The Wild Wolf Pup (Zoe's Rescue Zoo #9)(9)

I glance down and watch her wrap her hand around my pinky.

I won’t stand in her way though.

I’ll think back to these moments, hang onto them with all I am, and remember that she was once the little girl who wrapped her hand around my pinky but also the girl who wrapped her whole self around my heart.

We give our kids roots and then we give them wings and watch them soar.

That’s the kind of dad I want to be.

“Well aren’t you going to tell her the best part of the story?” My wife asks, pulling me away from my thoughts. I lift my head and watch her lean against the frame of the door, tightly tying the satin belt of her robe around her waist.

The beauty of life is some things are just meant to be, nothing and no one can stop them from happening.

Me and Reese’s.

Meant to be.

She pads into the room, making her way over to me and our baby. Wrapping her arms around my shoulders she leans over and smiles down at our daughter.

“They proved everyone wrong and lived happily ever after,” she whispers, pressing her lips to my cheek.

“Yeah, they did,” I agree, as she drops her arms from around me and steps in front of me. “I thought you were sleeping.”

“The monitor was on,” she explains with a smile placed firmly on her plump lips. “You’re such a great dad,” she whispers, eyes shining bright. “I thought I couldn’t possibly love you any more than I did when I was fifteen but then we had kids and…well…my heart is so full,” she rasps.

Patting my knee with my free hand I adjust our daughter with the other and reach for Adrianna, pulling her onto my lap.

“Love you so fucking much, Reese’s,” I murmur against her ear.

“This is the good life, babe, the one we never thought we’d see, isn’t it?”

“Yeah, this is the good life,” I confirm, and even as I say the words they don’t seem to adequately describe what we were living.

“She looks wide awake,” she says, running the back of her hand over Victoria’s cheek.

“She’s a wild one,” I agree, glancing over at our smiling baby.

“Wonder where she gets it from,” Adrianna teases, crinkling her nose as she leans her back against my chest.

“Mommy? Daddy?” Luca groggily calls from the door.

“Hey, buddy,” I reply, watching as he wipes the sleep from his eyes and stares at us.

“Is it morning?”

“No, baby, it’s not. Your sister woke up for a bottle,” Adrianna explains, holding out her arms. “Get over here.”

Luca runs over to us, jumping into his mommy’s arms and lets her pull him onto her lap.

“Tori, you need to sleep,” Luca tells his sister, leaning closer to her. “It’s okay though. I don’t like to sleep either. You can’t play when you’re sleeping,” he says while yawning.

Cherishing the moment, despite the pins and needles shooting down my leg, I wrap my free arm tightly around my wife and son as I continue to cradle my baby girl with my other arm. It was one moment ingrained into my heart and soul—a moment I’d remember when my kids were all grown up and their mother was still sitting on my lap.

The good life.

Right here in my arms.





Chapter Four




It never becomes easier—visiting my boy in a cemetery, staring at his name perfectly etched into a tombstone. Each visit is a reminder of how fucked the world truly is, a testament that no one is ever safe, and even the good die young.

I’ll never completely forgive myself. Every birthday my son doesn’t celebrate I feel the guilt of his death. I’m an outlaw, a choice I made and one I live day after day, washing the blood off my hands without blinking an eye. There are days I get off on it, when the smell of flesh burning excites me. The adrenaline rush of my bullet as it races against the one fired by my enemy ignites my pulse. Those are the days when the ‘Bulldog’ is in control and Jack Parrish fades to black.

Yet, my crimes are not what stole my son’s life.

Go figure that one.

My mind, my ignorance—ultimately my illness—took Jack Jr.’s life. You people think God is your maker, that he is the one who created you and who controls your destiny.

Good for you.

But he isn’t mine.

My maker is my mind, it’s who I answer to, it’s my maker who controls me. I’m a manic-depressive and there was a time when I was too proud to admit that. Silence. It’s golden until it’s not. Until you’re picking out the tiniest coffin in the funeral parlor and your wife is crying buckets of tears as she searches the house for your son’s favorite teddy bear so he can take it with him into eternity.

Then you find your voice.

And you say the words you’ve denied for so long. You speak your truth and confess that you are ill and you are weak minded. “I’m bipolar and I need help.”

Lithium becomes your savior and sometimes it’s not enough but you know you’re nothing without it. You clutch that orange prescription bottle, hang onto it with everything you have left, because you have another child on this earth that needs you.

There have been times, too many to count, when I’ve struggled with my conscience and my desperation to end my life and be reunited with my son. But in the end it’s my daughter, Lacey, that keeps me here. That pretty girl, with eyes that are so like mine, not just in color but also in anguish.