“He is breathing, though, and I’m stuck with him, and with this stupid fucking bar. I’m stuck in a life I hate, and that’s your fault, Maverick. I had it handled, and you destroyed it. Your need to have your way and work your fists was more important than what I needed. That’s what you did to make me keep Kelsey from you.”
“That’s not fair, babe.”
The word babe struck her like a slap, full of the memory of the life she’d had, they’d had, when he’d used that word routinely, as often as he said her name, maybe more.
“No. It wasn’t fair, what you did to us. You’re right.”
Again, they stared at each other. Jenny kept her arms wrapped across her belly so that Maverick wouldn’t see how hard she was shaking. She wanted him to hold her again, to kiss her the way he had, to make her feel safe and loved again, but now that they’d said all this, she remembered why she’d cut him out. It hadn’t been petty. He really had torn everything down.
Finally, he sighed. “Don’t keep her away from me, Jenny. I need to be her dad. I’ll be a good one. You know I will.”
“Do I? If some kid at the park is mean to her and makes her cry, are you going to beat him up?”
“A little kid? Jesus! What do you think I am?”
“Or that mean kid’s dad? Are you going to beat him up? Right in front of her?”
That made him blink—they both knew that yes, if such a dad gave him lip, Maverick would lay him out. Right in front of Kelsey.
“Jen, come on. There’s a lot of shit I need to work on, I know. But I’m fucking lost here. I don’t know how much of me is left. I want to be a good dad. I want to be good for you and our girl. I want it all back. I need it.”
They’d come full circle, and Jenny could only say the thing she’d started with. “It’s not that easy.”
“That’s not a no. So tell me what I need to do.”
Jenny thought about what they’d had before. She thought about that kiss, the feeling of being overwhelmed by him again, and how badly she’d needed it. She thought about the love for him that burned again in her heart, fighting with the anger and quelling it. She thought about the Bulls—that thick envelope, and Rad’s threat.
There was no question that she would let Maverick in in some way. She wanted it. He needed it. The club would demand it. And he would be a good dad—flawed, but good. She was plenty flawed herself, but she thought she landed in the good range most of the time.
The question was how she would let him in, and how far. She didn’t know, but she couldn’t put off figuring it out any longer.
“I need some time. I need to figure things out.”
That seemed to be a sufficient answer to give him hope; his body visibly relaxed, but not that sag of defeat that had happened earlier. “Can I at least see her?”
Always pushing. She let out a frustrated breath, making sure he could hear its sharpness. “I need some time, Maverick. Give me time.”
“You had four years. How much more do you need? I’m laying myself out here, babe. Wide open.”
Four years of anger and denial didn’t count. This half hour—if that—had changed things, but they were moving into old territory now. They’d rarely fought as a couple, but not because he hadn’t pissed her off routinely. He was just so pushy and relentless, never raising his voice, rarely even sounding angry, but always asking for a little bit more, under the guise of ‘talking it out,’ until she was too exhausted and insecure to continue and simply gave in.
Back in those days, she hadn’t been good at standing her ground at all. It had been difficult to feel safety in her own strength, growing up as she had, never knowing whether she was going to get a slap or a hug in response to any word or deed.
These four years had taught her how to stand up. So she replied, “You need to get out, Mav, and stay away for now. I’ll call the clubhouse when I have something to tell you.”
He held her gaze for a few more seconds, then nodded and walked out of her father’s bar.
~oOo~
She was home late that night, and, after another finger of whiskey after she’d locked the door behind Maverick, was a bit more buzzed than she should have been for driving. The trip wasn’t long, though, and she got home without trouble.
Darnell was dozing on the sofa, with some old movie playing quietly on the television, its undulating glow the only light in the room. She eased quietly to the sofa and pressed on his shoulder. He woke at once.
“Hey there, girl.”
“Sorry I’m so late.”
He grinned and sat up. “Not a problem. You don’t make a habit of it, so I don’t mind. No place I was goin’ but bed, anyway. This sofa’s more comfortable than my bed.”
