A Very Cerberus Christmas (Cerberus MC)

His bike is nice, and it’s one of two he claims he owns. I bet he lives in a nice house. The one Harley and I rent is near shambles by any standards, but it’s the best I can manage.

If I didn’t get the feeling he’s the type of guy to make sure I step inside safely before driving off, I’d pull up to a nicer neighborhood and flag him on. If those creeps hadn’t had the nerve to say horrible things to me in front of my son, I would’ve put up more of a fight when he insisted on following me to safety while making sure those guys wouldn’t find out where we live.

“Can we do these tattoos tonight, Momma?” Harley asks from the backseat.

“Sure,” I tell him, my eyes going back to the rearview mirror.

We’re at a red light, and just as he promised, Micah is right behind us. I pray my car doesn’t stall out on us. Traffic is heavy, but it always is the day after Thanksgiving. Everyone is starting off their holiday shopping with a bang, spending money like crazy and going overboard. I didn’t get paid until today, and it was our Thanksgiving celebration at the diner.

The interruptions from those two jerks ruined it, and I haven’t decided yet if Micah’s “rescue” was a positive or a negative.

I cringe as I pull into the driveway, trying to see what a newcomer would see as I look at our house. The yard is clean. The only thing on the front porch is Harley’s neon green soccer ball. Even that we got used from Goodwill. Winter has killed the grass, and honestly, that’s a blessing because I always have trouble keeping it cut. Gas money for the car is a big enough struggle without having to worry about sparing some for the neighbor’s mower when he’s feeling generous enough to let me borrow it.

I climb out, my eyes darting all over as Micah pulls his motorcycle up along the curb. As promised, he doesn’t climb off his bike. He doesn’t even power the thing off, and I take comfort in the low growl of the machine as Harley climbs out. At least I don’t have to have any further conversation with the man. I make sure to lock my car because around here, anything will get stolen. Hell, even the locks sometimes aren’t enough of a deterrent.

I give him a quick wave of gratitude, and Harley does the same before we climb the three steps onto the front porch. Before I can remind Harley about the screen door needing to be fixed, his excitement about getting inside and applying those tattoos make him forgetful, and he swings open the door and the wind catches it. The top hinge pops free, just like it did earlier today.

I know Micah watches it happen because the rumble of his motorcycle dies. With one hand on the screen so the thing doesn’t completely fall away, I turn around to face him.

“I’ve got it.”

“You sure?” he asks, one foot already on the ground and the other leg already swinging around. “I don’t mind helping.”

“I’m sure you don’t,” I mutter to myself, but I refuse to owe him another damn thing. “I’m sure. Thank you for the escort home.”

He nods, cranks up his bike, gives me one last look, and then, thankfully, he rides away.

I’m near tears before I can manage to get the front door unlocked for Harley and the screen door back in place. I wouldn’t be surprised if I come back out in a few hours to go to work and the thing is lying in the street. No doubt the landlord will blame me and I’ll get billed for it. The guy is a complete asshole and constantly finds ways to shove his expenses off on me.

My chest threatens to cave in when I step inside and Harley is standing there with tears staining his little cheeks. “I’m sorry, Momma.”

“Baby,” I whisper, dropping my purse and the Thank You bag with our to-go containers in it. “What’s wrong?”

“I forgot about the door, and now it’s broken.”

“Sweet boy.” I draw him to my chest. “The door was already broken.”

“I made it worse.”

“The wind made it worse.”

He sniffles some more, and I feel the burn of my own tears threaten. I promise myself five minutes to cry after I put him to bed. I feel his tiny shoulders shake with sobs, and it’s only after the vow of ten minutes of crying that I get myself under control enough to hold him at arm’s length and look down at him with a smile.

“I thought you were going to do tattoos? You can’t do tattoos if you’re crying.”

“You’ll still let me have them even though I broke the door?”

“You didn’t break the door.” I wipe away more tears. “The wind did. I can’t wait to see how you look with tattoos, but no real ones until you’re much older.”