Aced

by K. Bromberg

  “Rylee,” he says, my name a resigned sigh.

  “Never mind,” I say as the idea hits me and I start to walk past him to where Colton keeps his stash of extra keys. “I’ll just take Sex then.” By the way he sucks in his breath I know I’ve just delivered the coup de grace by threatening to take Colton’s baby. My husband may be a generous man, but when it comes to his beloved Ferrari, that’s another story.

  My mind flickers back to the last time I asked to get behind the wheel. Nice try, sweetheart, but the only place you’re allowed to drive me is out of breath on the hood. I can still see his telltale smirk and the salacious look in his eyes, before I begrudgingly moved away from the door of the driver’s seat.

  That was three years ago. I’m smart enough not to come between a man and his car, but I sure as hell know how to use it as leverage to get what I want.

  With the weight of Sammy’s presence at my back, I open the middle drawer of the desk and make a show of rifling through it to prove my point.

  “I promised Colton I’d make sure you stayed here.”

  “I’ll deal with him if you drive me, Sammy. Not taking me is ten times worse for my health and the baby than taking me. Happy wife, happy life,” I say with false enthusiasm. “And if not, voila!” I turn around with the key dangling between my fingers.

  Our eyes meet momentarily before his dart back to the key fob. “Fuck,” he mutters under his breath through gritted teeth. That single word can mean so many things, but right now for me it means I’ve won.

  Power to the pregnant woman!

  I enter The House with my key, not caring if I’m going to be in trouble or not, because judging by the strange cars in the driveway, someone is here already. I feel thankful seeing Jax’s and Kellan’s cars on the street. I know they are more than capable of handling the situation, but it’s Zander. My Zander. The boy I’ve spent endless hours with to heal his broken heart. The boy who soccers me.

  When I clear the great room, I hear startled gasps. The boys look up from doing their homework at the table and run over to me with Racer following excitedly on their heels. Auggie sits back with a soft smile on his lips as I’m greeted with desperately missed hugs and a mind-spinning spew of words as they all try to tell me what’s been going on with them at the same time. Tiny hands run over my belly and tell me how much bigger it seems, and ask when is the baby going to come because they can’t wait to meet him. Because in a house full of boys, they know the baby has to be a boy. A girl is not an option. My heart swells and hurts simultaneously because although it’s only been a few weeks, it feels like I’ve missed years of their lives.

  I bite back my anger toward Eddie for taking this away from me. The incessant chatter, the sticky hands, and the dirt-smudged smiles. The things that make my world go round and my heart happy. Hell yes, I’m pissed at him, but right now I’m with my boys and don’t want his vindictiveness to tarnish the small amount of time I’ll get with them.

  Later I can stew. Later I can I punch my pillow in anger. But right now, I’m going to soak this up and ignore that I’m going to miss every single thing the minute I have to leave again.

  “Rylee?” Kellan says as he clears the hallway, eyes wide, and grin welcoming.

  “Hey. Sorry I didn’t call but—”

  “You’re here for the same reason as Shane, who keeps calling, saying he’s going to be here any second, yeah?” His voice is deceptive in tone—not letting the boys on what his eyes are telling me—but it’s clear he’s concerned about Zander too. At the mention of Shane, the noise starts up around us again from the boys, excitement that their older brother is on his way to roughhouse and tell them stories about how cool college is.

  “Yes.” I nod. “He needs me,” I mouth to him above the fray and he motions with his chin toward the back patio that I can’t see through the angled blinds.

  “Okay guys, how about you finish your homework,” I say, stepping right back into the role I was born to play, knowing Kellan won’t take offense to me taking over momentarily. “I need to go check on Zander and when I come back in, if your homework is done, I’ll stay for dinner.”

  Cheers fill the air around me followed by the scraping of chairs and elbowing of boy against boy as the fight to regain their position at the table begins so they can finish.

