"Yes," I say when I remember him telling his mother he had another friend who needed her help.
By that time, it has been so long since we last spoke that Ryker has no idea what I'm talking about.
"Excuse me," he says.
I shake my head and look over at him. "You asked me earlier if there was something bothering me that I would like to talk about. I'm telling you there is."
Ryker's eyes stay focused on the very isolated freeway.
"Okay," he says in a cautious way that makes me suspect he never expected me to take him up on his offer.
"Well... I heard you talking to your mother earlier." I hesitate because I'm not sure how to ask what I want to know.
"Yes," Ryker prompts.
"You told her you had another friend who needs a favor from her. I'm just wondering how often you bring women to your mother."
Ryker doesn't respond right away. Instead, he's quietly thoughtful before he answers my question.
"When I was nine, Mom married Bob, a man she met a few months before on her daily Metro commute. Their courtship was a whirlwind. I think she was wooed by his promises that she'd never have to work another double shift in her life. She was a drained single parent who was doing more double shifts than eight-hour ones. She needed a break and was willing to latch on the first person who was able to convince her one was coming her way."
Ryker glances over his shoulder and changes lanes when he sees police lights flashing on the inside shoulder about a half mile up the freeway.
"After they married during a weekend trip to Vegas and while I was away at summer camp, he told her he was in the middle of bankruptcy proceedings. He claimed that his previous wife divorced him and took everything. He convinced her that if they worked together, they'd soon be back on their feet and able to make the life they wanted.
"At the end of the summer, I came home from camp and heard for the first time that I had a stepfather. I was furious. Mom was already regretting her very rash decision, but she never has been someone who would go back on her promise. In her eyes, their marriage vows were the most sacred of promises."
Ryker and I pass the police car. Pulled over onto the shoulder in front of it is a tripped-out, pimp-my-ride El Camino that has a man laid out on its hood. The man's legs are spread wide open, and his hands are bound behind him with handcuffs. I'm gawking like I've never seen anything like that before in my life while Ryker completely ignores the side of the road arrest as if it were an everyday occurrence.
"Determined to help him pay off his debt, Mom began working more hours than ever, which meant Bob and I were at home alone most of the time. We hated each other. The difference between him and me was that I tolerated him so Mom wouldn't have anything else to worry about. He never offered me the same courtesy. After a few years, I figured out little ways to avoid him. Books and sleepovers seemed to be my best alternatives."
With the mention of being home alone with Bob, Ryker's grip on the steering wheel gets so tight I can see the blood blanch from his fingers even in the dark. His every visible muscle is rippling and rolling just like every other time he's been upset. I want to reach over and take his hand and kiss it the way he kissed mine on the way to San Antonio, but I don't move an inch.
"I was at a friend's house one night when his mom woke me and told me she was going to bring me home because her father just had a heart attack. She and my friend had to leave immediately in order for them to make their way to the out-of-town hospital. She offered to call Mom, but I told her not to. I was worried Mom would be asleep. She needed all the rest she could get given the countless hours she was working.
"When I got home—unannounced—I found Bob on top of Mom. He was drunk and beating the shit out of her. She was unconscious... I thought dead, and her face was so battered and bruised that she looked more alien than human.
"Something in me snapped. I was only twelve, but I was possessed in a way that made the beating of a grown man a simple task. I didn't stop until the police broke through the door and pulled me off Bob. They put me in the juvenile detention center because they assumed I'd gone mad and beaten both Mom and Bob.
"It took three days before Mom regained consciousness and told the police officers that Bob was the one who beat her and for Bob to finally man up and admit what he'd done. It took a few more months before I was released because Bob filed assault charges on me, only agreeing to drop those charges if Mom and I refused to testify against him."
With a groan of frustration, Ryker says, "I begged Mom to leave me there. I was completely prepared to serve every month or year they sentenced. I just didn't want Bob to get off scot-free. In the end, Mom decided getting me out of the detention center and away from the dangerous gang members whose only reason for being there was to find new recruits was more important to her than seeing Bob pay for her broken and wired-shut jaw and fractured eye socket."
