Zane (Inked Brotherhood 3)

At home, the kids are restless. They’re used to me, but they’re little—Mary is two, and Cole is not even a year old—and they want their mom, not a tattooed guy with a Mohawk and a temper. Reading picture books and changing diapers isn’t my forte on a good day, much less now.

Between taking shifts watching over the children and alternating with Matt, so we can both be with Emma for a few hours at a time, the weekend passes in fits and starts. By Sunday afternoon, when I say goodbye to Emma and climb into my truck, I feel like roadkill.

I sit behind the wheel and stare without seeing out into the dark. Emma’s face haunts me. She barely had the strength to squeeze my hand when I was leaving. She looked so small like that. I’m her adopted brother. I’m supposed to protect her. Give back some of what she gave to me.

A wail is building up in my throat. I knock my elbow into the window and smash my fist into the wheel. The pain feels good. Too good.

I need to drink, smoke and fuck, not necessarily in that order. Anything to blank out my mind.

Dakota’s image suddenly fills my head, and I want to punch it out of my memory. She deserves so much better than me. If I fuck her, I won’t keep her and… damn, I want to keep her.

Shit. I’m going fucking crazy.

I rev up the truck and hightail it out of the hospital, out of Zion, racing for the open highway. I’m tempted to stop at a bar on the way, but I find myself driving past town after town and not stopping.

When I realize why, I groan out loud. I want to see Dakota. My heart beats faster at the thought, and my dick hardens.

Down, Dick. She’s not interested in a quick grope and fuck. Nice girls like her want more—deserve more—and I can’t deliver.

I crank up the music, some punk rock shit Rafe gave me, and punch the wheel to the rhythm. Caught up in the beat, it takes me a while to realize it’s music from their group, Deathmoth, and that the powerful voice blasting out of the speakers is Dakota’s.

I turn off the stereo and grip the wheel so hard it creaks. I need to get drunk off my ass. Need to get so wasted I stop thinking of Dakota.

Problem is, even if I drink enough to forget my own name, I don’t think I’ll manage to forget her.

***

“Gimme another.”

Without batting an eye, Joe, the bartender of Bent, pours me another whiskey. It must be my fourth. Or fifth? Maybe sixth. I really have no fucking clue. I’ve been here for a while, and I’m still working on forgetting—Dakota, Emma, who I am and what I’m supposed to do.

Maybe I should get the bottle of whiskey and get out of here. A few girls have wandered over to chat me up, but I couldn’t bother. Not interesting. Not pretty. Not… Not Dakota, dammit.

Get your head out of your ass and pick one.

It’s just sex. Pick a chick, choose a quiet corner and just fuck the pain out of your system. Say goodbye, finish your drink and go home.

It’s worked for many years. It will work again.

I scan the thickening crowd. Music is blasting from the speakers, old rock, and voices rise over the din. It makes my already aching head feel like a time bomb about to explode. At the back of the room, I can see couples getting down and dirty against the wall, not concerned about being seen.

Perfect.

Grab a chick, bang her, then go home to finish getting wasted. That’s the plan.

My cell beeps. A message from Ash, asking where the hell I am, and if I want to go out for a beer. I already have text messages and missed calls from him, Tyler, Dylan, Erin, Audrey and Rafe with variations in the theme. They want to know if I returned safely. If I’m okay.

Fuck no, I’m not okay. I shove the cell back into my pocket and focus on the plan.

A blonde with an impressive rack smiles at me. I check her out. Good ass. Nice hips. She has the bold curves I usually go for, but…

Slight curves, wild dark hair, large blue eyes…

No, dammit! Why do I keep seeing Dakota in front of me?

I push off my stool, stumble a little and nod at the blonde. Her smile grows wider, and she sidles up to me. She’s wearing a micro skirt that shows off her long legs, made longer by dangerously high heels.

Yeah, she’ll do nicely. I grab her hand and drag her through the crowd. She squeals, then laughs, and I grit my teeth. Too high-pitched. Fake. No chimes and bel