist in the middle of a parking lot with a very short skirt giving ease of access. Even after she found out she was pregnant, the two never made it to the place where they were a couple. Instead, she was a good fuck, which meant she never got to ride bitch, as she called it. Her younger, wilder days still danced in her eyes when she spoke of them.
“Daddy!” Aiden finally spoke up as he rushed to the front door and struggled with the handle.
“It’s locked,” Bree said as she ran to stop the five-year-old from bursting from the house. “Let me see. It might not be who you think it is.”
The same gray eyes blinked up with innocent wonder toward Bree, pleading with her to stop being dumb and let him go to the guy who randomly spends a few hours with them at his convenience. Misty bitched about his faux fatherhood, how she wished he’d sign away his rights and let John adopt them. But her ex used them for a sick leverage, and right now the only thing Bree knew was her best friend would never want him taking the twins.
“Stay here. Let me see who’s pulling in my driveway.”
“It’s my daddy,” Aiden said with a stomp of his foot and darkening to his eyes.
A chill ran down Bree’s back, and she wondered if those were nature or nurture because as sweet as Aiden and Jane were, there were times when the darkness washed over them. The neighborhood gossips would say What did you expect with a mother like Misty, but Bree had shared more than a glass of wine with the woman and wasn’t about to blame her. Even with dropping out at sixteen, Misty had made her way with a sharp mind and street smarts.
“Then I’ll let him in, but I’m not opening my door to anyone until I know who they are,” Bree countered and realized she was arguing with a five-year-old that came to her waist and probably weighed the same as her left thigh. “Go sit, and eat your snack.”
His jaw tightened, and the sweet boy shook a balled fist at her.
“Excuse me, I am not one of your little friends, sir,” her mother’s voice somehow coming out of Bree’s mouth even though it was thousands of miles away. The child, knowing salt from sugar, stomped his way initially toward her kitchen until her mother appeared again. “Aiden Winter, since when are you disrespectful in Auntie Bree’s home?”
“Sorry,” he grumbled as he sat, with arms crossed, at the table.
Gathering herself, she unlocked her door and stepped out onto the small porch, almost running directly into a firm chest. She glancing up, the height difference smacked her proverbially in the face. He hadn’t seemed this tall or firm from across the street. Then again, the T-shirt under his leather coat was practically outlining every dip and cut between his muscles. The smell of sandalwood and teak contrasted with the well-worn leather as she stepped back to not get caught in the mesmerizing testosterone throwing out pheromones meant to disable her completely.
“You the one with my kids?” The gruff tone and lack of salutation could have been misconstrued as grief knocking off the man’s social graces, but Bree was pretty sure this was his way of saying hello.
“And you are?” she countered, not about to be spoken to any kind of way, especially when her pseudo niece and nephew’s lives were in the balance—even if her heart rate was cresting a thousand beats a minute and she had a reasonable fear that the man’s hand could capture her throat faster than she could react to move.
“Don’t play dumb with me, bitch—”
“Oh, and that’s not going to fly either.” She held up her hand, not about to give an inch to this man. Anxiety turned her stomach as every inch of her skin rose as if the temperature had dropped fifty degrees in the last two minutes.
“You’re trembling. Keep it up and I might get confused and install a pole for you.”
Bree fisted her hand to stop the motion and let out a long breath because the last thing she wanted was to have him see he’d done anything to her. “Don’t offer me a pole without expecting me to shove it somewhere highly uncomfortable.”
“Whatever makes your titties perk,” he said, giving her a halfhearted shrug before trying to shove her to the side.
“Did you just put your hand on me?” she snapped, grabbing his hand, only to see how much it dwarfed her own. Scrappy was one thing, stupid was another, and her mother didn’t raise a fool.
His smoke-colored eyes locked on hers as he twisted her hand around and somehow had his fingers intertwining with hers. He pinned her hand to the trim outside her front door as his body shifted, locking her to the doorjamb, causing Bree’s heart to stop. Jane’s story of Misty yelling until she passed out made a hell of a lot more sense. The bit of scruff on his chin accented his full lips as he pulled them in just enough to wet them with the bright pink of his tongue, and every fiber in her body was in conflict. How could she be turned on and pissed off in the same heartbeat?
