♪ ♫ ♪
The tiny fingers patting my tats suddenly leave my skin and tangle into my hair.
Twist. Tug. Twist.
Closing my eyes, I inhale, hold it and then release it in a shuddery exhale. Flicking my eyes back open, my arms pull him closer, his breaths hot against my chest, his heartbeat swift as a hummingbird’s wings through his tiny chest. Poor little bastard.
“It’s okay little dude,” I whisper into his hair. “No one will hurt your mummy. I promise you,” I reassure him. He yawns, the sound jerky as he sniffles softly at the same time, trying to hold back the scared, confused tears of a five year old. “Wiam,” he drawls around another yawn.
He tugs my hair, pulling my head down to his level, and placing his lips against my ear, his breath’s warm as he tells me, “Daddy tolds mamma you have shit in you brain ‘cause you eat dugs.” What the fuck? He snuggles in closer, tucking his head beneath my chin before adding, “That yukky. What’s dugs? Can I have some too?”
Halley inhales sharply. “Lucian that’s a naughty word,” she gently chides, completely ignoring the uncalled for reference to my habits. Habits that prick had no business talking about and bringing up. Especially in front of his kid. She clears her throat and continues, “We don’t say that. We say poo, baby boy.”
I flash her a fierce look which she blatantly ignores.
“Yeth mamma. I sorry.” His fingers stroke the tats painting my chest. “Wiam.”
“I wuv you Wiam-daddy.”
Oh fucking Christ. Jesus. My heart melts at his words.
“Love you too little dude,” I murmur truthfully into his sweetly scented hair. He sighs and goes limp in my embrace as he readies himself to succumb to sleep.
Carefully lifting him, I flop down onto my arse, stretch my legs out before me, and place him back down on my lap, wary of tripping Halley as she walks past and silently sets the table.
Cradling the side of his face inside my large palm, I bend my head and kiss the damp mahogany cap of his thick hair, possessively cuddling his little Minion-PJ clad body to my front.
A front which is rigid with barely, supressed fury.
Unclenching my jaw, I rest my head back against the cupboard and look up at my lover who’s watching her sleepy son wriggle around on my lap, before wrapping his other arm around my waist and kissing my chest before yawning again.
I know exactly what she sees. A bulky, long-haired, tattooed, pierced motherfucker cradling a half-sleeping child. Like watching a porpoise surfing. Fuckin’ goes against nature.
♪ ♫ ♪
Extract from Wicked Good, copyright (c) Jennifer Crowfoot 2016