by Leah Wilde
“They’re okay. Up and down, you know how it goes.”
She nodded. “It isn’t an easy life you chose.”
“It kind of chose me, but I guess you’re right. It ain’t easy.” The dying sun shone through the thin curtains hanging over the window, lighting up the room in purple and red. It made Valeriya’s hair glow. “But anyway, I didn’t come here to complain about my job. How are you?”
“Oh, you know,” she said, brushing away an invisible speck of dirt from her knee, “I’m doing fine.”
“Do you need anything? Money? Help around the place?”
“No, no, please,” she demurred, waving a hand at the suggestion. “I don’t need anything.”
“Because you can always let me know if you do. I want to help however I can. The whole club does.”
“I know that.”
“Good. Don’t forget it.”
We fell silent, not looking at each other. I didn’t know what to feel or do or say. I was always shit at these kinds of situations. But for some reason, I felt compelled to come back over and over again, even though nothing new had occurred to me. It was the same sad shit repeated every time.
“It’ll be three years next month,” she said quietly.
I looked up and saw a tear glistening at the corner of her eye. She wiped it away quickly. “I know,” I said quietly. “Can’t believe it’s been that long already.”
Her eyes met mine. She looked fierce all of the sudden. “I can. Every day is so long.”
I didn’t know what to say to that either.
“You must have come for a reason. Did you come to tell me something?” she asked. “Do you know more?” She was leaning forward and squeezing my hand tightly between her fingers. “Do you know who did it?”
I laid my other hand on top of hers. As gently as I could, I said, “I’m sorry, no. We still don’t know.”
The sudden spark of life faded away, returning her to the same grey, depressed woman who had greeted me at the door. “How can you not know?” she said. Her eyes were staring into the middle distance. “How is that possible?”
“We’re trying, Val. He was important to us, too. We’ll find a way to make things right. He deserves that.”
Another tear welled up in her eye. Her bottom lip was quivering. “They shot hit so many times,” she whispered. “I could barely recognize his body. Whoever did it was a monster.”
I opened my mouth to talk, but the words just wouldn’t come. Val succumbed to the crying. Sobs took over, racking her from head to toe as she buried her face in the couch cushions. I patted her back softly and let her cry.
I couldn’t even fathom what this woman was going through. Was she really the same as the girl in the picture? That girl had looked so happy, so head over heels in love. And now look at her. She was a wreck, always just a few words away from a sobbing fit. Three years to cope with her husband’s murder and she was still barely keeping it together.
A wail from the other room interrupted us. I looked around, confused, but Valeriya shot up immediately, wiping her eyes as she tried to pull herself together. She disappeared through the doorway connecting the living room to the bedroom. I sat and waited. A moment later, she emerged with a swaddled bundle in her arms.
My blood ran cold. “It’s okay,” she murmured in a singsong voice. “Mommy’s here. It’s okay, baby, it’s okay.” She rocked the baby back and forth her in arms, cooing and clucking. She straightened up and looked at me. Her eyes were red and puffy from the tears, but when she spoke, her voice was calm. Strong. “I’m sorry. He hasn’t been sleeping well the last few weeks. I think he knows when I’m upset. Anton’s anniversary always rattles me.”
“No problem,” I said. She sat on the couch next to me. In between the folds of the blankets, I could see the pink nose of the infant. A little hand reached out and clung to his mother’s shirt. The fingers were so small. How was it possible that this was a person? How was it possible that I was ever that small and unblemished? I looked down at my own hands. They were scarred, tattooed, and tanned from years on the road. Life had done its work on my skin. This little guy, though, had so much in front of him.
But he’d have to face all that without a father. I couldn’t believe that Anton had meant so much to this woman, had given her a son and been the reason behind her every smile. Only to disappear when they needed him most. Not that it was his fault. But goddamn, a man had to know when he was close to the end, didn’t he? Didn’t he know that dying would hurt his family so much more than it would hurt him?
“He’s getting so big,” I said. “How old is he now?”
“Two,” she said.
“I guess he’s not a baby anymore, then, is he?”
“Not really. Growing up so quickly. Look,” she said, pushing the blankets away from the child’s face, “hair just like his father.” A shock of dark hair had taken root across the baby’s scalp. She was right; it was thick and curly, just like Anton’s had been.
“He’ll be a lady-killer for sure,” I said with a sad smile.
“Handsome boy, yes, you are,” she cooed at him. A beeping sound went off in the kitchen. “That’s the oven. Do you mind holding him for a second? It was hell to get him to lie down for his nap, and he sleeps better when he’s next to somebody.”
“I, uh, well—” She didn’t wait for my answer. Instead, she hoisted the boy onto my lap and strode quickly into the kitchen. I sat perfectly still, statute still. God forbid I wake the kid up. I wouldn’t have the first clue about what to do. This was already way beyond my level of childcare expertise, which was more or less nonexistent.
