A Very Cerberus Christmas (Cerberus MC)

During the time I spent between Lucy’s legs, she confessed that Harley had trouble at school with some of the kids and the staff because she doesn’t make a lot of money. Dominic’s daughter goes to the same school, and she doesn’t have any problems. Of course, they live in a nice house on the lake, so no one looks down on her. Harley doesn’t have it so easy.

When she was blissed out on orgasms, I offered to pick him up from school, on the motorcycle of course, because I was thoughtful enough to buy him a helmet. With the promise of driving very slowly and bringing back an early dinner, she finally relented.

I hate that he’s having trouble, but I know that it’ll never change. They could win the lottery tomorrow, and he’ll still be the kid that was once poor. The only way to overcome something like that is to be the new kid in a new school that has money, and that’s not something that’s going to be different for him and his mother.

I wait patiently outside the school, waving to a couple of the mothers that I recognize from the events we’ve done in the community. I made sure that Lucy called the school to let them know that I’d be the one picking Harley up, so I didn’t catch any grief. I provided my driver’s license when I first arrived, and now I just have to wait for him to walk out. I don’t have to wait long, and like little ducks in a row behind his teacher, I spot Harley before he spots me because he’s looking for his mother’s car. Several kids notice the motorcycle before he does. They point and get excited, and I give him a wave. He doesn’t run to me like most kids would. He waits for the teacher to give him permission, and it makes me wonder why he has trouble with the staff if he’s always this well behaved. I guess it just goes to show that adults never really grow up either. What an unbelievable world we live in when grown-ups don’t act like adults.

His smile grows wider with each step he takes.

“Hey there, little man,” I tell him when he’s right up beside me.

His mouth is hanging open, but then it suddenly falls, and his little chin begins to quiver.

“What happened to momma?”

“Nothing. She’s fine. I promise. She said I could pick you up. Look what I got for you.” I hold up the child-sized helmet.

His little eyes search mine, and I know he’s searching them for the truth. It makes me wonder how many people in his short life have lied to him.

“Look,” I say as I place my hand on his shoulder. “We’ll call her, okay?”

I step off my bike, uncaring if I’m blocking the car pickup line and stand on the sidewalk. Pulling out my phone, I dial Lucy’s number.

“Hey, sweetheart,” I say when she answers.

“He won’t leave with you, will he?” she asks with a chuckle.

“He’s worried that something is wrong. I’m going to put him on.”

I hand the phone to him.

“Momma? Micah is at my school… Yes, ma’am… I can? Really!... Yes, ma’am. I will… Hold on tight. I will. I promise… Yes, ma’am. I won’t… Yes, ma’am… I love you, too. Bye.”

He hands me the phone back.

“You’ve raised a good one, sweetheart.”

“Take good care of him.”

“Yes, ma’am,” I tell her. “How are you feeling?”

“The bath helped,” she whispers.

“Good. We’ll be back soon.”

We say our goodbyes, and I end the call.

“A few rules,” I tell Harley before I let him climb on.

“Yes, sir,” he says, his full focus on me despite the loud kids all around.

“You have to sit in front of me. I’ll have to wear your backpack.”

“It’s Mickey Mouse.” He holds the pack up. “That doesn’t embarrass you?”

“Coolest mouse ever,” I say, holding out my hand and adjusting the straps as far as they go so I can get it over my arms. “When you get on, I need your hands here, but you can’t touch any of the controls.”

“Got it. Anything else?”

I look at my bike. “Nope. I think that’s it.”

He doesn’t weigh enough to worry about having him lean with me on turns.

I hold my hand out, and we execute the complicated handshake we mastered yesterday while we were watching movies at his house. He’s giggling when I lift him up and place him on the seat before climbing on behind him. I drop his helmet on his head, fastening it under his chin, and crank the bike. It roars to life, and squealing, excited kids wave at us as we slowly roll out of the pickup line. Not once does Harley pick up his hands from where I told him to keep them to wave back. I don’t know if he’s following the rules I set forth, or if he’s realizing that he doesn’t need friends who will now only like him because he rode off on a motorcycle when they couldn’t be bothered before.