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So I was still fucking Muhammad Ali.

I threw my hard hat in the backseat of my Charger, climbed behind the wheel and sat there for a second.

“Fuck.”

My whole body hurt.

I’d been up since five that morning, worked damn near ten hours, and instead of going straight home, I was headed to East Orange.

To see my son.

Collin had been home from the hospital for a little over a week, and I’d been secretly going to Heather’s almost every day I could manage.

Sometimes before work.

Sometimes after.

Sometimes I’d tell Sam I was stopping somewhere with Frozo.

Sometimes I’d say overtime.

Sometimes I’d just make some shit up on the spot and hope she didn’t ask too many questions.

The problem was I could never stay long.

Twenty minutes.

Forty-five.

Maybe an hour if I could stretch it.

Heather hated that shit.

I didn’t blame her either.

But at the same damn time, she knew Samantha existed when we started fucking. Knew I had kids. Knew what the situation was.

Now…

Did I tell Heather I was leaving Sam once Collin was born?

Yeah.

Technically.

A few times.

Maybe more than a few.

But shit, most of them conversations happened with my dick hard.

What the fuck was I supposed to say when I was trying to get my nut off?

No, Heather, I’m actually planning to keep going home to my wife indefinitely. Now turn around?

Fuck no.

I told her what kept shit peaceful.