“First name?”
“Mark.”
“Not nearly so badass as Charge, is it?”
I guess not. I was mad at first that I didn’t know his real name, but over the week I got to thinking. I don’t know Pops’ real name. And I’m guessing Dizzy, Heavy, Nickel…none of those are the names on the guys’ birth certificates. And wasn’t I really pissed that Harper was the one who told me? I’m not so proud that I can’t admit it to myself.
Sue’s click-clacking on her keyboard.
“Are you hacking something?”
Sue snorts. “This information is public record, Kayla-cakes. Three clicks. Voila. Dirty laundry. It’s a brave new world.”
“Don’t tell me if it’s bad, okay? Just say ‘it’s really bad.’ And then get me a glass of wine.”
“Nothing doing, Kayla-cakes. You can face anything with your best girl backing you up.” Sue stops typing for a second and screws me with her weird, piercing green eyes. Her glasses make them look as big as half dollars. “What does your gut say? About this guy?”
My gut loves him.
Shit.
I want to unthink it, but I can’t. It’s true.
My gut loves him, and my brain thinks he’s a good man who takes good care of us. Who’s rough around the edges, who might have a past, but who also drove to the twenty-four-hour hardware store in Harrisburg at ten at night, after working a full day, to buy a length of chain, wood, and rubber tubing to make a swing for Jimmy in the willow tree. All because Jimmy’d off-handedly asked him if there’d been a swing when he was a boy. Charge went so late because he didn’t want to leave until I went to bed, didn’t want to miss time with me, listening to the ball game on the radio out on the pier.
My stomach aches so bad.
“I can’t listen to my gut,” I say to Sue. “I’ve got a stupid gut.”
“Fair enough,” she says, scanning the screen, speed reading. She chuckles a few times. “All right. Ready?”
I guess. Please don’t let there be something really bad.
“Ready.”
Sue draws in a deep breath. “Failure to show license on command, driving vehicle on highway at speed exceeding limit, failure to comply with a lawful order, disorderly conduct, disturbing the peace—apparently those are different things? huh—another failure to comply, illegal entry of a park facility, false statement to an officer, disorderly conduct, oooh—”
“Oooh?”
“Assault, third degree.”
“Is that the worst kind?
“No, it’s not like golf. The higher the number, the less bad the offense.”
“Golf?”
“You wanna nitpick my analogies or hear about your boyfriend’s dirty, dirty deeds?”
“Dirty deeds,” I mutter. Like she has to ask.
“Looks like he did thirty days for the assault. So maybe a bar fight or something?”
“What else?”
“Okay…where was I…failure to comply, and another disorderly conduct. Malicious destruction of property. Assault, third degree. He did another month for that one. False statement to a peace officer. Disturbing the peace. Failure to comply. Malicious destruction of property. Violation of probation… Kayla?”
“Yeah.”
“There are like two more pages of this. Do you want me to read them all or sum it up?”
My throat burns from the acid churning in my stomach. My heart’s sunk so low it’s pinning me where I sit. “Sum it up.”
“No drugs. No theft. No domestics that I can tell. Pretty much the worst are the third-degree assaults. There are a handful of them. Altogether, he did about a year and a half of jail time spread over six or seven years. And Kayla?”
“Yeah?” A year and a half in jail. I can’t have him around Jimmy. What kind of mother would I be if I ignored that? I’d be the kind of mother my dad and Victoria think I am. Only worried about myself. Thoughtless. Irresponsible.
“The last charge is when he’s twenty-five. Nothing for the past six years.”
Nothing? He just…turned it around?
Or that’s when he hooked up with Harper. Moved to Gracy’s Corner and became her live-in boy toy.
“What are you thinking, Kayla-cakes?”
“That I’m so stupid. It’s not like he lied to me. He warned me off. Did you know that? He said I should stay away from people like him. Instead I―”
I can’t find the words. Stuck my head in the sand? Followed my heart and not my head?
Put my child at risk because of my bad judgment?
Sue rolls her eyes. “Went on a date to a steakhouse? Took the kid fishing? Had normal vanilla sex in a champagne room?”
