It started out being a day-to-day struggle to leave that life behind. I had to for the safety of the precious cargo that is now paddling toward me to catch a wave.
I haven’t mentioned yet how much I love this kid. Maybe I have, doesn’t mean I can’t do it again. We know each other well. That’s why he knew I would cave when he asked me for those extra thirty minutes. I also know he’ll lock the doors and stay in his room the rest of the night while I sleep. He’s a good kid. Respectful. It’s been the two of us all these years. Well, that’s not entirely true. We have the Shepards and Vivian. My incredible family.
Besides Ethan, my miracle child who obviously survived the brutal attack of my brother, I have them.
My prayers were answered about an hour into my bus ride when a perky, black-haired girl about the same age as me plopped herself right down in the empty seat next to me as if we were best friends. Smacking her gum, talking about the hot boys she saw at the beach. I ignored her at first, rolling my pained eyes, hiding my face. I just wanted to be left alone. To grieve, wallow in my pity, and repeat the same words to God, asking him to please save my baby. In spite of the fact it was dark out, my busted up face wasn’t hard to miss. Yet I was able to board the bus, hand them my ticket with my head down and sunglasses on, clutching my stomach for dear life. This girl, though, she was close; too close for my liking. I became nervous.
Embarrassed.
Ashamed.
Scared.
It took her less than five minutes to reach over and pull those glasses clean off my face. I gasped in shock, while she said. “This isn’t Hollywood. This is wine country; they don’t wear their sunglasses at night here.” I smirked, which caused my busted lip to start bleeding all over again. I knew right then I shouldn’t have laughed at her outburst of the song when the compassionate look on her face had me scrunching my tiny frame into the corner of my seat as far as I could get. Shoving that smirk clear down my throat. She saw my face.
“Mom!” this girl cried out. She lifted herself up and bent the upper half of her body over the seat in front of her. I gasped again. Shook my head no, but she couldn’t see me. She was already whispering to the lady in front of me.
“Oh dear God, what happened to you?” The lady asked in a caring way once she turned around to see what her daughter was carrying on about. My lips trembled. I continued to shake my head out of fear that they would turn me in. That I would be sent into the system, that my baby would be taken away from me. She rattled on a mile a minute. Asking questions about my parents, my family, and if I was alone. I stared blankly. Unable to speak. My head ready to explode.
To this day, I don’t know how long she badgered me. It felt like forever until we stopped at my destination. I nearly jumped over the girl, ran down the aisle, retrieved my bag from underneath the bus, and started to walk away when I heard them both call out. “Wait, please? We promise not to hurt you.” I stopped dead in my tracks, turned around, and they were right there with open arms to help hold me up.
“I’m a doctor, please let me look at you,” her pleading voice, her begging eyes had said. I allowed my legs to give out from underneath me, my body fatigued from the day’s horrifying events. I woke up to a bright yellow bedroom, soft cotton sheets, and a smiling face of a woman who quickly became my mother above me. My new family, my new home with my child safely growing inside of me.
They took me in. Delivered my son and helped me raise him.
Well, and now…Now, Vivian and I rent this home from our parents, who bought it a month ago. Both of us have always wanted to live on the beach, but neither one of us could afford it. Not with our salary. We’re both paid above the average wage our occupation normally makes, but not enough to afford this. Both of us are nurses at our parent’s clinic for women. Doctors Ron and Sylvia Shepard. Obstetricians and Gynecologists. Ironic, I would say, that we all met like we did. It was fate. A miracle. Like the one who just now fell off his board. His laughter rings out over the crash of the waves. God, he even sounds like his father. It saddens me. I wish he were here.
I sigh. Heavily. Ethan knows the entire short-lived love story about Riddick and me. He knows I believe him to be dead and that my brother had something to with it; he just doesn’t know the reasons behind it. I hope I’m strong enough to tell him everything when the day comes that he’ll ask. Some may think he’s too young to understand. He’s not. In fact, he’s way too knowledgeable for his own good; but to hurt him by telling him I was beaten is something I simply cannot do.