It was a good sofa—lots of cushy padding, the kind a weary body could sink into. “Thank you. You’re awesome.”
Jenny was lucky with Darnell, because he loved kids, had been single for the past couple of years, and, for a little extra cash on the top of his home-nurse salary, he happily added Kelsey’s care to his duties on the evenings that she had the bar. He really was awesome.
He got up and stretched his long frame until his hands touched the popcorn ceiling. “Everybody’s settled down to a good night’s sleep around here. Little incident tonight I should tell you ‘bout. Earl got agitated over something on the news—who knows what with him, you know—and lashed out. Kelse was standing next to his chair the way she does, patting his arm and watching television with him. His elbow got her in the face.”
Her father had little control over his body, but he wasn’t paralyzed. Sometimes he lashed out in ways they couldn’t predict, and sometimes he simply spasmed. Jenny had been popped repeatedly by her father’s flailing limbs, but he’d never hurt Kelsey before.
“What? Oh God! Is she okay?” She turned and looked toward the doorway, as if she could see her daughter from there.
“She’s good, it’s all good. Cried a little, had a red mark on her forehead for an hour or so, but no lump and no bruising. I talked to her about how his body works, gave her a rainbow Band-Aid just for the kick of it, and she was good. Kissed Grandaddy good night just like usual. No fear. We read Stellaluna for bed, and she had a million questions about bats. She’s probably gonna be askin’ for a pet bat tomorrow.”
Calming down, Jenny laughed. “Happens every time we read that one. I’m thinking about getting one of those bat houses, but then she’d probably try to climb the pole so she could see inside.” She’d done that when they’d put a wren house in the back yard. It hadn’t been enough that the wrens could use it and she could watch them flying around. She’d wanted to see them ‘in their house.’ Jenny had been working on her little vegetable patch when she’d turned to see her daughter trying to climb up a stack she’d made of random objects—including an upended wash pail, a brick from the flower bed edging, a half-deflated four-square ball—as high as her head.
“Thank you.” Suddenly, Jenny was utterly fucking exhausted. What a goddamn day. She yawned obnoxiously, and Darnell laughed.
“Get yourself to bed, girl. I’ll see you Monday.” He patted her arm, and they walked to the kitchen, where he gathered up his stuff and Jenny saw him out, locking the door behind him.
He’d done the dishes, and they were arranged tidily in the drainer. Too tired to put them away, Jenny turned on the light over the sink, turned off the overhead, and went to check on her family.
She went to her father’s room first and peeked in. He was sleeping in his hospital bed, his big wheelchair standing beside it. His CPAP was in place and turned on, making its usual ponderous hum. All the other machines—heart monitor, blood pressure, pulse ox—were doing their thing, and the readout on the screen looked normal.
Someday, they wouldn’t. Someday, the trouble alerts would wake her up, or maybe she’d sleep through them and simply wake up one morning to a steady tone. When that day would come, she couldn’t say, and neither could his doctors. For a man in his condition, he was fairly hea
lthy. He could live for many years.
She didn’t go in. Tomorrow afternoon and evening, and all day Sunday, she’d be on her own to deal with him, and she’d get plenty of father-daughter time then. She crossed the hall to her daughter’s room.
Kelsey was sound asleep, curled into the snug little ball that was her most common sleeping position. Tucked under her chin was Mr. Spotsie, a panda she’d gotten for Christmas. He’d made the slumber-party cut tonight. The big pink daisy on the wall that was her nightlight gave its cozy pink glow to the room.
Perfectly centered on her forehead was a little Lisa Frank Band-Aid, rainbow colors with leopard spots. Jenny brushed her daughter’s hair back and felt her forehead—no bump.
Kelsey sighed and moved her head, getting closer to her mother’s touch. “Run, puppy, hurry,” she murmured in her sleep. A sweet giggle followed before she settled back into deep sleep.
Leaning close, Jenny kissed the bandage. “Night, pixie.”