My lips twitch. I can’t help it. “It was a champagne glass hot tub. Not a champagne room.”
“Go to a picnic at a biker clubhouse?” Sue’s presses on. “Where apparently the wildest drama was some fancy bitch acting like she was still in high school? Very disappointed by that, by the way. I was hoping for nudity, at the least.”
“Jimmy was there!”
“Exactly. Which means you felt safe. You’d never put that boy in danger—”
I make a sound to interrupt, but Sue mashes her finger against my lips.
“No. I get to finish. I know you’re thinking about when they shipped you off to Aunt Felicia’s—'for your own good’—and somehow convinced you that being a rape survivor with post-partum depression and the shittiest parents on the planet made you a bad mother—”
“Sue—” My face burns, and my heart drops. I glance at the door, reassure myself that Jimmy’s not listening. He can never hear this.
“Nope. I’m going to finish.” Sue grabs my hands in both of hers and squeezes tight. “A rape survivor with a shitty best friend who left her alone and got her hurt. And who couldn’t help her when things proceeded to get worse. But I can at least tell you the truth now. Because your dad and Victoria and your own baggage have got it all twisted. I see through the bullshit, though. cause I’m your best friend.”
“And you know me.” I sniffle.
“Down to your damn socks, I know you.”
I’ve lost it now. I’m bawling, silent, streaky tears. Sue gathers my hands to her chest.
We don’t talk about this, Sue and I. We talk around it. Mostly, though, we leave it in the past. She feels guilty; I feel like I let everyone I love down in the worst possible way. It’s weird, but carrying that weight is kind of the glue that keeps us tight.
Sue’s crying too, now, and she never cries. There’s a sheen over her eyes, but no drops. I bet her tear ducts don’t know what’s going on.
“And here’s the truth.” Sue firms her wobbly chin. “You didn’t do anything wrong. You had Jimmy when that was literally the hardest thing to do, and you loved that little grub from day one.”
“I stayed in bed and let Victoria bottle feed him.”
“You took care of him as best you could, but you were fifteen, Kayla. And yeah, some days you couldn’t get out of bed. Because you were healing from a horrible trauma and sleep-deprived and Vern and Victoria, the victim-blamers—the people who were supposed to be taking care of you—had completely washed their hands of their own child. Because Victoria saw her chance to finally play Mommy.”
“He got a rash because I didn’t change his diaper often enough.”
“You were fifteen, and you had no mental health support. No meds. No therapy.”
“I slept through it when he was screaming for a bottle.”
The shame, heavy and dark, settles on my shoulders. Scratches and makes my skin crawl.
I was a terrible mother before they took Jimmy away. I cried all the time. I wouldn’t take showers. I’d stare at him, and instead of loving him, I’d wonder how much he looked like the person who’d done this to me.
A sob racks my chest.
Sue grabs the back of my head, presses her forehead to mine.
“Not done. After they sent you away, you took yourself to the guidan
ce counselor. You made me honk in Aunt Felicia’s driveway until you got your ass out of bed and to school. You walked all the way to Gracy’s Corner every day to see that baby, no matter what they said and did, and you didn’t stop going until they let you move back home. And then you didn’t stop until they let you move out with your little boy.”
“He’s my little boy,” I whisper. It took me a year after I had him to get my head straight, but once I did, I got on the right path. And I’ve been on it ever since.
’Til now.
Now I feel like I don’t know what’s right and what’s wrong.
I know what my dad and Victoria would think. And maybe everyone else would see Charge and his bike, see that rap sheet, and think I’m stupid and selfish for being even a little mixed-up about breaking things off.
But my heart breaks when I think about taking Charge and Pops and Shirlene away from Jimmy. They’ve gotten more smiles, more belly laughs, more words from my boy in a few months than I’ve heard his whole life.
The guilt bears down even harder.
Another way I’ve messed up. Letting my boy get attached. Letting myself get attached.
“I’m not losing Jimmy again,” I tell Sue.
She leans back, gives me a sad smile. “Why do you have to lose anyone? People make mistakes. People change. You know, good people make good in the world. And bad people make misery. What does Charge make?”