  Kellan meets my eyes again now the boys aren’t watching, and I can tell he’s just as upset by all of this as I am. “How long have they been here?” I ask as I reach down to scratch Racer behind the ears.

  “Jax is out there with them, watching. The caseworker, the uncle and aunt, and Zander,” he adds, answering the questions I would ask next.

  “Thanks.” Our eyes hold momentarily and suddenly it hits me how nervous I was to come face to face with him and Jax. They are the ones feeling the effects of my dismissal—extra shifts, upset boys, curious questions. And yet instead of shaking his head and walking away at the mess I’ve created for all of us, he gives me a gentle but sincere smile. I don’t see the resentment or pity I feared. Rather I see camaraderie, as if he knows I’d move heaven and earth to fix the situation if I could because I’m not oblivious to the toll it’s taken on not only me, but everyone involved.

  I smile in return, my thank you for not passing judgment. He nods his head as I slowly slide open the door to the backyard and step out before closing it behind me. I see Zander and my heart breaks instantly. I’m transported back to six years ago when he first came to us, broken and traumatized. His knees are pulled up to his chest as he sits on a chair with his side to me, his arms wrapped around them, his face looking blankly toward the wood panel fence. From what I can see, there is a look of complete detachment on his face. All that’s missing is the stuffed dog he used to tote around for comfort, which now sits up in the closet somewhere.

  In a single afternoon, the two people sitting opposite him—his uncle and aunt—have potentially erased the crucial years of work, the countless, grueling hours gaining his trust, helping ease the nightmares that had owned his psyche. Have I lost the hopeful, sweet boy I love so much?

  Zander lifts his head and vacant eyes meet mine, crushing my cautious hope about anything positive coming from this situation. It takes everything I have to force a smile on my lips and nod my head in encouragement for him to talk to them. He stares at me, the look of betrayal blatant on his face, but it’s necessary for the caseworker to see I’m trying to help facilitate this connection. When I approach him after the meeting to tell him he can’t let this happen, then I won’t look so unprofessional.

  I shift my eyes from Zander to the uncle and aunt. The uncle glances over to me. Fuck. I see recognition in his eyes before they suggestively slide up and down the length of my body in a not-so-subtle show that says he knows exactly what I look like naked.

  My skin crawls and stomach churns with revulsion and the little smirk he gives me—just a hint of the curl of his lip—tells me he knows how it’s making me feel and is enjoying it. He tucks his tongue in his cheek before giving me a slight nod of the head and looking back toward his wife.

  I watch them try to interact with Zander. They attempt to talk about things he has no interest in. Because he’s a thirteen-year-old boy now, not the seven-year-old they once might have known. SpongeBob isn’t cool and Xbox is no longer the coveted game system I want to scream at them. He loves soccer and building Halo Lego sets and reading Harry Potter and Percy Jackson.

  You don’t know a thing about him! All you want is the money that comes with him.

  I can see beneath their brushed hair and best clothes. I can see the wolves in sheep’s clothing. I’m certain they have no concern for Zander or his best interest. And it all becomes more than obvious the longer Zander remains silent and unresponsive, because the two of them shift their fidgeting and attention toward each other with raised eyebrows and shrugged shoulders, silently asking each other what to do now that he’s not answering them.

  I glance over to the caseworker sitting on the o
ther side of the yard with his legs crossed, ankle resting on opposite knee, and a clipboard balanced on his leg. And while he may have a pen in hand and paper he’s supposed to be taking notes on, his phone sits atop the paper. He’s so busy texting someone he hasn’t once looked up to watch the interaction—or rather lack thereof—nor notice the ever-disappearing presence of Zander losing himself to the safe world he created in his mind so very long ago. That same world I spent months pulling him out of, showing him not everyone is bad and evil—out to hurt those they love—and that it was safe to step outside.

  My body vibrates with anger, my teeth bites into my tongue because all I want to do is go to him, pull him into my arms, and reiterate the promise I made him all those years ago: I’m never going to let anything bad happen to him ever again.