As she got to the door, she turned around and considered her little girl, sleeping so serenely, hugging her stuffed panda and dreaming of puppies. There was so much of Maverick in her—her bright blue eyes alight with curiosity, the shape of her smile, her refusal to be dissuaded, even her temper, flashing hot and flaming out in a blink. She saw herself in Kelsey, too, but there was no way to deny that her daughter was more than only her. And there was no way to deny that Kelsey needed more than only her. Teachers and neighbors and nurses were raising her daughter as much as, if not more than, she was.
Temper or not, Maverick would be a good father. At least as good as she was a mother. He’d love their little girl with a fierce and quiet fire. He would take care of her. He would protect her—and that would be the thing Jenny would have to show him how to control.
But there was no question in her mind or her heart, no honest question, that he would be a good father. In fact, it was the first thing she’d ever thought about him.
Okay, the second. First, she’d thought that he was smoking hot. Then, she’d thought that he’d make a good father someday.
November 1991
Jenny maneuvered her cart into the ladies’ section, shoving past overloaded rounds of sweaters and blouses. Wal-Mart always packed everything too closely together. In the sections and in the aisles, it was impossible to travel through the store unimpeded, especially late on a Saturday afternoon. It was like it was some kind of nefarious scheme they’d concocted to trap customers in the store like rats.
Usually she enjoyed shopping much more than this, but she was frazzled and tired today. She’d finished a shitty early shift at The Roost, and her feet hurt. It wasn’t even Thanksgiving yet, but she was already tired of Christmas carols—especially ‘Last Christmas.’ Man, she despised that stupid song, and she really hated the way it wormed into her head and stayed there for hours after she heard it. Seriously, if she ever went postal, she’d blame George Fucking Michael.
But it was Mrs. Turner’s birthday tomorrow, and she couldn’t let that day pass by. As usual, once she’d put her hands on a cart, she’d gotten sucked into the Wal-Mart vortex and now had probably fifty bucks’ worth of shit she didn’t need and hadn’t wanted an hour ago. And still hadn’t gotten over to the housecoats and slippers.
She was headed toward the sleepwear, but something sparkly on a round by the wall of jeans caught her eye, and she left her cart where it was and wended her way over. Oh, it was cute—a creamy mohair sweater with iridescent sequins scattered over it. She liked the wide neckline that would drop off her shoulder and show her new red bra with the wide satin straps. Victoria’s Secret—she’d never spent so much on a bra before, but it was pretty, too pretty to hide under her clothes. She felt sexy in it. She could wear this sweater and that bra to The Roost’s Christmas party, with her Guess jeans and her tall boots, and see what Brent thought about that.
Flipping through the hangers, she found a sweater marked ‘S’ and double-checked the price tag against the sewn-in tag to make sure the sizes matched. They did, and the price was okay, so she looked around for a mirror. She was reliably a Small, so she didn’t need to try it on, but she wasn’t sure about cream with her coloring. A couple of years ago, she’d had her color analyzed and was supposedly a winter—dark hair, skin tone everybody called ‘peaches and cream,’ light eyes—but she thought she looked like a corpse in white. Maybe cream, though?
There was a mirror by the accessories, so she went back to her cart and pushed her way to the other side of the ladies’ section.
She took off her coat and hung it over the side of her cart, then took the sweater off the hanger. Laying it over her t-shirt to approximate its fit on her chest, she pushed her boobs out a little and considered the look. Her hair was still up in the high ponytail she wore for work, like a spout on her head, and she wasn’t wearing much makeup.
She looked like crap. Gross.
With a sigh, holding the sweater to her chest, she pulled the elastic out and gave her head a hard shake until her hair fluffed and settled on her shoulders. Then she tried again.
Better. She shimmied her chest a little so that the sequins caught the light and reflected in the mirror. For good measure, she gave her hips a shake, too.
“Looks good,” a gruff male voice at her side pronounced.
Jenny jumped and squeaked and nearly wrenched her neck turning toward the owner of that voice while she yanked the sweater off her chest. “Huh?”