What does he make? He makes me happy.
But it’s not about me.
“How’d you get to be so wise, Sue Malone?”
“It’s the systems engineering. You should try it sometime.”
“Not interested in the least.”
I dig my cold toes under Sue’s thigh and turn to watch the movie. We’re quiet awhile. I’m half-watching the movie, half-listening to Jimmy’s video game in the other room. I almost don’t hear Sue whisper.
“I’m so fucking sorry, Kayla Tunstall.”
She’s said it before. And I’ve told her she doesn’t have to be. A few years ago, I realized that she’s not looking for forgiveness. It’s not about regrets or wishing we could rewind time to that party, stick together, or hell, stay home and listen to music and do our nails all night instead like we had a hundred times before.
It’s about love. When she says sorry, she’s saying she loves me, and she hurts, too.
“I love you, too, Sue.”
She sticks her tongue out at me and passes me the bowl of popcorn. On the screen, the guy runs to the girl in the rain. It’s the most depressing thing ever.
“Sue?”
“Yeah, Kayla-cakes.”
“Why isn’t Charge calling? Has he already bailed on me?”
“I don’t know. Maybe he thinks you’ve bailed on him.”
Have I?
On the screen, the guy lifts the girl and spins her. They kiss while the rain tapers off.
It’s sad as hell.
CHAPTER 17
CHARGE
Kayla and Jimmy ain’t home when I finally get back from the wild goose chase Saturday night. Turned over every stone in the tri-state and no douchebag Dan. Couldn’t find a single Rebel Raider, neither. They’ve gone to ground.
I sit on the bottom step in front Kayla’s place until it gets dark. She came home now, I’d tell her I get it. I ain’t what she and her boy need.
The whole time we was shakin’ down Rebel Raider hanger-ons and combin’ through road houses and traps, I kept thinkin’ about all the time I wasted.
This whole time I was coastin’, I could’ve been buildin’ somethin’. For her. Prettiest, sweetest thing I ever held in my arms. When I fell into bed at a shitty Motel Six, I tortured myself thinkin’ about when we’re alone—not enough, not like I could ever get enough—and she curls up into me, wriggling, those cheeks flushed and those brown eyes sparklin’ like it’s fourth of July.
There just ain’t nothin’ as sweet in the world. ’Cept maybe drivin’ home after dark, Jimmy snorin’ soft in the back, Kayla up front, head on my shoulder, makin’ those little sleep noises. That peace.
Feelin’ it gone rips me up inside. Tears me down. Ain’t never felt a low this low.
I gotta say spendin’ a week with Nickel didn’t help. Heavy said I needed a strategy. After this bullshit week, I need anti-fuckin-depressants.
I ain’t got no pride left. No hope, no nothin’.
Hell, she came home right now, I’d beg her to take me back. On my knees. Swear I’d get the moon for her and Jimmy. I would, too.
But she ain’t here.
Pops is out, too. A brother probably came by to take him to the clubhouse. I might as well join him.
I should call Kayla. Shit, I should’ve called her days ago. But whatever she’s got to say, I don’t want to hear. Definitely don’t want to hear it sober.
The clubhouse it is.
When I get there, a bonfire is in full swing. Tits are out, the music’s loud, and brothers are gathered around out back, layin’ money down on a fight. Scrap and some hang-around. Trey. Ray. Somethin’ like that.
Nice to see Scrap out of the garage. I’d say he must be doin’ better, but by his face, it looks like he’s already lost a few bouts tonight.
I skip the action, go inside to the bar. Pops is bellied up, alone except for Wall, an enormous motherfucker who looks like one of those lumberjacks who competes throwin’ telephone poles.
Wall must’ve put Pops up on a stool. Cain’t see his chair nowhere. It better be safe in a closet, or I’m gonna be goin’ a few rounds with the asshole who thinks he’s funny. Found a prospect usin’ it to race a sweetbutt on roller skates once.
Crista’s tendin’ bar. Long sleeves. Hoodie up. Like always.
“Your boy’s out there gettin’ his bell rung.” I like needlin’ Crista. She don’t think I’m shit, and she blushes too. Like Kayla, but not as pretty.