After a long deep breath, Ryker says, "There were ramifications to Mom's decision that she never saw coming. About a year after I was released, Mom and I were back living on our own and trying our best to put the past behind us when Mom got word that Bob had beaten and killed his new bride, Christina Rutherford."
I put my hand over my mouth, stifling a gasp.
Holy hell!
"Christina had three small kids and not a single family member willing to take them in. Mom was beside herself. She went to work trying to become a foster parent so she could give them one of the things Bob took away, a home together. CPS rejected Mom's application, saying she worked too many hours to qualify. Desperate to make a difference... to make amends, she spent as many hours a week as she could visiting Christina's kids, traveling between the three separate homes they'd been assigned to. Mom knew that those same foster homes would have been my fate if I hadn't stopped Bob that night, and she felt guilty for not making sure Bob was prosecuted to the fullest extent of the law. If she had, he would have been in jail and unable to kill Christina and leave her kids motherless.
"Today, Lela, Melanie, and Jax think of my mother as their own, and Mom takes in any and every woman who is or has been the victim of domestic violence. It's a cause she's as passionate about as affordable healthcare because it's so personal to her," Ryker says proudly.
I'm stunned speechless by the story he just shared with me. This side of Ryker, the boy who watched his mother live through an abusive relationship, the boy who spent time in juvenile detention as a matter of principle rather than just sentence, the boy who bonded with a family of kids whose mother's tragic ending reminded him too much of one that could have been his own, this side of Ryker is not one I could ever have imagined.
I'm humbled he's shared, but at the same time, I see myself as miles away from the women who Bob preyed on and killed or nearly killed. Not because I think I'm better than them, but rather because my life until three days ago—until Colt left me—has not been miserable. Before that day, the only person who bullied, browbeat, and intimidated me was Colt's father, Wyatt.
I could absolutely see him beating me for the slightest indiscretion.
"Y-you see me as a victim of domestic violence who needs your mother's help?" I ask.
"Colt verbally and physically assaulted you this weekend, and you had to head-butt him so he wouldn't rape you tonight. Bay... I hate to be the one to break the news to you, but that's exactly what you are."
I think long and hard about what Ryker's just said. "Believe it or not, I see myself as a woman who has put herself in a bad situation, one who can make a few changes and quickly get her life back on track," I say defensively.
Shaking his head as if he's decided not to debate my opinion, Ryker mollifies me. "Either way, I think you should meet my mother."
As soon as his words leave his mouth, my world stops cold.
Now that I know his past, his mother's past, I completely understand why he's taken me under his wings and been so nice to me.
The disappointment is gripping when I realize I'm nothin
g more than a damsel in distress, a pay-it-forward recipient, a woman he plans to drop off with his mother and forget.
I'm too exhausted to think anything more about his motives. Rather than waste another second on things I can't control, I curl in on myself, lean my head against the window, and listen to the roar of the car. Eventually, I fall into a restless sleep.
* * *
"Bay, we're here," Ryker whispers while intertwining our fingers and kissing my hand just exactly like I'd wanted to do to his earlier.
My lids are so heavy I can barely open them. In fact, I wonder for the briefest moment if I'm going to be able to take the first step out of this car and toward the sprawling country cottage sitting in front of the car and beneath thousands of live oaks and pine trees.
When I make no move to get out of the car, Ryker says, "I could carry you in, but if I do, I'm carrying you to my room so you can sleep with me. In fact, even if I don't carry you in, I want you in my bed tonight."
Something about him telling me where he wants me—the underlying and unspoken promise—sends bolts of electricity through me and wakes me up with more force than if I'd had a triple-shot espresso from Starbucks.
Apparently, that's exactly what Ryker was aiming for.
"There you go. Now you'll be wide awake when you go inside and meet my mother." Ryker laughs.