  Lost in my observation, I forget Jax is there until he motions with his hands to silently get my attention. And when I look at him, his eyes express the same thing as Kellan’s, indicating he feels the same disbelief.

  No way in hell are they taking Zander from us.

  Now I just have to figure out how to prevent that.

  “Zander?” I call as I enter his room. The shades are pulled closed and the light remains off, but through the light of the open doorway I can see him curled up on his side in his bed.

  When he doesn’t respond, the sense of dread that has been tickling the back of my neck and making my stomach churn exacerbates. I glance over to Shane opposite me in the hallway and the concern in his eyes mirrors how I feel.

  We move into the room together. Shane lived here long enough to know the drill, so he stands against the wall to observe while I step forward to engage Zander. And my immediate worry is that Zander has closed off even more. Jax and I spent five minutes with the caseworker, providing valid reasons why the uncle is not a good fit to foster Zander. I feel like our arguments fell on deaf ears. Now, looking at Zander rocking on his bed with his beloved stuffed dog held tight to his chest, I’m more worried than ever. I can’t remember the last time he climbed up to the top shelf of his closet and pulled the sacred dog from its box. The only tangible reminder of his old life.

  I sit on the chair next to the bed and feel a whisper of hope when he scoots back as if to make room for me. “May I?” I ask, as I reach out to touch him, hating feeling like we are back to square one. When he nods his head, I breathe a little sigh of relief. He isn’t closing himself off from me completely. Silence weighs heavily around us. The smell of his fear almost palpable, and unfortunately one I know all too well when it comes to my boys.

  God, how I’ve missed them.

  I use my touch to soothe because I know words won’t do anything for him right now. And then the idea comes to me.

  “I have an idea.” I scoot off the chair and very slowly lower to my knees. I rest my arms on the comforter with my chin atop my hands so we are face to face. I take in his downturned mouth and wait for him to look up to me so he can see I’m here and not going anywhere.

  “I think we should play the ‘I’m’ game,” I say, hoping he goes along with it, as it would afford me a glimpse into how far he has relapsed.

  His eyes flash up to meet mine, and I see something flicker in them but wait him out, knowing that patience is so very important right now. I reach out and put his hand in mine, needing to ease some of the loneliness I can feel emanating from him.

  He opens his mouth and then closes it a few times before finally speaking, his voice a whisper. “I’m scared.”

  Two words. I’m scared. They’re all it takes to make me close my eyes and take a deep breath, because in that moment, I’m reminded of Colton’s confessions a few nights ago. I realize that no matter how old they are, the fear will always be there. It will morph and change over time, but the invisible scars of their youth have left an indelible mark and will always have a profound effect on how they process emotion and deal with changes.

  “I’m scared too,” I tell him, causing his eyes to widen and prompt me to explain further. “I’m scared you’re going to pull away and not realize how much I’ll fight to keep you safe and sound.”

  “I’m worried that it won’t matter to them, because I’m just a number in a broken system and they’re going to want to tick me off as done,” he confesses, and it amazes me how very intuitive he is with regard to the systematic process we have worked so very hard to shield him from.

  “I’m positive you’re so much more than just a number, and in fact are a smart, funny, compassionate teenager as well as an incredible soccer player,” I say, hoping the positive might break through and help the negative. A ghost of a smile plays at the corners of his lips as his eyes hold mine, tears glistening in them that he blinks away.

  “I’m . . .” He pauses as he tries to figure out the rest of his thoughts. “I’m sure that my uncle cares more about the monthly payment he’d get for fostering me than he does having a thirteen-year-old boy in his house.” He breathes out long and even. I scour my mind to decide what to tell him next that might help to draw out more of his feelings and get him to talk, so I’m startled when he continues without any prompting.