But as I looked down at his face, I felt something sag in my chest. No one in the world had the right to look that peaceful. Didn’t this kid know his dad was dad? Didn’t he know how much his mom was struggling? Maybe when he was awake, he did. But for right now, he was Zen, as unlined and innocent as the day he was born. My heart went out to him. He didn’t realize yet how hard life could be.
A thought came shooting across my mind: Fuck Anton. He caused this. He set up this beautiful woman for a lifetime of misery, and he condemned her son to the exact same shit. I could have felt sorry for him—he was dead, after all, and we were no closer to finding the killers than the we had been the day it happened—but no, fuck him. Fuck any man who told a woman he loved her, who gave her a baby, then went out and risked his life the way he did.
I looked down at the face of the kid in my arms and made myself a promise. I’d never do to someone what Anton did to Val and her son. I’d stay far away. This life of mine was too risky as it was. I had no right bringing someone else into the mix. I was willing to gamble with my own skin. But not that of others. Not the skin of those I loved. How could I? This child’s skin was so smooth and perfect. I refused to be the one to inject it with my dark ink.
“I gotta go, Val,” I said as soon as she returned.
“I understand,” she replied. She crossed the room and scooped up the child from my lap.
“If you need anything…” I began, but she just shook her head.
“We’ll be fine.”
“I’m going to find out what happened to him, Valeriya. I promise you.”
Her eyes were clear and her gaze was unwavering as she looked up at me. “I hope you do, Micah. I really hope you do.”
Chapter 11
Paris
“You want some chocolate?” Katy called from the next aisle over.
“Nah, I’m okay,” I said. I didn’t tell her, but the very idea of chocolate made me revoltingly nauseous. Which was strange, because I’d been a chocolate fiend my entire life. Now, though, it was the last thing in the world I wanted to put between my lips.
We were in the pharmacy down the street from my house, picking up snacks and some supplies so we could go paint our nails in my bedroom. I took a glance over and saw Katy fixated on the magazine rack down by the cash register. Moving quickly before she could notice, I reached out and snagged a
pregnancy test, tucking it into my purse as casually as possible. Then I walked up and met her by the checkout line.
“Ready?” she said.
“Yep.”
“What’d you get?”
“Honestly, I’m not all that hungry.”
She gave me a weird glance. “Is everything okay? You’ve been acting awfully weird these last couple days.”
“I’m fine,” I lied. “Just not hungry, that’s all.”
She shot a hand up and pressed her palm against my forehead. “Are you getting sick?” she demanded. “I know how grouchy you get when you’re coming down with a fever.”
“Enough, Mom,” I said sarcastically as I peeled her hand away. “I’m perfectly fine. Leave me alone.”
She stared at me, but didn’t say another word until we paid for our items and walked out. I kept my fingers crossed as we went through the doorway, but by some lucky miracle, the stolen pregnancy test didn’t set off the alarm. I knew I should have paid for it, but I couldn’t bring myself to even let the cashier get the wrong idea about me, much less broach the subject with Katy.
We drove back to my house in silence. Parking and getting out of the car, we went upstairs to my bedroom. Katy dumped out the bag of cotton balls and nail polish on my comforter. I ducked into the bathroom while she did, making sure to shut and lock the door behind me.
My hands were shaking as I set down my purse and withdrew the test. The colors on the box were so bright and friendly that I wanted to puke. How dare they look so innocent? Didn’t they know what was going on? Didn’t they know that, depending on what this test told me, my life as I knew it could be over? I guessed not, because they stayed the same bubblegum pink no matter how angry my thoughts seethed.
I ripped open the cardboard and pulled out the test. Sliding my leggings down to my ankles, I sat down on the toilet and activated the test. But when I pulled it back out from between my legs, I didn’t look. I couldn’t. Not yet. I needed a few more seconds.
I slid to a seat on the floor next to the toilet. I wasn’t sure what kind of emotions I was supposed to feel right now. Dread? Excitement? Butterflies in my stomach, or something more serious? This was unexplored territory. I wasn’t ready for these kinds of events in my life. But, like it or not, this was what was happening. I had to face it head on.
I took a deep breath and looked.
# # #
“Katy,” I said, emerging from the bathroom, “you were right. I’m not feeling that well.”
She looked up at me. “Do you want me to go?”
“I just don’t think I’ll be very much fun today.”
“No, no, you’re totally right. You should rest. You do look really pale.” She swung her legs over the side of the bed and stood up. “I’ll give you a call later to check on you, okay? Feel better, hon.” She blew me a kiss and left me alone.
When she had gone, I went back into the bathroom. The pregnancy test was still clutched in my hand, although I’d been careful to keep it behind my back while I was talking to Katy. The pink plus sign shining from the test strip was solid and stark. It wasn’t going anywhere. Neither was this baby.