About a year ago after I stopped seeing my boyfriend, Seth, who I had been dating for a few years, Ethan kept asking about his father, so I told him the truth. It pained me to do so, especially when I repeated out loud for only the second time since the day I left the phrase Riddick would always say to me, how he called me his heaven on earth, his angel. I wanted Ethan to know his father would have loved him, wanted him, and cherished every moment with him. He asked the same question I ask myself every day. Why haven’t I tried to find out if Riddick is dead or alive? I promised him one day when he was old enough I would. He promised me he wouldn’t look him up himself. We haven’t talked about it since. I can’t bear to go through it all again if I uncover he’s truly dead.
I chalked up his sudden interest in him missing Seth. I felt terrible about breaking it off with him. But the relationship wasn’t going anywhere. He knew it, and so did I. We tried, both of us did, and in the end, it was me who finally had the courage to say neither one of us deserved to be in a relationship that was leading to disaster. Seth remains in our lives as a great friend. Instead of a man sharing my bed when he calls or stops over, it’s more for Ethan’s sake than mine. I thank Seth every chance I get for not disappearing out of my son’s life. Ethan deserves to have a father figure he can look up to. He has his grandpa, Ron, who worships him, but, surfing and playing basketball aren’t his thing. He’d much rather watch. Hell, my dad tried. But he’s not skilled with a surfboard. Seth on the other hand gets right out there and does it with him. Seth is a good man; he’s just not the one for me.
“This kid is a natural, Cora; you really should think about entering him in a local competition.” Oh, fuck. Good thing I have on a pair of dark-lensed sunglasses so Henley cannot see the whites in my eyes turning five hundred shades of red. Ethan has been driving me bat shit crazy for over a year now about letting him enter one of those things. I’m scared to give in. Afraid he will forget about his schoolwork and turn into a beach bum. My parents tell me I should let him do it. That Ethan isn’t the type of kid to quit school. Yet here I sit nodding my head, listening to every word this guy is saying to me. I’m not sure how much truth is behind my reasoning for delaying; it seemed to pacify Ethan, up until now.
“How about this, Mom? We look it up on the Internet, maybe go down to the surf school and talk to some people, please?” Ethan stuffs his board in the sand, drops to his knees, and places his hands in the prayer position. The little shit is putting me on the spot, and he knows it. Ugh. This boy.
“Fine. We’ll call Seth to have him go with us,” I say, regretting the words the minute they fall from my mouth. It should be Riddick doing these things with his son.
“I told you I have the best mom in the world.” See? Like his father. Sweet words that melt my heart.
The two of them do some funky high five-hang ten hippy bullshit with their hands. Chest bumping and head banging. Completely oblivious to the sorrow that surrounds me like a black cloud.
“I have to get going. Kinko has a lesson in an hour; I have to run the shop. I’ll let everyone at the school know you’ll be stopping by some time,” Henley tells me. His eyes are staring at my chest instead of my face. At least when I ogle him, I do it without my kid around. Idiot.
“Sounds great. Thank you,” I say through a yawn, twisting my body away from him to gather my stuff. I need to get to bed. The past two nights have been spent helping deliver babies at the hospital. I’m physically worn out.
> “You really are a great mom, you know,” Ethan tells me as I fold up my chair, grab my bag, and we head up to the house.
“Oh, I know I am. You’d do best not to forget it either,” I answer teasingly as we make our way through the grainy sand back to our home.
“Holy shit. I mean crap. Look at that dude’s hair!” I stop walking and stare at the two men. I vaguely see the one with the long hair Ethan is talking about. All I see is the man standing sternly and demandingly next to him. I swear to God there’s an invisible rope that’s tugging me in his direction. My thoughts are garnered, and my mind is foggy. I drool, and my pulse spirals down to my sex, which aches and intensifies from seeing the gorgeous man with his arms completely covered in ink. His eyes are hidden behind sunglasses like mine. He is by far the sexiest man I have ever seen. His arms are huge, as are his thighs. Holy shit, this man defines the words hot and steamy. He’s instant orgasm material. Let me stick my hands in my panties and dream of your tongue on me sexy. Good lord. The sexual thoughts that are running through my mind are almost scary; even worse, I’m having those deviant thoughts about this guy in front of my child, which is a very horrible place for my mind to be. Especially when moments ago I was mentally chastising Henley for the same thing. I look away, adjust my glasses, and straighten my spine.
