Keiran had a heart.

A heart with bleeding holes, but a heart nonetheless.

My change in perspective mixed with unbalanced emotions might have had something to do with my pregnancy, but either way, I was grateful for him. One could even say we were friends… sort of.

* * * * *

The visit to the optometrist ended with Kennedy being fitted for a pair of eyeglasses. Her vision had suffered only a minor decrease, but she was in danger of becoming severely nearsighted. Of course, this wasn’t much of an issue for Ken once she was able to pick out purple eyeglasses with glitter.

We’d just pulled up to a stoplight when Kennedy said, “Mama, I want ice cream.”

“Ken, it’s ten in the morning. It’s not time for ice cream yet.”

“But, Mama, an ice cream a day keeps the doctor away.”

“You know that’s an apple, right?”

She lowered her kiddie shades, pursed her lips, and peeked at me over the top. “Not today.”

“Okay, so which one of your uncles is responsible for this? You know what? Scratch that.” I knew who was responsible. It was amazing how much of an influence a complete stranger was on her, but she was every bit of her father. Conning and sweet-talking was her specialty.

“Auntie Lake said I’m just like my daddy, but I told her I never met my daddy. How come, Mommy?”

The car jerked to a stop, and I realized my foot was trying to force the brake pedal through the floorboard. Car horns blared and angry drivers cursed as they swerved to avoid hitting my car.

I am going to kill Lake.

Maybe I was just hearing things?

Kennedy’s speech was still developing, and sometimes, even I could have a hard time understanding her. Sometimes she misunderstood words and used them wrong. Could that be it?

Kennedy had never asked about her father before because I had never brought him up. I knew it wasn’t right, but I could never bring myself to talk about him. I figured I had a little more time before she started asking questions.

But I guess time really didn’t wait for anyone. Another hard lesson I had to learn because of him. I didn’t want to blame him for everything that had gone wrong, but it was kind of hard when he wasn’t here to defend himself.

I pulled over into the gas station because this wasn’t a conversation I could have while driving. Do I tell her the truth or a lie? A quick look in the rearview mirror told me this wasn’t just a random question.

God, she’s only three.

It wasn’t supposed to be time. I parked and took a deep breath before I turned to the back seat to face her. “Ken, your father is—”

I stopped short when I noticed an extremely large man, wearing all black in the middle of summer, hunched over and peering into the car window where my daughter sat. She silently stared back as her body tensed.

“Who the fuck are you?” I screamed though the windows were closed.

When his hand reached for the door handle I scrambled to hit the lock button which was when I noticed a second man, equally dressed in black, standing next to my door with a handgun pointed directly at my head in the middle of broad daylight.

“If you so much as bat a fucking eyelash, I will blow your brain through your ears, got me?”

“Mommy!”

“Kennedy!” Ignoring the warning, I whipped around to see my daughter fighting the large gnarly hands lifting her out of her car seat. “Take your hands off my daughter!”

Everything happened fast. Too fast. And the worse part was I didn’t even know why. I screamed for help, but nothing came. Not the sound of my voice or a good Samaritan.

Only pain.

The last thing I remembered was the ringing of my ears drowning out my daughter’s screams for me.

CHAPTER FOUR

KEENAN

“KEEP YOUR ASS still, Lacy.” Or was it Lucy?

“I can’t,” she whined and wiggled her ass. “It hurts.”

I suppressed the temptation to shove her off my table and instead, pressed the needle deeper into her skin. Her hiss of pain was music to my ears, and even now, I could feel my dick hardening.

There were two types of people when it came to pain. Those who received it and those who gifted it.

Let’s just say, I’ve become one generous motherfucker.

“Still¸” I ordered again, this time lower and deeper, letting her know I was serious, “or get the fuck off my table.”

She murmured an apology and managed to keep still while I finished up the last of the large butterfly tattoo, stereotypical of women who failed to realize when it had gotten old. Normally, I would have turned her away, but the desperate need for a distraction called for desperate measures.