I put a hand on my stomach. So many questions. I wondered what the baby looked like, how big it was, who it would take after. There was no doubt about the father, though. Micah was the only possibility. But could I tell him? Should I? Would he care?
Part of me thought he had a right to know. If I was a man, I would sure want to know if there were any mini-me’s running around out there without my knowledge. But then again, I wasn’t anything like Micah. There was no telling whether he gave a damn or not. Maybe I wasn’t even the first one to have been impregnated by him. There was a decent chance that a whole host of Little Micahs were already out and about in the world.
The bigger and more pressing question, though, was how I would tell my father. I put that thought aside as soon as it sprung up. I couldn’t possibly deal with it yet. I’d cross that bridge when I came to it; it’s not a problem until it’s a problem; yadda, yadda, yadda, whatever I had to say to convince myself not to think about my daddy yet, I said it. The merest suggestion of that particular conversation had brought vomit to threaten at the back of my throat.
I sat there for a long time, holding the pregnancy test in my hand. The warmth of the air and the cold of the tiles seeping through my leggings were a reassuring contrast. Basic physical sensation, that’s what I needed right now. No thoughts. No worries. Just relax.
Eventually, I fell asleep. When I did, I dreamed of pregnancy tests raining from the sky like hail, thudding into the ground around me. They each had the same thing: a big, pink plus sign staring me down like the eyes of some nocturnal animals.
I woke up sometime later with a start. Through the crack in the opening of the door, I could see that the sun outside had set and it was nighttime. I tried to struggle to my feet, but the effort brought a fresh wave of nausea rocketing through me. I dropped the plastic stick, fell forward onto my knees, and hurled my guts up into the toilet in front of me.
My retching echoed in the tiny bathroom. I threw up again and again, until there was nothing left but stringy bile looping between my lips. My throat and abs were sore from the convulsions and my temples were pounding with a vicious headache.
When the fit had passed, I rocked back onto my heels. I used a piece of toilet paper to wipe the gunk off my mouth as best as I could, then that, too, went into the toilet bowl. I pressed the lever and watched as the vomit was whisked away down the drain.
“Who was it?” someone said.
I looked up. My father was standing in the doorway.
I blanched. “Daddy, it’s not what you think.”
“No?” he said. His voice was murderously cool. It was somehow scarier that way, even more so than when he ranted and raved. Those eyes—the same grey as I had—were flat and unyielding. He looked capable of anything. “Then what is that?” Extending a finger at the floor, he pointed out the pregnancy test I’d dropped. Even in the dim light, I knew he could see the positive result. My drooping head said everything else.
“I’m sorry,” I whispered. “It was an accident.”
“Who is the father, Paris?”
I shook my head side to side. I couldn’t tell him. For some bizarre reason, I felt an insanely powerful urge to protect Micah. There was no telling what my father might do, and if I gave Micah up, then I would have a hand in whatever happened next. I didn’t want that.
In a single rapid motion, he took one step forward, dropped to a crouch, and seized my forearm in his grasp. He ripped me around to face him. “I won’t ask you again. Tell me who it is,” he hissed. His nostrils were flared wide.
“Daddy, you’re hurting me,” I whimpered.
“Tell me!” he roared. He shook me like a rag doll. I screamed. I felt so weak and helpless. Where was all the strength I’d had when I was with Micah? On the back of his motorcycle, I felt like I could do anything. Now, though, I was defenseless. I was a little girl again, getting screamed at by her father, unable to stand up for myself and with no one around to protect me.
“Micah Youngblood.” The words were barely audible, but as soon as they left my lips, he stopped shaking me. Instantly, I felt lower than I’d ever felt in my life. I’d given him up with hardly a fight. I was a coward. A weakling. I didn’t deserve a warrior like Micah. I deserved what I had: nothing.
My dad dropped my arm and stood up. He towered over me, smoothing his hair back with two hands. Then, without another word, he turned and walked out of the room.
I leaped to my feet and raced after him as he took the stairs two at a time while shrugging his leather jacket on. “Where are you going?” I screamed. “Daddy, stop!”
He ignored me and kept going. I slipped, caught myself on the railing, and followed him to the front door. “Daddy, please! Stop!”
On the threshold of the door, he paused and whipped back around to face me. “I’m going to find him,” he said
in a clipped, strangled voice. “If you leave this house while I’m gone, then you will never get the chance to do so again. Stay here, Paris. I’m warning you.”
He slammed the door shut. The house had never before been so silent.
Chapter 12
Micah
“You okay, boss?”
I looked up from my daze. Bolt was standing in the doorway. “Yeah,” I said vaguely. “Yeah, I’m fine.”
“You look a li’l out of it.”
“I’m just…thinking. That’s all.”
“You’re gonna hurt yourself, thinking that hard,” he joked. He grinned widely, but I didn’t return it. I couldn’t find it in me.