“Ethan. Language,” I sternly say. More mad at myself than him.
“Sorry, Mom. It slipped.”
“Slipped, my ass. I’m not that naïve. I know you swear behind my back. Just keep it back there; you know, behind my back and all. Right along with anything else you might do that I won’t like. No drugs, no sex, or I’ll kick your ass.” I tell him the very thing I should be telling myself. The no-sex part especially. Drugs are a given. Swearing is something I will always do.
“Mom, you’re swearing. Besides, I’m eleven; I know what sex is; it’s gross. And as far as drugs go, there is no way I’m doing that. If I need to have a talk, I’ll be doing it with Grandpa and not you, when it’s time. Talking to you about sex would be totally weird. Now, look at his hair, that’s how long I want mine.” My gaze follows my son’s finger pointing at the other man who happens to be standing the same way. He’s no Mister-Sex-on-Legs, but he’s not hard on the eyes either. Even they are looking like they’re trying to place me from somewhere.
I can’t help but look back at the other guy; his trap at staring at us tells me his attempt to entice me is working when he lifts his brows and angles his head to the side. I get the strangest sensation from my head to my toes. One I cannot explain. Whatever it is makes me want to yank those glasses off of his face. Do I know him?
His legs are long; his body toned underneath his t-shirt that’s stretched to its capacity across his broad chest. That jet-black hair is thick and dark as ink. Good lord, he is perfect. One thing’s for sure, I would remember this guy if I’d seen him before. I’d probably place him if he’d take those glasses off so I could see his eyes.
I blush at the awkwardness between my staring and his. For me to be having these thoughts about a man who could be my neighbor is ridiculous. God bless the USA if it is, though. Eye candy for years. I might have to borrow something every single day.
“So cool,” Ethan says from beside me.
“Sure is,” I agree. My eyes are trailing to the other guy’s hair that hangs halfway down his back; long, straight strands blow in the breeze. I can’t help but scan the rest of him. He’s huge and beautiful all the way down to his black leather biker boots. Boots that match the God’s standing next to him. Vivian and I could be in all kinds of trouble.
“Should we go introduce ourselves?” Ethan asks me, bringing me out of my sexual fantasies.
“I think whichever one of them lives there just got home. We haven’t seen activity in that house since we moved in. Maybe in a few days.” Maybe they both live there. Hell, I don’t know. I hike my bag onto my shoulders and continue on, frustrated and angry with myself. Neighbor or not, I won’t bring another man in Ethan’s life until I get him the answer he deserves to know. It’s not fair to him.
I need to have the guts to look Riddick up. Find out if he’s still alive, no matter if he’s happily married and has a family, he has a right to know about his son, just as Ethan deserves to know his father. I’m saying to hell with my brother’s threats. It’s been years without a word from him anyway. I’m not that scared sixteen-year-old girl I once was. I have connections, people, and protection from him now. I don’t need to hide anymore. This will make Vivian and my parents happy. They’ve been on my ass for over a year to hire a private investigator to seek out what’s going on with Jesse. Maybe he’s dead, and Riddick is alive. I don’t really know what to expect. I just have to buckle down and do it. Get to the truth once and for all.
“You can make rice crispy treats for them.” Ethan laughs while he talks. My mind is evading what I’m going to do the minute I close my bedroom door tonight. I smile, climb up the stairs, and hold the screen door open for him to step through.
“We’re assuming one or both of them are our neighbors, kiddo. We both know if I made those treats, they would be lucky to get a single one.” I look down the few inches that separate our height to observe my kid. His smile is as big as I’ve seen it.
“You know me well,” he says.
“I do. I love you, too,” I say, truthfully.
“I love you, too, Mom.” See? Sweet.
