PREORDER - Heart of Stone | A BBW, MC Lite Romance (Stoneheart Motorcycle Club Book 1)

"I don't understand," I say, adjusting the squirming toddler in my arms. "What are you telling me, Amanda?"

My cousin's voice sounds thin and crackly on the other end of the phone. "You'll need to look after them for another week—maybe two."

I hear someone calling her name in the background as I struggle to process what my cousin has just dumped in my lap.

"But I can't. I have work."

"I know but you can—shit, I have to go," Amanda curses. "Our plane is boarding."

The shock of her announcement evaporates as reality punches me in the face.

"Amanda, wait! You can't do this to me, I—"

"Gotta go! Key to the house is in the letterbox. Rent's due tenth of the month. Kisses to the babies. Bye!"

The call disconnects before I can get another word in. I pull the phone from my shoulder, staring down at the blank screen.

"Fuck."

"Fah!" Abby repeats, smooshing my face between her tiny, sticky hands. "Fah, fah!"

Panic tears through me as I stare at the chaos that my living room has become. The one-bedroom apartment I've lived in for the last twelve months has been perfect for me—a single woman without so much as a goldfish.

For me and three kids? Not so much.

I lean down to set Abby on the floor as the weight of Amanda's decision settles on my shoulders.

"Go play with your sister," I murmur, tapping her on the bottom.

Abby rushes off, her chubby little legs barely able to keep up with her. My cousin has three kids under the age of three: twin girls, Abby and Amy, and a little boy, Adam. The A-Team are cute, I'll give them that, but I'm not prepared for the responsibility of three kids. My apartment isn't exactly kid-friendly.

I run a hand through my hair and over my face, silently screaming. Amanda isn't exactly the most responsible individual. She has a tendency to go off for a weekend, leaving me stuck literally holding the baby. But to do this for a week, maybe more? That is unusual, and I don't like it. I don't like any part of the nonsense I've been putting up with for years.

I blame her current boyfriend. The guy has been around for months, and he is bad news. Baby Adam is an example of that. Instead of Paul being at the birth, it was me holding Amanda's hand. But she’s too blind, by love or lust—probably his money—to see what a bad influence he is. But then, I can’t blame him entirely. The fact is, she’s a grown woman who should know better than to leave her kids to go chase a party. 

I guess I should be grateful that Paul is still around. At least he pays child support, unlike the twins' dad, who took off before they were even born. Between Paul and Amanda, they aren't exactly the most responsible parents. They mess up regularly, forgetting they have kids and leaving babysitters to call me when they don't show up at the appointed time. More than once, I've cancelled weekend plans or skipped work just to support my irresponsible cousin and her partner.

I adore my baby cousins, don't get me wrong. I love looking after them and being in their lives. But I’m not their parent. And as much as I hate to admit it, it’s becoming clearer and clearer that Amanda and Paul don't consider them their responsibility. 

My mind races as I look for other options. There is no way I can call Amanda's mom. My aunt is bad news all over. And my mom? Well, she might be even worse. 

An old-school hippie, they both aren’t exactly known for their reliability. Between the drugs, the debts, and the drinking—not to mention the deadbeat guys they bring home every weekend—they’re not exactly Ms. Reliable.

I run a hand through my hair, listening to the kids play. 

Amanda wasn’t always like this. We’d been close as kids, just us against a world that wanted to keep kicking us down to the dirt. But somewhere around our teens, we’d begun to drift. I wanted something better than a rusted trailer and a string of men who stayed long enough to drink all your beer but not long enough to pay for another six-pack. 

And Amanda… well, she’d chosen differently. 

I'd escaped our trailer park on my eighteenth birthday, working my butt off to get my GED and enroll in a course I knew would pay decent money. Being a mechanic isn't exactly the job of my dreams, but the money I make sure as hell makes up for it. 

While the kids I'd gone to school with had dreamed of fame and fortune, I'd wished for more than a hundred bucks in the bank, or a regular hot shower that didn't involve a rec center. Add in a night of not listening to sex through paper-thin walls, and all my dreams would have come true.

By all standard metrics, I could consider myself successful. And yet here I stood, a pseudo-single parent, looking after three kids who aren't my own, while my cousin goes off to God only knows where to party with only the devil knows who.

Shit. 

I pace as I consider the implications of Amanda's selfish decision. A weekend is different from a week or even two. One weekend in my apartment is tough but doable. A whole week or more? No way. I can't have three kids here. What will I do for childcare? For food? For sleeping arrangements?

