Addictive (Diamondback MC Second Generation 3)

“Yeah, but I’m not leaving Texas, Mom, not again. This chapter of my life is closed now.” I was lucky enough to be able to work wherever I could, mostly working remotely during this whole process. The attorney’s office I’m working for didn’t want to lose me and still doesn’t, even with me being a liability and taking time off work for health reasons. We even came to an agreement that I can work from Texas, mostly through emails, teleconferences, and Zoom calls.

“If you change your mind, that’s okay, too. We are all going to rally around you, even when you get annoyed with everyone coming and going at the house.” I close my eyes. I’m twenty-eight, have cancer, and am moving back home with my parents. How the hell did my life come to this? Oh yeah, genes. I may look, talk, and act like my mother, but after the genetic testing that was done on the both of us, it seems my biological dad’s side of the family gave me a present after all, in the form of cancer. Fuck, life really does throw you curveballs when you least expect them.

CHAPTER 1

HENLEY

My eyes practically bug out of my head. The phone sitting next to me is ringing, showing a number I have programmed in because this man will not freaking quit. Sure, he’s devastatingly handsome with is dark black hair, dark eyes, tan skin that’s more a result of his heritage than the hot Texas sun. A dangerous vibe emanates off his body, and I’ve only met him once. The only reason I know who he is, is because he left a voicemail once. How he got my number, I have no idea. We barely exchanged a few sentences between us that day. I saved that voicemail, and when I’m deep into my depression, much like I am right now, I listen to it. The past six months have been hard—devastating, really. All the online chats and public groups in the world can’t prepare you for the aftermath of a hysterectomy, going through menopause when you didn’t expect it, only to start chemotherapy two weeks after having said surgery. Then, on top of that, your hair starting to fall out in clumps two treatments in is another huge smack to the face.

“Just stop calling,” I mutter. I’m still living at home a month later even though I’m done with chemo.

Somehow, I was able to work through every single treatment, maintaining my job even when all I wanted to do was curl up in bed after throwing up from the metal taste in my mouth that never went away, especially after one of my appointments.

Massimo is his name. I met him when I was sitting in a chair at the hospital, waiting to be called back to get the newest results of my CT scan. I was doing it on my own for the first time. If the cancer was still there, I was done going through chemo. It would be heartbreaking for my family. This whole time, though, I wasn’t living. I was surviving, barely at that, and it wasn’t something I wanted to go through again. My family would mourn, this much I know, but the heaviness that’s always in the air, I didn’t want their last memories of me with them to be this desolate feeling.

That’s when Dante, Massimo’s son, came up beside me, tears streaming down his cheeks. Of all the seats he could have chosen, he chose the one right next to me. I put my hand palm out, knowing the little boy needed some kind of comfort with the way he was holding the threadbare blanket in his arm, and when he placed his hand in mine, I didn’t say a word, not until he spoke up.

“I miss my mamma,” the boy said.

“When I miss someone, I talk to them, even if they aren’t around. I truly believe they can listen anywhere they are.” I had no idea what else to say. I grew up around children. My brother is practically my best friend even though he was an annoying little jerk as a kid.

“Even when they’re in heaven?” His eyes drifted up towards mine, eyes probably as sad as mine.

“Especially then.” We sat there silently, him with a total stranger, me with a boy who clearly had the weight on his shoulders. Even if they’d called my name right then and there, I would have told them they could wait. He was more important at that time.

“I’m going to talk to my mom, then.” I was unsure how old he was or where he was from. It definitely didn’t sound like he was born and raised in Texas, though, not with that Italian accent shining through.

“I think that’s a great idea.” I looked around at the sterile hospital. We were in the cancer center area of the hospital. I assumed he’d lost his mother to the same thing that attempted to ravage my body. It was a desolate time for both of us, me so deep in my own depression, this little boy coping in his own way with grief. What a pair we made.