I roll my eyes at him. "That was mean," I mumble, and my voice is hoarse.
Ryker winks. "Don't worry. I plan to live up to my word. You will sleep with me in my bed, but we won't do anything but sleep. You're too tired for anything else."
I lean over, and right before my lips touch his, I whisper as seductively as I possibly can, "Why don't you let me decide if I'm too tired?"
It's clear by the way Ryker's eyes glaze over that he's up for anything I offer. Teasing him like he'd done me seconds ago, I wink before giggling and stepping out of the car.
Looking around, I ask, "Where are we?"
A heartbeat later, he's standing inches away from me and squeezing my hand while staring at the house with me.
"We're at Mom's house in Dickinson. It was built in the early 1900s. Mom bought and has been restoring it and its surrounding houses for the last five years," Ryker says, leading me to the porch.
The house is not up on stilts like the ones in Galveston, but it's definitely off the ground just in case the bayou floods... I assume.
The house's wraparound porch is home to dozens of rocking chairs, swings, tables, stools, and chimineas. The functionality of every piece of furniture tells me this porch is used often, and its stylish decoration proves it's well loved.
The muted lights that are hidden, tasteful, and effective allow me to take in every ounce of the house's character and charm. Its outside is a dark taupe, a shade that blends perfectly with the forest surrounding it. Its trim work is stark white and accentuates all the hand-carved and beautifully arched windows. Standing out in exactly the manner I suspect Ryker's mother was striving for, the glossy, blood-red door draws us toward it.
Ryker doesn't knock. Instead, he pulls his keys out and slides one of them into the keyhole, opening the door and stepping to the side for me to enter.
I tiptoe in. It's after one a.m., and I'm sure Ryker's mother is asleep.
"I'll show you where we'll be sleeping," Ryker says near my ear before guiding me down a hall that leads off the living room.
There's so much to take in. The house, its hardwood floors, stone fireplace, natural mantel, and earth tones make it magazine beautiful. The love put into every well-placed lamp, painting, trinket, and book makes it lived-in and cozy.
When we reach the room at the end of the hall, I see that it's substantial. I have to assume that Ryker's mother has given him the biggest room in the house even though he doesn't live here.
Ryker points to a pocket door. "That's the bathroom, and..." He slides that door open and steps through it before swinging open another one that is immediately inside the bathroom. "That's the closet. Take a few minutes to freshen up. I'll wait here, and we can grab a cup of tea before going to bed."
I nod, and before I make it to the bathroom, Ryker says, "Y-you don't mind staying in the room with me, Bay, do you? If you do, there are other rooms you can stay in. I should've asked."
I spin toward him so he can see that I mean every word when I tell him, "Ryker, there's something about being around you that calms me when nothing else can. I keep worrying that you're only being nice to me and letting me stay with you because you feel so sorry for me. As long as you're not offering me your bed out of pity, I'd love nothing more than to stay with you tonight. Now... tomorrow, I'm going to the bank, I'm going to get a loan, and I'm going to find a place I can afford that will be mine and mine alone."
Ryker smiles. "That sounds like a perfect plan, Bay. I'll help you as much or as little as you need."
Fifteen minutes later, Ryker and I are sitting at the bar. Each of us is quietly sipping a cup of tea when Ryker's mother, sleepy and sheepish, rushes into the kitchen.
"For heaven's sake, Ryker, why didn't you let me know you'd made it?" Ryker's mom says before doing a double-take glance my way. "Well, hello, sweetie! I'm Ryker's mom, Joss. I'm so glad to meet you," Joss says, reaching her hand out and shaking mine.
Ryker's mother's name is as unique as she is. I see so much of Ryker's beauty in her very distinctive traits that I can't pull my stare away from her.
"It's nice to meet you, Joss. I'm Baylee," I say, offering her my own genuine yet slightly timid smile.
The one thing I instantly know is that her kindness comes from a place so deep within her that I can feel her compassion as it washes over me.