The temporary cot will be okay for Adam, but the girls share my bed when they’re here, and I sleep on the pull-out couch which isn’t the best night's sleep—when I can sleep around a fussy baby and two hyperactive toddlers. 

And what about my job? I'll have to look after the kids while I'm at work. There is no way I can bring three babies into the workshop. I am a mechanic, and our workshop specializes in restoring cars and bikes. Hell, we even have the occasional truck. I am good at my job, and people love what I do. I have a little bit of sick leave saved up, but we are in the middle of a big project. I don't want to be the one to cause it to blow out.

Option one: I can call child services and turn the kids over to them, but having been through foster care, there is no way I am going to do that.

Option two: I can try calling Amanda, work out where she is, and drop the kids off, but I have no doubt that would just end up in the same situation within a couple of days. She'd come home, and the kids would be in the house alone. I'd get a call from one of the neighbors or Amanda, telling me to check on them. Alternatively, she'd complain and somehow get into my place, wrecking the joint because I hadn't given her what she wanted. It’s happened twice before.

Option three, and perhaps the only one that is actually viable, is to bundle the kids up, take them back to their place, and look after them there until my cousin grows up and comes home to look after her own kids. And since I don't own a car or car seats, we'll have to take the bus.

"Damn you, Amanda," I mutter, beyond exasperated by this situation.

I glance at them, seeing Abby and Amy playing quietly with stuffed toys I bought them.

No one else will care for them as much as I will. Which means this is on me. All on me. 

With a heavy sigh I make my decision, glancing at my watch. 

It’s getting late in the evening, which means the kids need food, a bath, and bed, but there’s no way I can look after them tonight and get to work tomorrow. With a frustrated huff, I pull myself together and make mac and cheese for the twins, and heat some frozen breast milk for Adam.

I feed them quickly and shuffle them all into the bathroom for a quick wash before dressing them in pajamas. Assembling their multitude of things—diaper bags, a stroller, blankets, soft toys—I do a quick search on my phone for bus timetables and nearly lose my mind realizing it will take us nearly two hours via public transport for what is essentially a 15-minute drive. But such is the public transport system in small towns.

I live a town over from Amanda. While I might work in Stoneheart, living slightly away from the place I grew up gives me enough distance to carve out a life not tainted by the mistakes of my family. 

You might wonder why I don't order an Uber or a taxi—please. The one guy who offers it only works from ten till three during the day, his main customers being old ladies wanting to get to bridge.

With another heavy sigh, I lock up my apartment, adjusting the small bag of items I’ve thrown into my backpack. The twins are wearing some of those monkey harnesses, which I hate but work when I also have to deal with a stroller as well as carry their stuff. The bus ride itself isn't too bad; I manage to distract them with a movie on an iPad and a pair of headsets. Adam sleeps most of the way, waking occasionally for cuddles, a feed, and a diaper change, which I’ll deal with later.

Disaster strikes when the bus finally drops us off a 10-minute walk from Amanda's. The twins, now an hour past their bedtime, are exhausted and not at all willing or interested in walking a step further. It takes some maneuvering, but I manage to slip Abby beside Adam in the stroller and put Amy on my back in a backpack. I move the diaper bag to the stroller's overhang and determinedly shove our way forward as I trudge down the long, broken concrete sidewalk.

Amanda lives in a questionable area, which is no surprise. As a single mom of three whose sole income appears to come from welfare and boyfriends, she has a house whose rent seems dubiously connected to her ability to grant the landlord favors.

I’ve never asked what kind of favors cause goodness knows I don’t want to know. 

Once upon a time, this had been a lovely neighborhood with big old trees and quiet small houses. Now it’s a wasteland of derelict housing and cleared land. 

But there are flickers of life that demonstrate it might be about to undergo a gentle gentrification—the occasional house with new paint and shutters, a car that appears to be a little bit above the price range of the other clunkers around the place. But for the most part, the area is tired, old, and worn with a thin veneer of dilapidation. Old-timers sit on their porches in the summer bemoaning the state of the world while the younger generations trade drugs or guns, or move to the city in an attempt to better themselves.

Maybe one day the town will reclaim its former glory, but for the moment, it isn't the safest neighborhood.

After 10 minutes of pleading, cajoling, and dealing with a disgruntled set of toddlers, we finally make it to Amanda's house. I check the mailbox and, sure enough, I find the key to her house glinting in the dim, flickering streetlight. With a silent curse, I bundle the kids inside and flick on the lights.

