Throughout his youth, Fender Blackstone wondered how an eldest son carried his father’s name. For families where love shone bright and true, he suspected it was an honor—a torch to keep burning through all the years ahead. But for the child of an abuser and an all-around bastard, carrying the old man’s last name was torture. A steady reminder of all that was expected of you. Or wasn’t.

His own entrance into the world had been met with little fanfare—unless a bender with a case of beer gifted by the old man’s buddies down at the auto body shop where he’d worked could be considered auspicious. Trent Blackstone had approached fatherhood the way he treated the rest of his life. With a sneer and a bad attitude.

But it was the name, Fender marveled, that had been the clincher throughout his youth. He might have carried the Blackstone surname, but his first name—the one the entire neighborhood whispered about—was all his own. Named for the job his father had worked the same afternoon he was born, Fender carried the knowledge, sure and true, that his old man had given him as much thought as a car part. And as he grew and gained a deeper knowledge of his sire, Fender could only be grateful for that fact.

Of course, he’d had little gratitude while walking that path. His mother had checked out around his second birthday, never to be seen or heard from again. Her absence had resulted in the continuation of the benders his father was so fond of, as well as a solid fist a few times a week.

“Toughens a man, my boy.”

His father had been equally fond of that turn of phrase, using it to excuse any number of sins. To his credit—and Fender gave very little—the old man had been pleased when the repeated “lessons” resulted in fewer and fewer tears. By the time he was ten years old, Fender could take a punch with the best of them, shake it off, and move on.

What he’d never experienced—nor could he shake off quite so lightly—was a hug. Tight and strong, with just enough muscle to hold him in place yet not nearly so tight as to feel threatening. Mama Lou had seen to it he learned new lessons.

She’d marched into his life in unexpected fashion—her stumble near the school playground one bright afternoon, which caught his attention, along with that of his friends, Nick and Landon. They’d been doing their usual litany of trash talk and defensive planning for their upcoming soccer game when the pretty lady with sad eyes dropped her dry cleaning in the dirt and then tumbled over the bag.

She was the one who changed everything.

His life stopped consisting of unexpected punches, the stench of day-old whiskey, and a series of garishly made-up women who paraded through their small apartment in Park Heights. Instead, it was made up of a bright yellow kitchen full of the scent of roasts and casseroles, potatoes, pots of spaghetti, and cookies.

Always cookies.

Mama Lou had forced him and his brothers to sit at the large table in that kitchen and work their homework, cursing as loudly as they over incomprehensible math problems and science projects no one had remembered to mention. She saw to it they had three square meals daily and a roof over their heads, and when she’d first collected them up and brought them home, Fender had thought that was enough.

And if it wasn’t, he could always bolt back to the old man. At least he knew what he was in for there.

Only Mama Lou didn’t act like he thought some lady should act. She had fancy suits in her closet that she never wore. She sorted receipts and did taxes for half the businesses in Park Heights at the long dining-room table old Mrs. Weston had left behind in the brownstone Mama Lou fixed up each and every weekend. And she had tears.

She didn’t show them often, but he’d caught her a few times in the dining room, crying over the newspaper after she thought he’d gone to bed.

Fender wanted to know about the tears most of all, but every time he thought he had his nerve up, he realized he didn’t want to make her sad again, so he avoided asking. And just worked harder to make her smile and laugh. To make her proud.

And by some odd miracle, Mama Lou created a family.

Fender wasn’t quite sure how she did it, because she’d never had any kids before them, and when he asked her if she ever even babysat, she said no. Yet she made a great mom. He thought so, and so did his brothers. They’d talk about it, when they were back on the playground, tugging at the new jeans they all wore that actually fit, and the sneakers that weren’t worn out or too tight on their feet.

He’d known them as brothers the first day they wound up on the same soccer team—Nick Kelley and Landon McGee—even before Mama Lou made it official. He’d tried to scare them both off, but they’d stuck. They’d just ignored his surly attitude and lame-ass attempts to swat at them and drive them away.

And they’d stuck.

He wasn’t sure why—even now—but he was glad of that.

The three of them had been a motley lot, with Nick’s oversized body, even as a kid, compared to Landon’s scrawny frame that never seemed to grow rounder, even as he added inch after inch in height.

He’d understood Nick and Landon and they’d understood him. He knew they wouldn’t ask about the bruises. Or the reason he’d fallen asleep during earth science. Or why there was a large gash on his leg that time he’d fallen over a broken whiskey bottle.

They saw and understood the things that were better left unsaid.

And in the end, so had Mama Lou. She’d passed them on that same school playground, a defiant trio of boys one sunny fall afternoon, and within days, their lives had changed.

And God bless, the woman was crafty. She’d wormed her way in, pushing and prodding and finding an understanding with each of them. Some of it with food. Some of it with one-on-one attention. Even some of it because she knew all the best curse words when those damned math problems wouldn’t right themselves.

Over time, the boys he’d thought of as his blood brothers became something even better. By decree of the State of New York, they became his actual brothers. And Mama Lou his mother.

Fender Blackstone had never thought of himself as a particularly lucky bastard, but on the day Louisa Mills officially became his mother, he did the one thing his father thought he’d well and truly beaten out of him.

He’d cried.