  “I remember his house,” he murmurs. “The cigarette smoke, the bent spoons, lighters, and tin foil on the coffee table next to the needles I was forbidden to touch. The couch that was supposed to be brown, but was almost white on the seams, and stained everywhere else that I could see even when all the shades were drawn. I remember sitting in the corner while my dad and him would slap the inside of their elbows before turning their backs to me . . . and then they’d sit back on the couch with their heads looking at the ceiling and creepy smiles on their faces.” His eyes focus on our hands where I’m rubbing my thumb back and forth over the top of his. And yes, he broke the rules, didn’t start his confession with “I’m”, but he’s talking and that’s ten times more than I ever thought I was going to get when I knelt down beside him.

  “I’m sorry you had to go through that.” I try to add strength to my voice so he doesn’t realize how much his words have affected me. “And I’m so very proud of the person you’ve become in spite of all of that.”

  His eyes flash up to mine again on those last words, his head shaking back and forth a few times like he wants to reject them as my statement sinks in. “You did two ‘I’ms’,” he says.

  “So I did.” I shift, feeling a tight pang as my stomach twists with worry. I suddenly feel like I’m going to be sick. I try to take a deep breath and push it down. “You can go again if you want.”

  “I’m going to run away if I’m told I have to go live with them.” My mouth shocks open and I immediately start to refute him, but when he shakes his head to tell me I can’t speak. I bite my tongue, which is laced with so many pleas for him to have faith.

  “I’m going to do everything in my power to ensure neither of those things happen.” The sadness and resignation returns to his eyes. Tears well in my eyes and my chest constricts. This is one promise I have to follow through on.

  “I’m certain that…” he says, and then shakes his head. “Never mind.”

  “No. Please tell me,” I urge, because the break in his voice worries me. Shit. Another painful twinge. Zander’s eyes are closed and his lips are pulled tight in thought.

  After some time he draws in a long, uneven breath, and when somewhere in the house laughter erupts, he opens his eyes to find mine again. “I’m certain that if they’re allowed to foster me, I’ll die.”

  And yes, he’s a thirteen-year-old boy and most people would write the statement off as melodramatic, but he’s not one to say something for attention. So as his statement hangs in the air and suffocates us, I struggle with a response so he knows I hear him and haven’t disregarded him. And yet I have no clue what to say because his comment can have so many connotations, and I’m not sure which one he means by it.

  “Zander . . .” A sharp pain knocks the rest of the thoughts from my head and has me doubling over instantly. I try to hide the grimace on
my face and fight the immediate need to curl up in the fetal position. Another pang hits me, causing my whole body to tense and my fingers to grip the comforter beneath them. I cringe when I feel the wetness between my legs; Full bladder, baby resting upon it, and a tense body is not a good mixture.

  Seconds pass as I try to register the pain, and how I’m going to explain to a bunch of boys—who are obsessed with bodily functions—what just happened. Then I realize that the wetness keeps spreading.

  Another sharp pain hits, this time drawing a gasp from my mouth. My mind spins as elation mixed with fear vibrates through my body on a crash course of adrenaline-laced hormones.

  “Rylee?” Shane is at my side in an instant. Zander shifts to sit up, his face a picture of panic, and his eyes ask Shane for help. His face looks just as freaked out.

  “My water broke,” I say with a laugh tinged with hysteria.

  “What?” Shane exclaims, eyes wide with panic. “You can’t be—it’s not—oh shit. What do you need?” He walks to one side of the room and then back unsure what to do as I breathe deeply and slowly push myself up from the ground. And then he stops abruptly, eyes lighting up and mouth shocking open. “This is because I brought you here, isn’t it? The stress. Zander. Holy shit!”

  “No.” I shake my head, trying to hide my own fear.

  “Yes, it is. You promised,” he shouts, worry controlling his thoughts. “Oh my God. Oh my God!” His hands are in his hair; his feet are walking the floor. “Colton’s going to kill me. Frickin’ kill me.”

  “Shane,” I say softly. “Shane!” He stops and turns to look at me. “No. He’s not.”

  “It’s too early,” he whispers, eyes wild with fear.

  “Go get Sammy.” Oh shit.