It’s been over six months since I stepped foot in Amanda's house. Any babysitting had taken place in my apartment. The last time I'd been here was before Adam's birth when I had scrubbed the place from top to bottom and helped her set up the crib because, of course, Paul, the jerk, wasn't interested. But now, stepping inside, I realize that was a mistake. The place is filthy—boxes are stacked here and there coupled with piles of rubbish, dirty laundry, and diapers. The stench of the place nearly overwhelms me, and I gag.

The kids, sadly, take the stench in stride. 

Exhausted after a full day of work and this unexpected babysitting gig, I’m beginning to realize the extent of Amanda's problems. The knowledge hits me like a train, barreling over me, crushing me under the weight of responsibility. 

There’s no way Amanda is coming back, and there’s no way I can let these kids go.

Through the door of the house, the twins, exhausted beyond measure, have a meltdown which in turn wakes up the baby, who begins to scream. I drop my bags on the floor, overwhelmed by the mess, the smell, the noise, and the weight of the knowledge that I can't give them back to Amanda. They will need to become my wards. I'll need to take over their responsibility. My life as I know it, as I always imagined it, is about to change.

Freaking out, I quickly bustle around, double-checking that there isn't anything they can get hurt by. I bustle the twins into their bedroom and pop Adam in his crib. I close the door to the twins room, propping a chair under the knob to keep them safely inside. 

Tears prick my eyes, and a sick, almost nauseous feeling sweeps over me. 

I love them. I love Adam, Amy, and Abby, but I haven't asked for this. It isn't in my plans. I don't have the money to support them. I don't have the apartment or the time, but I'll have to make it work. 

I have to do this—for them. 

Dreams I have of a house and owning my own business begin to crumble as the weight of my reality rushes in. 

I need air. 

I stumble to the front door and outside onto the grass of the front yard, falling to my hands and knees in a daze as I gasp lungfuls of cool air, staring up into the dark. My breaths saw in and out too fast, too loud, too wretched. I’m cold and clammy, desperately clutching at the dead and dried grass under my palms. I open my mouth, a scream building in my throat, but nothing comes out.

A sob begins to build in my chest, pain shooting through my body. I’m heartsick for my little cousins who have been abandoned by the people who should care for them. I’m angry—no—furious, at Amanda and Paul. I’m scared, and frustrated, and terrified, and—

"Yo!" The rough call snaps me out of my shock, and I lift my head to see a man staring at me from across the road.

I can just make him out in the light of the streetlamp. He is huge—tall, broad, with thick shoulders and arms, and even thicker thighs. His hair has been cut short—almost to a buzz cut. On his feet are motorcycle boots, his legs encased in dark denim, and his broad chest is covered in a black shirt with some kind of graphic writing on it. But it is his vest that catches my attention. I recognize the patches that indicate a biker.

My boss wears a similar vest, and I know some of the other mechanics have begun hanging around with different gangs or clubs. I can never remember the difference. I keep my head down and do my work, and as long as they pay me well for that work, I don't care what they do in their off time.

My gaze flicks to the house behind him, noting that it is one of the few that appears to be in decent shape—fresh paint, good shutters, good security. It has a massive garage that looks like it has been remodeled recently, the door of which is open, and inside stands a bunch of other guys also watching me. They have busy hands as they huddle around a motorcycle, and I have no idea what I have stumbled into, but I don't like it one bit.

“You good?”

I blink slowly before answering him. “Yeah, I mean… yes. Sorry.” 

He jerks his head towards the house where the kids' screaming has taken on a new pitch. "You gonna deal with that?"

I blink, surprised and a little thrown. "Sorry?"

"Your kids. You gonna do something about them screaming?" he asks.

I glance back at the house and slowly climb to my feet, running a hand through my hair. "Yeah, I just... I just needed a minute," I stumble over my words, still trying to process everything.

"If you’re good, then you better do something before someone calls child services. Kids that small screaming like that.” 

Isn't that the truth? I think, shaking my head. They deserve better than a filthy house. They deserve better than being dumped on their aunt's doorstep every now and then. And they certainly deserve better than a belly full of shitty mac and cheese.

"Yeah," I agree. "Yeah, you're right." I push myself to my feet, dusting my knees and hands. "Sorry, I just... I needed a minute." I repeat, stumbling over my words, still trying to process the events that have led me to this moment.

He jerks his head once more towards the house. "Get your kids."

Your kids. 

His words are the slap I need to wake up. 