4
RIDDICK
“I’m sorry, man, that was a shitty way for me to tell you. I should have brought you inside before I said anything,” Tyson apologizes in a low voice.
I scoff at him. Here he is, apologizing to me when it should be her crawling on the floor begging for my forgiveness. “You’re in as much shock as I am, brother. You did the right thing by letting me know,” I tell Tyson gently and openly. Both he and Jude know all about her. Her face is just as much embedded in their memories as it is in mine. They’ve witnessed me break down in sweaty pools of tears that would set me back into a depressed state I had no idea how to come back from. Hell, after all this time, I’m still there. The nightmares, cold sweats. The undeniable inability to give my heart to another woman because it was buried with her.
I stood there at the edge of my property and watched my girl, my Cora, climb the stairs to the once-vacant house. Walked right in as if she owned it. One of her hands flailing as she talked happily to the boy. She appeared to be content. Peaceful. Happy. While I’ve lived a life overseas mourning her loss, she’s been here raising a child that is mine. My boy. It has to be. Cora had my baby. We have a son; well, technically she does, because by the way I see things, she sure the fuck didn’t want me to know about him. Could that be why she left me? Was she afraid to tell me she was pregnant? I don’t think so. What I think is she’s as crazy as her brother, a self-centered bitch who created the perfect game. To fuck me over for her parents’ death. Cora wanted to rip my heart out and leave me bleeding for the rest of my life.
“Why, Tyson? What in the fuck could have happened to make her lie to me, to run away? I can’t get a grip on it. I feel like I’m in someone’s sick fucking dream. It’s gutting the hell out of me, man,” I say while gripping my hair. The cigar I put in my mouth when we walked through my door an hour ago is chewed all to hell. I spit it onto the floor once the bitter taste of tobacco eases its way onto my tongue and gums. Instinct has me reaching for another one only to discover the pocket in my t-shirt is empty. Fuck it; my body’s too numb to move the few feet to grab one out of the black leather cigar case that was a gift from my dad. My dad. Jesus, he’d be cracking skulls together if he were here to witness this unbelievable shit.
I have no idea what the hell to do. My heart tells me to run to her. To make sure it’s her and not some sick joke that a woman, who looks a hell of a lot like Cora, happens to be my neighbor with a kid, who just so happens to look like me. What in the fuck is going on right now?
She’s supposed to be dead. That woman is very muc
h alive and has been. I feel it. I would know her anywhere. That hair, that smile, and that body that’s most assuredly grown into a woman who has been breathing air all this time. Fuck, I’m happy she’s alive; and yet I want to kill her myself for what she has done. Either that or drink myself into an alcohol coma for days. For the rest of my miserable life.
Tough, unanswered questions are swirling in my head that could have catastrophic answers. Ones that could end me, have me falling to my knees wondering how she could go about her life for the past twelve years raising my child, walking out of my life leaving me to believe she was murdered. Why in the fuck would she do that? Cora loved me; she wanted out of that shit hole of life her brother was directing her to. She hated that motherfucker. So why?
She obliterated me. Sent me straight to hell. I’m not talking only in my mind; in life as well. I haven’t been able to move on. To let anyone in my life except a few close friends. I’ve believed this entire time that what my mother told me on her deathbed was short-lived for me, just like it had been for my father. That I had found my heaven; she may not have knocked on my door like my mom said she would, but she was mine. My angel. My future.
I enlisted in the Army to escape, in hopes of being able to focus on saving the lives of others, to defend my country, to make up for not being able to save her; and even though I loved sacrificing myself to keep freedom on the soil I was born in, there wasn’t a goddamn thing to prepare me for what I saw over there. I killed people for her. Pretended that every single one of those men was her brother, hoping and praying that with every last breath they took, they would be the one who would set my soul free; that I could finally find a way to live again. It’s all kinds of fucked up to go about your life getting a kick out of killing some dirty, rotten scoundrel who would have killed me first if he were given a chance. I couldn’t help myself. I needed it. Craved it. Yet not a single one of them could wash the image of her brother’s smiling face when he told me she was dead out of my mind.
Then There Was You: A Single Parent Collection Page 11