Cut Wide Open
A Bleeding Scars MC novel
BY ABBY MCCARTHY
Dedication:
To Emily Smith-Kidman an amazing blogger, publicist and friend, who always has my back, and who pushed me to not hold back with going dark. Welcome to my darkside.
Copyright © 2017 Abby McCarthy
This is a work of fiction. All characters, organizations and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademark status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission.
All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the author, except for the use of brief quotations in the book review.
Cover design by Hang Le
http://www.byhangle.com
Part One
Prologue-Gunner
Sometimes, after I’d park my bike at whatever shitty motel I was staying at, in whatever shit hole town I stopped in, I’d walk searching for her. Another crowded street with nameless faces. None of their names mattered, because none of them were her. Each day that passed without my Mouse was another day where I lost more of myself.
Sure, I knew those fucking Hades bastards were after me, but I’d be ready for them. I’d be ready for anything, as long as I knew she was out there somewhere.
Another street, another day. I thought I saw her once. A flash of dark hair moved as a woman rounded a corner. I was on my bike. I gripped my bars and pulled back on the throttle. I needed to go faster. I needed to see if it was her. It wasn’t.
I was losing hope.
I was in a bar drinking until the dark liquid made me numb. I pictured her walking through the door and even pictured the woman who dropped to her knees outside of the bar in the dirty, dark alleyway as her. I hated myself for giving in to the liquor and the women. The guilt ate away at me. My life was in a constant state of fighting, fucking and getting wasted. I preferred getting wasted. It made it easier. She was out there somewhere, but maybe I’d never find her. Maybe this road, I was meant to walk alone.
8 years old Charlie
I see you through the dark dirty glass. You’re kicking a ball laughing with an older man. I wonder if he’s your grandpa. You smile at him. I think that’s what love looks like. You have sandy hair. You look like you’re my age, maybe a little older. I wonder if we can be friends. I laugh at myself. It’s not really funny. No one would want to be friends with me.
I’m invisible.
I watch you until another man opens the door to the little white house and calls you inside. You wave to the old man as he gets into his car, and run without a care in the world into your home.
Home.
I wonder what that’s like.
I am here as a paycheck. I eat alone. I sit in my room. Alone. I walk to school. Alone. I barely talk. I am alone in my thoughts. I am alone in life. I have no one.
I see your mom through the window. Her blonde hair blows in the wind. She gets in her car. She’s smiling and even from the distance, I can see how beautiful her face is when she smiles. If I had to choose a word to describe her, it would be alive. Everything about her screams, “I’m alive.”
Your daddy bends into the window and kisses her. You run from the house with your backpack slung over your shoulder and hop into the backseat. Your daddy ruffles your hair before closing the door.
I see you at school, but only for a few seconds. I am in line on my way to the library. You’re wearing gym shorts heading towards the gym. I recognize the boys you're with. I think you're in the fourth grade.
You don’t see me.
I read a book in the library and get lost in it for thirty minutes. I’m reading Harry Potter. I love the fictional world.
No one sits by me.
It’s okay. They might want to talk, and I don't want to talk.
I hope to see you in the hall, but I don’t.
I watch for you every day through my thick, stained glass. I watch you grab a basketball, get on your BMX and head toward the park. I see your friends knock on your door, and you come outside and sit on the stairs.
You don't see me, but I watch you. I wonder what it’s like to be happy.
“Take out the trash,” Mitchell yells. Claire is sitting on the couch smoking a cigarette with a can of beer in her hand.
I do as he says and quickly grab the red ties and pull the garbage out, and go outside to the can. You’re outside. I keep my head down. I wonder if you’ll notice me. The metal trash can lid falls to curb and clatters. I jump. Loud noises make me nervous.
I look up and see you staring.
Right.
At.
Me.
I run inside to my room.
Alone.
9 years old
Muted red and blue lights flash across my room. I was sleeping, but the noise and the light woke me. I hear your momma wailing, and I know it’s bad. I watch through my dark stained glass as she cradles you in her arms. I don't see your dad.
Two days pass. You wear a black suit, holding your momma up as a black stretch limo pulls up in front of your house. I see you later in the day. People enter your house. You sit on the side of the house with your head hung low. You're alone.
You’re alone.
10 years old
You’re not at the same school this year. You’re getting older. I don’t see you playing basketball or riding your bike anymore. You don’t laugh like you used too.
