Mess Me Up (Bear Bottom Guardians MC 1)

I didn’t know what to say.

Even worse, I didn’t know that I could say anything to make this right.

There were a hundred other things I could’ve done differently, and I’d done the one thing that had sent her running.

Now she was back…but would she even listen to what I had to say?

I still wasn’t a hundred percent on board with the baby.

The baby scared the absolute crap out of me.

We’re talking, on a scale of one to ten, a fifty-seven.

The idea of losing another child was terror-inducing to me. I’d lived through one. I didn’t think I could live through another.

“Don’t be me, baby,” my grandmother said. “Don’t be me.”

With that, she walked to the door and closed it softly behind her, leaving me reeling.

I’d never be her.

I’d never give up.

Now I just had to prove it.

***

I found her in the first place I looked—Bayou’s house.

Luckily, Bayou wasn’t home.

Unluckily, Bayou’s place was right in the middle of town. He owned the very first house built in Bear Bottom over twenty years ago. It just so happened that the house, although beautiful, was on the corner of a very popular street that everybody and their brother drove down to get anywhere in Bear Bottom.

Meaning, the moment I pulled my bike over in front of Bayou’s house, Bayou would know.

The question was, would Bayou do anything about it?

My bet was no.

Stepping onto the curb I’d parked my bike next to, I started up the porch steps, coming to a sudden halt with one foot on the top step, and one foot on the porch when I saw Izzy sitting on the swing. A light blanket covering her lap and a pile of letters—my letters to her—in her lap, all but one unread.

We sat staring at each other for long moments.

In my case, it was because I hadn’t seen her in so long. I hadn’t seen those beautiful eyes, or that hair that looked just as wild and unruly as the day she’d left.

It’d been three months, but nothing had changed. At least not my feelings when it came to the woman sitting in front of me.

“Rome,” she whispered, the letter in her hands dropping to reveal the small bump that it’d been previously concealing.

Something inside my chest tightened, and not in a bad way.

“Isadora,” I murmured.

I drew a deep breath, ready to plead my case, to tell her I was a complete and utter fool, but I never got the chance.

Why?

Because she was launching herself up and off the porch swing, and I was forced to catch her or fall backward down the stairs.

I didn’t care.

I held onto her.

I didn’t miss a thing.

Not the way she trembled in my arms. Not the way she held on for dear life as if she was too afraid I’d disappear if she let go. Not the way the hardness of her stomach pushed into the flat plain of mine.

I smelled the familiar fragrance of her hair, and I felt the softness of her skin.

I breathed, truly breathed, for the first time since she walked out my door.

“I’m sorry,” I whispered. “I’m so fuckin’ sorry.”

She held on tight. “I know.”

I didn’t move from where I was holding her. Not until my phone rang.

“Answer it,” she ordered without letting go of my neck.

I didn’t want to answer it.

“Answer it,” she repeated.

I grumbled, letting go of her with one hand long enough to dig my phone out of my pocket.

I put the phone to my ear and said, “Hello?”

“Wade’s been shot. We’re at the hospital.”

Izzy must’ve heard what was said, because she finally let go, sinking to her feet and taking a step away.

I looked down at her, feeling my heart in my throat, and said, “Let’s go.”

With the letter I wrote her still clutched in her hand, she ran down the porch steps with me and hopped on the bike without a second of protest.

It wasn’t until we were halfway to the hospital that I realized she was pregnant, and likely shouldn’t be on a motorcycle at all.

I slowed down and took every precaution I could.

And realized something very critical.

This baby was important to me.

I wanted this baby just as much as I wanted Izzy in my life, and it took a brother being shot to make me realize it.

***

Isadora,

This is my fourth letter that I didn’t send to you.

Not because I don’t want to, but because I fear that you’re not going to be able to forgive me for what I did.

I should’ve never let you go.

My mind was screaming at me not to let you walk out that door, but I couldn’t make my body move. I couldn’t force my feet to lift up off the floor.

I’m scared to death.

Every time I allow myself to think about a child with you, I think about all the things that could go wrong.