“I support those kids on my own,” I grit out. “Max doesn’t give me any money.”

“Maybe,” he concedes and then nods his head at me before turning toward his car. He calls over his shoulder. “But I wonder if he would.”

Well fuck . . . what the hell does that mean?

Chapter 17

Max

I stand in Jules’ bedroom with her and watch as she stomps back and forth across the carpet. Her hands are balled into fists and her cheeks are bright red with fury.

“That son of a bitch can’t have them,” she yells at me, her arms waving wildly to punctuate her resolve.

“Jules,” I say in a lowered voice. “You need to calm down. The kids can hear you.”

She looks chastised and takes three paces to get in my face. She whispers harshly, “He can’t do it. That fucking asshole has no right. He can’t just waltz back into their lives now that they’re settled.”

“Honey . . .” I try to placate.

She just hisses at me. “That fucker wants those kids so he doesn’t have to pay child support anymore, and do you think he’s going to spend the money on them that they deserve—hell, that they fucking need to survive—if he can’t even be bothered to pay a fraction of what they cost in child support?”

Tears gather in her eyes and she starts shaking. I pull her into me, wrap my arms hard around her and I tell her, “It will be fine. I’ve got your back. He’s not going to do anything.”

She pulls her face back and looks at me, one tear slipping out, and it guts me. “I can’t lose them, Max. They’re all I have left of Melody. They are Melody. I can’t do it.”

She lets a sob out and presses her face into my chest. I hold her there for a minute, and because Jules is one of the strongest women I’ve ever met, she only submits to her anger and grief for a few moments before she swallows it down and pulls away from me. She rubs her finger under her eyes to wipe away the remaining tears and her voice quavers, “I’m fine.”

“You are not,” I mutter and I reach into her back pocket to pull out the phone I know she keeps there. I thrust it into her hands. “Call Tina. Ask if she can watch the kids for an hour. I’m going to take you out to dinner, ply you with a few glasses of wine to relax, and then I’m coming back here with you. I’ll sleep on the couch.”

“What?” she says, trying to push the phone back at me. “No. I don’t need you to handle me, Max.”

“Yes you fucking do, Jules,” I growl at her, refusing to take the phone. “So let me do it. Call Tina. Now.”

I think she might argue but then she just nods at me silently and calls Tina, who fortunately was home. Jules briefly told her about Dwayne’s visit and that she needed about an hour to cool down. Tina gladly agreed and within five minutes she and her son Marshall arrived and I was ushering Jules out the door.

I take her just about two miles from her apartment complex to a cozy Irish pub that I had spied one evening after I left Jules’ apartment and before I hit the I-440 Beltline. It’s packed because it’s Saturday night but we’re able to get a booth in the bar after only about a ten minute wait, and I think it’s possibly because I was recognized by the hostess.

Whatever. I’ll gladly take that so I can get Jules settled down.

A waitress comes quickly and there’s no doubt that I’ve been recognized because she stares at me with wide eyes, gets flustered as she takes our drink orders, and calls me “sir” about twenty times too many.

Once she leaves, I hold my hand across the table, palm up, and Jules without any further prompting puts her hand in mine.

I curl my fingers around hers and squeeze gently. “What’s your biggest fear?”

“That the court will give Dwayne the kids,” she answers immediately and with no thought.

“What would he have to do for that to happen?” I ask.

She shrugs. “Hire a lawyer. File something, I guess. Get it before a judge.”

“And what does he do for a living?”

“He’s a mechanic,” she says, her eyebrows knit together. “It’s what he did in the Army, but he never holds a job long. He’s always off chasing the next piece of tail and he has no qualms with women supporting him.”

“What a loser,” I mutter and then squeeze her hand again. “Listen . . . for him to fight for the kids will take money, and he clearly doesn’t have it. He can’t even pay child support.”

“But maybe that woman he’s with will front him the money,” she throws out.

“Um . . . excuse me, Mr. Fournier,” I hear from my right, and my head turns slowly to see a boy of about thirteen sitting there with a pad of paper. A man—I’m guessing his father—stands behind him with his hand on his shoulder. “I’m really sorry to bother you, but do you think I could get your autograph?”

Inside I’m screaming, No. Fuck off kid. Can’t you see my woman is having a meltdown?

But there’s no way I could ever do that to a fan, much less a nervous looking kid with stars in his eyes.

“Sure thing, buddy,” I say as I release Jules’ hand and reach out for the paper and pen. “What’s your name?”

“Andy,” he says.

I start to scribble a personalized autograph as I ask, “You play hockey?”

“Yes, sir,” he says. “Goalie.”

“Awesome,” I say as I sign my name and hand it back to him.

“Um . . . could I get a picture with you?” he mumbles, and while I don’t feel it, I manage to give him a big smile.

“Sure,” I say as I slide from the booth.

His dad whips out a camera and snaps a few pictures as I drape my arm over the kid’s shoulders. I know this now has everyone in the bar area watching us, and if others hadn’t recognized me before, it will spread through here like wildfire. I also know that this will start a wave of people approaching me and I’m thinking this was a bad idea.

After the kid leaves I start to slide back into the booth just as the waitress returns with our drinks. She places Jules’ wine in front of her and then slides my Smithwick’s onto my side of the table as she murmurs, “Um . . . your beer is from a few fans up at the bar.”