I nod, pivoting on the ball of my foot, rapidly powering towards the house, taking the three steps in one leap and scurrying inside. It would be just my luck if CPS shows up before I can make any kind of rational plan for the kids.

It takes me an hour to calm them down, requiring multiple songs, cuddles, and demands. Once they’re in bed, I pull out my phone and text my boss, asking if I can take a long weekend and apologizing for the inconvenience. I explain the issue, and because he’s a good guy, he gives me the whole weekend plus Monday at full pay. But then I look around and immediately realize there is no way I am going to be sleeping tonight. The kids' room isn't too bad, but the rest of the house is filthy. I don't know what Amanda has done, but it doesn't look like she has completed any kind of chores or cleaning in at least... God knows when. There is scum and mold growing on cups and plates in the kitchen sink, the trash is overflowing, and the laundry is piled high. It’s a miracle the kids have anything clean to wear.

With a deep, soul-wrenching sigh, I search for a pen and paper. I manage to find a pad and sit down at the kitchen counter, beginning to make a list of all the things I need to do and in what order.

There’s something reassuring about a list. You can tick off a list. You can add to it. You can see the process, what you need, and what you want all laid out. 

I find a modicum of comfort in putting the pen to paper. The action gives me some sense of control, some sense of pride when I finally cross things off. It gives me a goal to work towards that I desperately need when my life is spiraling. 

And my life is spiraling right now.

No matter how much I love these kids, they aren't mine. But they are about to be. Their future, their happiness, their lives, it is all about to become my responsibility. I have no idea how I’m going to make enough money to support three kids. The diapers alone are enough to consider mortgaging a house I don't own.

Oh God. Formula. I’ll need formula for Adam. 

Don't think about it, I tell myself as I add to the growing grocery list. Just take one thing at a time. 

First things first: a clean house, grocery list, and I'll need a car and car seats. 

I think wistfully of my motorcycle back at my apartment, tucked safely away. Of my beautiful bedroom and the little oasis I’d created for myself in my apartment. Of the gorgeous but breakable vase that sits in my kitchen. 

The apartment has been mine for three years now, and I have a nice nest egg going with the idea that maybe one day I could purchase something more permanent. But in a single breath of rancid air, that dream has disappeared.

I'll have to work out childcare, and pick up extra shifts to make ends meet. I have no clue how to do that when there are three kids to look after.

God, health insurance. Kids get sick all the time. How am I going to—nope, not now. 

A clean house. That has to be my first priority. The house needs to be clean. 

So, that's what I do. I start by writing down exactly what I need. It is a long list and ends with ordering groceries—though goodness knows how I’ll get them when I don’t have a car and there’s no delivery service out this way.

There'd be laundry and scrubbing and cleaning and—do we even have any cleaning products?

Jacked up on adrenaline and shock, I start in the kitchen, gagging as I begin to clean from one side to another. I haul garbage outside—garbage that is rotting and rancid, the smell of which is putrid. Condoms, used condoms, are tucked here and there, thrown into corners easily enough that I worry that the girls could have found them.

I toss Amanda's scummy sheets in the washer and uncover an ancient laundry basket. Emptying two of the boxes that had been stacked in the living room, I begin to sort clothing into what is salvageable and what needs to be tossed. Load after load, I begin to make a dent as I clean the house from top to bottom. Here and there, I find stacks of cash and jewelry tucked into little hiding spots. I don't ask questions. Honestly, I don't want to know. I just pile it all up on the kitchen counter, desperately trying to ignore the pit that has begun to form in my belly.

At around 3 AM, I finally put clean sheets on the bed in Amanda's room. Fifteen garbage bags of junk line her front porch, but at least the house is functional, clean, and I have a list of groceries I’ll need tomorrow, the top of which includes cleaning products. I have no idea how I’m going to get those grocery items, but I’ll deal with that tomorrow. I take a quick shower, scrubbing off the grime, dirt, mold, and filth caking my skin and clothing from cleaning the house.

Tomorrow morning will come soon enough.

🌶🌶🌶🌶 – Open-door, explicit scenes with emotional heat. Frequent sex, dirty talk, possessiveness, and lots of biker tension. Think: sweat, grease, and desire.

Series Features:

• Grumpy x Sunshine
• Forced Proximity
• Found Family
• Forced Carer / Guardian
• OTT Bikers

Content Information:
Includes themes of abandonment, fostering, swearing, violence, and explicit consensual sex. See content info at the start of the book for full details.