"Baylee. I'm not sure that you could be a more beautiful girl if you tried," Joss says, still openly admiring my every feature.
I duck my head and tuck my hair behind my ears. "Thank you, but I feel like I've seen my better days," I mumble as an unexpected and abrupt sadness overwhelms me and makes my eyes water.
Under the scrutiny of Joss's knowing—sympathetic—stare, I suddenly feel naked, like she knows my every secret, and she's prepared to accept me unconditionally despite them. I'm reminded too much of my mother and the way I've been missing her even though I didn't even realize it until now.
As soon as Joss sees my tears, she rounds the bar and wraps her arms around me, hugging me to her chest and stroking my hair the way only a mother—a woman who's spent a lifetime consoling grief-stricken children—knows how to do.
The tears that were leaking seconds ago are now flowing freely, and there doesn't seem to be an end in sight. Joss doesn't ask one question, and she doesn't seem to have any expectations of me. Her only mission is to be whoever I need her to be, do whatever I need her to do, and offer me whatever it is I'm missing.
At some point, I glance around and see that Ryker has left us, and I'm glad. I want to talk to his mother, and I'm not sure the conversation could be as open and honest as I need it to be with him in the room.
Once I've calmed a bit, Joss clears her throat, swallowing back her own tears.
"Baylee, there are all kinds of things I could tell you, but the one thing I want you to remember is that this is not your fault. When a man emotionally or physically abuses a woman, he's responsible for his actions. There's nothing you can do or not do that justifies him doing anything less than treating you with every ounce of respect you deserve," Joss says emphatically.
I pull back from Joss and stare into her face, noticing for the first time several scars that speckle her right cheek and eye along with several others that line her right jawbone where it had to be sutured and wired. I know these are the remnants of the beating she endured at the hands of Bob. She is not so mutilated that others will stop and stare, but in the middle of the night and without makeup, her scars are noticeable. I instantly sympathize with the anger Ryker felt that night.
Because she makes me feel so comfortable, I share with her my feelings. They don't perfectly explain my
sentiments, but they come close. Even before I utter them, I know that every situation is different and every woman's reaction unique. They speak only to me and my life.
"Everything you've said to me makes sense and is logical, but for some reason, I find it hard to accept the fact that I had no hand in getting where I am now. Mostly, I worry that if I buy into that theory, I won't be able to change where I am or where I'm going. Right now, the only ray of hope I have is that I'm going to be able to do something about this. If I gave him all the blame, I would be discouraged because I would feel powerless to climb my way out of this hole and become something other than the broken girl I feel like I am."
Joss smiles. It's sad, but there's optimism behind it. I'm sure of that. "Oh, my dear Baylee. You're so smart. It took me months to admit there were warning signs, that there were things I could have done differently. And you are right. Admitting that there were things I could have done early on doesn't make Bob any less responsible for what he did to me, but it gave me the tools I needed to make sure I never ignored those signs again."
Contemplating what we both know to be true, Joss and I sit at the bar sipping tea. Finally, she asks, "What shall we do tomorrow to get you back on your feet, Baylee?"
I offer Joss a headshake. "Actually, I have to go to work. Colt's father got me the job. If I don't show up, they'll find a silly excuse to fire me. The last thing I need is to be out of a job."
Joss, a woman who has worked harder than most people have ever thought of working, agrees with a bounce of her head. "If that's the case, you need to get to bed so you can get a few hours of rest. We'll talk tomorrow about finding you a place to live. Ryker has a dozen cars out in his garage. I'm sure he won't mind if you drive one of them until we can get you one of your own."
I get up to leave and without giving it a second thought, I lean over and kiss Joss's cheek. "Thank you for talking and listening and being there. More importantly, thank you for raising a son who is willing to step in when he's sees another human being in trouble. He's an amazing man, and I know that's because he's been raised by an amazing woman."
Left (Still Standing, #1) Page 13