I’m walking home from school. You’re in your mom’s car.
I see you and I think for the first time, you see me.
I make it home and you’re sitting on your front steps. You’re wearing a light blue t-shirt and shorts. I can feel you staring at me.
“Hey!” you shout, but I’m afraid. I don’t know what to say, so I run inside to the window. I watch you through the dirt stained glass, and for the first time ever, you’re looking at the house. I swear, I think you can see through the hazy glass and look directly at me.
11 years old
I’m home from school today. I don't feel well.
I hear a loud rumble and stare out to see what the noise is. A shiny, black motorcycle pulls into your drive. Your mom’s changed. She no longer has the same smile. She is still pretty, but she’s different. She’s no longer life. She’s existing. She’s like me.
She grabs the man’s hand and walks him inside. He is there for hours, but is gone before you get home.
You don't know this man visits your mom, at least I don’t think you do, because he’s never there when you are.
You’re outside and another boy says something to you. You don't like it. You punch the boy. Your mom comes out of the house and yells. The boy grabs his face and rides away. I don't know what he says to you. I want to ask. I’ve been watching you for so long, I feel like I know you. You’re angry and storm off down the street.
I don't know why, but I slip my shoes on and walk to the park. I hope that you're there. I want to see you, but I don’t want you to see me. I hide in the shadows along the edge of the park and watch. I see a few kids I recognize from school on the swings. There is an old pavilion, part of the roof is caving in.
That’s where I spot you.
You’re smoking a cigarette. I didn't know you smoked.
I am fascinated by you.
You’re so young, yet you pull the smoke into your lungs like you’ve been doing it for years. You’ve changed some. Your hair is a tiny bit darker than when I first saw you through the gl
ass. You’re taller too. You have a black T-shirt on, black jeans and black boots.
You look around the park. Your eyes roam and then finally still.
On me.
You’re staring at me and I can’t look away.
I watch as you pull the smoke into your lungs again. You exhale. The haze clouds your face hiding your eyes. Normally I’d run but I can’t today. You take another puff, then stomp out your cigarette. Your boot moves back and forth extinguishing the red glow.
You stare at me for another moment and then someone calls your name. You look up to greet your friend and our connection is lost.
I become invisible.
Twelve years old
I am changing.
I got my period.
I’m suddenly sadder than normal. I let my thoughts drift to all that I’ve lost and all that I’ll never have. I wonder why I exist. I wonder what’s the point. I try to dream, but dreams are for girls with futures. I don’t see tomorrows, I can barely see today. Sometimes I wonder if I should just end it, but then I see you and you give me a reason. I don’t understand it since I don't know you, but you’ve become a beacon I hold onto. Even through your loss, you have light. I want that.
Mitchell and Claire are fighting. Claire throws a dish. Mitchell calls her a drunk. They’re yelling about money. They’re always yelling about money. Mitchell threatens to leave. I wonder what will happen to me.
Mitchell slaps Claire. Something crashes. I need to leave this room. The four walls are suffocating. I stay in my bedroom when I can, but today, I need air. This is all too much.
I tiptoe out of the house and quickly walk down the street towards the playground. I don't look around. I’m trying to be fast. I don’t want to be seen. I don’t hear you approach.
“You okay, Mouse?” you ask me. Mouse? I look up at you quizzically, but don’t say a word. I can’t, I’m too shocked that you’re here... talking to me. I slow my pace as we enter the park. It’s empty. I imagine children are at home sitting at dining room tables, sharing their day with their parents.
I move to the picnic table under the pavilion. I do this without saying anything, but my hand is trembling slightly because you’re near. I’m nervous. I’m always nervous around people, but you, who I’ve been watching for so long, especially make me nervous.
I sit at the picnic table and you sit down next to me. You’re close. I can feel your body heat and your leg brushes against mine. I stare at you, directly in your eyes. Flecks of green that I never noticed before contrast against the brown in your eyes. You're bigger this year. I wonder how tall you’ll get.
“Cat got your tongue, Mouse? You don’t say much, do you?” You stare at me. Your eyes penetrate me. I feel like you SEE me. Not the me that hides, or the me that can walk through a crowded room and not be seen. You. See. Me.
“I can talk.” My voice comes out quiet and meek.