“Now,” he growled, his other hand resting on her hip as his thumb found the space between the waistband of yoga pants and the camisole she wore. The baggy sweatshirt might as well be back in her closet because the man was literally undressing her on the front step. “Normally I’d be all in for a full-on wrestling match with a woman with curves as dangerous as yours, but right now you could bat those pretty brown eyes and pout those lips and it means as much to me as my prez whipping it out. No matter your deepest fantasy, I don’t swing that way, and I hate sharing a prime piece of ass. In other words, it’s an annoyance slowing me down.”
“As if I’d let—”
“Uptight women like you don’t let,” he said, the scruff of his beard brushing along her jawline as he nipped her ear, sending heat rushing over her skin as if she’d slipped into a warm bubble bath. “They usually fake indignation, then crawl on their knees begging. Let’s not break this beautiful friendship we’ve created.”
“Trust me”—she scowled, glancing over to the patch that read ICE and tightening her jaw.—“Ice, the last thing we are is friends.”
“Good,” he purred and leaned back so his smokey gray eyes could visually scan her trapped body. “I never believed that whole friends-with-benefits thing truly works.”
“You need to take several steps backward,” she said, finally finding her free hand and placing it in the center of his chest like a damn moron. The fucking thing refused to push any harder than what was necessary to let the heat of his body warm her palm as she did her own scan of the firm muscles and dip between his pecs.
A swath of headlights cut between the two of them as an older minivan pulled into her driveway, the invasion enough to have him taking a step backward and holding his hands up in surrender as she wrapped her arms around her belly. The porch light illuminated enough she could see the tribal-style tattoo designed with sharp lines cutting through the suntanned skin on his neck.
“Look, woman—”
“Don’t talk to Auntie Bree that way, Daddy.” Jane nudged her way past Bree and stood, two fisted with her chin raised, staring up at him.
“What did you say to me?” he questioned, dropping to one knee and allowing the mighty warrior princess to gather his shirt in one hand as she pulled him nose to nose with her.
“Auntie Bree is my friend,” the little girl growled, until Ice started tickling her, holding her around her torso and flipping her upside down as little-girl giggles filled the air.
The man had gone from Yes, Daddy to Ward fucking Cleaver in about two seconds as the kids he rarely saw fell in line. While most of the kids she’d grown up with were from two-parent homes, a handful had two homes, and most threatened to move out to live with their dads. They told of how it was better, fun, and their mothers would bemoan having to be the heavy all the time to her mom, looking at Bree’s father with awe because he was in the home, doling out the punishment or at least backing up her mother.
Her phone buzzed. She knew it was her weekly check-in with her parents, and she quickly silenced it on her watch. Gadgets were her thing, but it wasn’t as if her video doorbell had caught sight of what happened across the street, and right now that was all that mattered. All it had done was let her see the barefooted and self-dressed messes as they came to her door.
“Thanks for taking them in,” he said, ruffling the spikes out of Aiden’s hair, and Bree almost snapped on him because it was the way the boy wanted it. Jane was on his hip and glanced at Bree as if she was supposed to allow him into her home. “You have a bag or something for them?”
“You think you can take them? You’re on a motorcycle,” she balked, wishing she could pull the two close, but they were in daddy mode, and that meant all other people mean shit.
“Yeah, that’s why Grandma Moses followed me,” he said, nodding his head to Mrs. Parker from Children’s Services as she walked up the pathway to the front door. “She’ll toss the kids in the back, and we’ll head to my place.”
“Mr. Winter, that wasn’t what we agreed to,” Mrs. Parker said as she grumbled toward the front door. “Can we come in, Ms. Stanton?”
Bree shook from the insanity that was her life and opened her home to the group. What had been agreed upon? Once the doctors said the kids weren’t harmed, she’d opened her mouth, because Jane had been resting in her arms eating the cheese sandwich the ER provided, Aiden had been nibbling on graham crackers, and both had her figuring out the mechanics of a juice box straw. With a degree in structural engineering from Georgia Tech, she was a bit ashamed of her struggles. Then Mrs. Parker, pitying hazel eyes, offered to let her go home because it would be hours before they could find emergency foster care for the twins, and Bree did what she always did, offered to let them stay with her so they weren’t stuck at the hospital.
Now Ice’s long right leg stretched out from the barstool at her kitchen island as she stood in the corner by the stove and Mrs. Parker unloaded a stack of paperwork on the granite top. Misty had made mistakes in her life, but for the twins, she was doing everything she could to keep them from going the direction of her past and their father—which meant, as much as she questioned her skills past auntie duties, she had to protect the wild Winter twins.
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