Oh God. The most gorgeous man she’d ever seen in the twenty-three years of her whole life stood right there. Look at him! Holy shit! He wore a black leather biker jacket—the kind with silver zippers, snaps, and buckles—and a plain white t-shirt under it. Dark jeans and engineer boots. No shit, it was like James Dean was standing in front of her—James Dean if he’d been well over six feet tall and had had dark hair. And broad shoulders. What was under that jacket and t-shirt? Something good, no doubt. Something real good. He was grinning at her, and his eyes—so blue, dreamy, dive-in-and-die-happy blue—twinkled.
He had four handbags hanging on one arm, and another in his hand. All were dainty, shiny bags for fancy dress.
“The sweater.” His voice rolled from his lips like his throat was equipped with a glasspack. “Looks good. I like the sparkles.”
“Uh.” Fuck, her brain had dived in and died in his blue eyes.
He chuckled—she felt the sound in her belly—and winked, then turned back to the holiday handbag display.
When he turned away, her brain revived and found her tongue. “I think the silver lamé goes best with your jacket.” Oh! Good one, Jen. Sassy but not mean. Flirty. Well done.
Those blue eyes swung back to her and brought that grin with it. “Thanks for the tip, but it’s not for me.”
“Your girlfriend? Or wife?” She blushed—could she have been more obvious?
Clearly not. Tall, Dark, and Dean’s grin sharpened, and his eyes gleamed. “My...niece, I guess. It’s her birthday. Fourteen.”
“Oh, cool. Did she ask for a bag like that?” Was that a good question? She definitely didn’t want to stop talking, but she didn’t want to be rude and put him off, either. He was showing possibly some interest, and she was fairly certain a sign saying COME ON IN WE’RE OPEN flashed over her head.
“Nah. But she likes to dress fancy, and she likes purses. Since she was little, she’s always carrying a different one around every time I see her, hooked on her arm like a grand old lady.” His tone and expression took on a different aspect, sweet instead of sly. He loved this girl he was talking about. Enough to have noticed her little purses. He did not look like a man with a vast knowledge of, or interest in, women’s accessories.
Suddenly, out of the freaking blue, she imagined this guy with a little girl in his arms, resting on his hip, her arms locked around his neck. He’d be a good father, she was sure of it.
Cripes. Two months without sex and her hormones were on red alert.
He held his arm out, with the handbags da
ngling from it. “Which one d’you think is best?”
Jenny stepped closer, so that his arm crossed before her and his body was at her side. Up close, he was almost imposingly tall—maybe six-two, six-three. Nearly a foot taller than her five-four. She could smell him—something rich and deep. Not cologne, but alluring in a similar way. Maybe just his leather and his soap. She took a deep breath through her nose, trying to be subtle about it.
Keeping her voice and her body steady and assured, she studied the different bags. “She’s fourteen?”
“Yep.” Now that she was closer, he’d dropped his voice so that it was almost a caress over her ear.
“Favorite color?” One of the bags was bright red. Another was gold sequins. Then the silver lamé, a black beaded clutch on a satin cord, and a black satin drawstring sac with a red crystal heart charm the size of a half-dollar coin.
“Uh...blue, maybe? She’s a redhead, if that helps.”
She lifted the satin sac. “This one. It’s versatile, and she’ll like the charm. She could take it off the cord and wear it as a pendant if she wants—if you were into it, you could get her a chain, too, so she could do just that.”
He furrowed his brow at the bag. “I don’t know. Her old man would gut me like a fish if I gave his fourteen-year-old daughter a heart necklace. No matter what I meant by it.”
“Ah. Good point. Well...” she turned to the display and considered the other bags. There was a long hook full of those satin sacs, all with different crystal charms. One had a pink flower. “How about this one? What are her thoughts on pink?”
“I think she’s good with pink.” He tried to work the other sacs off the hook while his arm was still burdened with the bags they’d rejected. Jenny moved in to help him, and his hands and hers got tangled up. Just for a second, just long enough for his rough fingertips to skim her knuckles. Again, her belly fluttered like he’d touched her there.
They got the bags sorted out so that those he didn’t want were back in fairly neat assembly on the display, and he had the one with the pink flower charm.
Slam (The Brazen Bulls MC #3) Page 6