Beneath the Scars (Masters of the Shadowlands #13)(2)

A wave of loneliness swept over her along with the longing for someone beside her. Uh-uh. Not going there. Remember how well being involved with a guy worked in the past?

Besides, she had no time for anyone. Not if she wanted to write for a living someday. Even though the four books she’d written were selling well, they didn’t bring in enough for her to quit her bartending job.

And she needed to keep things uncomplicated for her son, especially this year. Poor Carson. His transition from elementary to middle school in September had been…difficult. Now, he had the added trauma of moving away from the apartment complex and his buddies there. Losing friends and having to go through unexpected changes hurt; she’d suffered through those changes herself.

Seeing her baby unhappy was even more painful. Everything inside her wanted to help, to make it better.

Had he been more resilient when younger? Like when he first learned to walk? He’d been so adorable. Shaggy hair falling into his bright eyes. Adorable red overalls. Knees bow-legged from the diaper. An infectious giggle when he took three steps. A heartrending wail when he toppled over.

Falls and scraped knees could be quickly cured with hugs and kisses. It wasn’t so easy to ease the anguish of not being invited to a birthday party or sitting alone in the school cafeteria—and mommies were supposed to be able to mend everything.

Dammit. Her heart ached for him. Sadly, the best she could offer was stability and safety. A listening ear. And all the love in the world.

After stowing the groceries, she looked around. Where were the other sacks?

With a sigh, she walked outside. Car trunk open, groceries still there. Missing: one boy.

Aaaaand, he’d wandered next door and was talking to the tenant of the other half of Oma’s duplex.

Standing with his back to Josie, the man was pointing to parts of his huge black and red motorcycle. The bike was a Harley, according to Carson, who seemed to think a motorcycle was the gateway to heaven.

Uh-huh.

Every mother in the world knew a motorcycle was the gateway to the emergency room.

Even worse, men who rode motorcycles could be…questionable. Would Carson be safe around this neighbor?

Crossing her arms over her chest, she gave him a good looking-over…and got a bit short of breath.

Oh…wow.

The man was tall and lean. His faded, ripped jeans covered long powerful legs. A faded black T-shirt stretched over a broad muscular back. Circling his biceps, black and red tattoos were only partially covered by the sleeves. Muscles bunched in his shoulders as he stood the bike up to show Carson something. His dark blond hair was long enough to touch his collar.

Pure man-candy and definitely on the scruffy side. A black leather motorcycle vest had been tossed over a handlebar.

Her eyes narrowed. Carson was off for Thanksgiving vacation or he would have been in class. Shouldn’t this man be at work on a Friday? What did he do for a living? Then again, many people took time off at Thanksgiving.

Oma said the guy had assumed the lease from the previous tenant, Uzuri. Surely the property managers had done a background check and confirmed he was gainfully employed and all that. If nothing else, he’d managed to afford an SUV and a motorcycle.

Looking past the driveway, Josie noticed that the flowers Uzuri had planted in the front door pots were dead. How could he have let the defenseless plants die?

No, she probably didn’t want her boy over there. “Carson,” she called, picking up a grocery sack. “Let’s finish this up.”

Her son turned…and so did the man.

Her stomach tightened. A partially healed, red slash ran from his left temple, through his scruffy beard, to his jaw. A yellow bruise decorated his right cheekbone. More nasty cuts covered his forearms.

She stiffened. Maybe she was jumping to conclusions, but as a bartender, she’d seen far too many brawls. The man had been in a knife fight.

And he was talking to her son. Fear sharpened her voice. “Carson, now.”

With a sullen pout, Carson trudged toward her, so obviously unwilling she wanted to shake him.

To her dismay, the man accompanied him. He was a good six feet tall.

Taking a step back, she looked up and into eyes the blue-gray of Tampa Bay just before dawn.

“Your son says you’ve moved in next door. Welcome to the neighborhood.” He had a mesmerizingly smooth, deep voice.

His greeting was polite. Friendly. But, but, but… Biker. Fighting. Knives. She took another step back, and her response came out thin and unfriendly. “Thank you.”

His expression went blank. “I’m called Holt.” He waited a beat for her to introduce herself, then glanced at the car where Carson was pulling out sacks. Rather than offering to help—which, honestly, she’d have refused—he nodded at her boy. “Nice meeting you, Carson.”

As the guy headed for his house, Carson stared at her. “Wow, Mom, way to be rude.”

She had been, no doubt about it. When she looked over her shoulder, the black motorcycle in the driveway seemed to grow in size with her fears. “Maybe, but I want you to stay away from him.”

“Mo-om, why?”

She grabbed the last sack and slammed the trunk shut. “Because I said so.”

Even as the words left her mouth, she winced. Throughout her childhood, her father had shouted that rejoinder whenever she’d asked why. When Carson was born, she’d sworn she would be a better parent than her father.