“Ain’t my boy.”
“Brother does time for you, he’s yours.” Don’t know why I’m pushin’ this. Maybe cause I can’t push the girl I want to.
“Didn’t ask him to.”
I shrug.
“What you doin’ here, boy?” Pops finally noticed me sittin’ next to him. He’s clearly several drinks in. I’m hopin’ Crista has the sense to start waterin’ his shit down soon.
“What’s it look like?”
“You hidin’ from your woman like a bitch.”
Crista cracks a smile. Wall snorts.
I can’t say shit cause he ain’t wrong. “She ain’t home.”
“She was all week. You call her?”
I shrug again.
Pops tries to crack me upside the head and misses. Oh, yeah. He’s had a few.
“You let that civilian get in your head, boy? Fuck him and his between homes bullshit. He come around, talk like that with Jimmy standin’ there again, I’ll beat his ass.”
“You’d need to get in line, old man.”
“So why you here and not with our girl. She’s not been smilin’ this week, you know.”
Crista slides me a beer and a shot, and I shoot the whiskey quick.
“Keep ’em comin’,” I say.
Wall wanders off toward the john, and Pops and I sit together in silence, awhile. A minor miracle for Pops. Finally, the quiet wears me down.
“Vern wasn’t wrong, Pops. What am I doin’? Kids…kids need a house. Stuff. Lessons and shit. I don’t know…structure. A man who they can look up to.”
“You look up to me?”
“Naw, Pops. You’re like half my height in that chair.”
Pops lets loose his hand again, and this time he makes contact. I duck away, chuckling.
“Kids don’t need all that. They need food, a roof. Mostly they need you to stand up.”
“Well, you ain’t never been much good at that. Even when you had the one leg. Wobbly son-of-a-bitch.”
Pops cackles, raps the bar for another. “Smart ass.”
When Crista brings him a refill, I give
her a look. Encourage her to get busy at the other end of the bar. Slow him down. He don’t get to the clubhouse much these days, so he goes a little wild when he’s let off the chain. Can’t be good for his condition.
“What do you mean, Pops?” I try to distract him. “Stand up how?”
“You know. Sign the paper. Give the kid your last name. Stick around. You actin’ like it’s more complicated than it is. These days, man…you all make it harder than it needs to be.”
“What are you talkin’ about, Pops?”
He’s slurrin’ a little and makin’ a little less sense than usual. Which means hardly none.
“You know, when Mandy came to me, I didn’t ask no questions. I didn’t mope around like no bitch. I stood up.”
Shit. He brings this up now?
It’s kinda known that at least a half dozen brothers could be my real daddy, but it ain’t somethin’ Pops and I talk about. It’s kind of settled business, past-is-past shit.
“Pops? We really gonna get into this?”
He shrugs. “Seems topical,” he says, takin’ a swig. “I mean, by how you turned out, looks an’ all, I’m guessin’ I weren’t the one, but I was up in that, too. Didn’t have no who’s-the-daddy, find-out-when-we-come-back-from-this-commercial-break in those days. She said it was mine, ain’t nobody else spoke up, so I said okay.”
“You didn’t have to.”
“No, I did not,” Pops agrees. “But a man knows when somethin’ is his. Felt that way about my first Shovelhead. Felt that way about you.”
Ain’t gonna lie. My eyes mist a little.
Pops slaps my arm. “And you is mine. I raised you, didn’t I? Besides, if you ain’t really mine, you one of my brothers’, and that’s the same as.”
“It ain’t never bothered you?”
“Why would it? That’s my point, boy. You was mine, so I did the best for you I could. I know we didn’t have much, but you didn’t go hungry. And if I’d got it all twisted like you doin’ now, you wouldn’t have had no daddy. Figure even some fuck-up who gives a shit is better than no daddy at all.”
I lean back. Sip long on my beer. “I guess you got a point.”
Pops rotates his hips, turning his stool toward me so he can look me full in the face. His bleary eyes are dead serious. “Jimmy needs a daddy who gives a shit about him. You care about that kid?”
Charge: A Steel Bones Motorcycle Club Romance Page 18