You close your eyes like you’re savoring something, but I’m uncertain as to what could make you do that.
Your eyes open, “What’s your name, Mouse.”
“Why do you keep calling me Mouse?”
“‘Cause you’re quiet and sneaky like one. Now, what’s your name?”
“Charlie, short for Charlotte,” I shrug.
“Well, Charlie short for Charlotte, I’m Gunner Reed.”
I nod because I know this already. It does something to me to hear you say my name. I can’t remember the last time someone said it with any type of inflection.
“How long have you lived across the street from me?” You’re curious about me. This shocks me.
“Since I was eight,” I answer honestly.
“How old are you now?”
“Twelve,” I answer and I swear it feels like you’re doing a perusal of me.
“Damn, four years you’ve been across the street from me,” you say and take a cigarette from your pocket. Your fingers move to flick a wooden match against the table. You bring it to the tobacco-- a red glow and then a puff of smoke. I smell you, a mixture of smoke and soap.
“Your parents fight like that a lot?”
I shake my head. “Not my parents.”
You look at me like you’re trying to figure me out.
“Foster care. I bring them a whopping twenty-one dollars a day.” I’m startled by my openness with you. I’ve never admitted this much to anyone so freely.
You nod your head as if you can understand. I know that you don’t because I know you were happy once. But you do know pain. I see this too. Maybe you see the same in me and that’s why you’re sitting here. You exhale smoke then ask, “They hurt you?”
I shake my head. “They don’t put their hands on me, but does it hurt me to know that I am only a check? I do what I’m told and in return, I have shelter and food. I shouldn’t complain. I know what it’s like to not have both of those things. But the loneliness hurts.”
“You want to talk about it?” You ask inhaling your smoke.
“I don’t talk much,” I say simply.
“Maybe that’s ‘cause no one was listening.”
Thirteen years old
We talk. Not much, but you catch me when I’m walking and you try to make me smile. I don’t know why you do this, but you do, and it matters. I look forward to it and walk more than I used too. Every once and awhile, you’ll pry. Slowly finding out more about me.
“What happened to your parents?” It’s a question I don’t want to answer. You catch my chin as I try to look away. “Don’t do that, Mouse. Don't hide from me.”
So, I tell you what I remember of my Mom. How we lived in crack houses where people sold themselves. I tell you how I didn't know who my dad was, but that my Mom cared more about her next fix than my next meal. I tell you how I woke to find her with a needle in her arm, her skin a bluish gray. I didn’t know what to do. I was only five years old. I stayed with her until a police officer eventually stumbled upon us. They took me and I didn't understand, but they fed me and at least it was food. They put a blanket on my shoulders and took me in the opposite direction than my mother’s body. I didn't see her again.
You cuss at my story. You’re angry for me. I put a hand on your shoulder to calm the rage coming off of you and it works. “No one deserves the start you got Charlie,” you tell me like I’m important. I want to believe you.
Mitchell and Claire are on vacation visiting his mom for the week. I’m home alone. So incredibly sick of being alone. I watched you minutes before, as you walked out of your house. I hope you're going to the park. I want to see you. I want to talk to you. You have become my only friend.
I look for you through the branches. I don’t like to approach you in case you’re with friends. I don’t want their attention. Today, you’re not with the guys. You’re with a girl. She’s beautiful; a year older than you. She has long blonde hair, the complete opposite of my dark locks and her breasts are fuller than mine. She has curves. I have none. I know I’m staring, but she presses herself against you.
Your hand goes into the back pocket of her jean shorts and she laughs then slaps your arm. You say something low, and I don’t hear it. But she does. She leans into you, presses close and her lips are against yours.
I watch.
I see you.
It doesn’t feel good to see you like this. A pit forms in my belly and I want to throw up at the sight of you with her. I let out a gasp.
She freezes, pulls away from you and looks around until her eyes land directly on ME.
I’m caught.
“What are you doing? You little freak,” she yells.
You try to tell her to calm down--that it’s just me. Mouse.
She argues with you and starts to come towards the bushes where I’ve been watching you. I’m frozen in place. My heart screams for me to run, but my feet won’t move.
“You like to watch, you nasty little bitch,” she sneers.
And you lose it. You grab her arm and move her away from me. Then, you pull me from
the bushes and stand protectively in front of me.
“You don’t talk to her like that!” you yell.
“Mouse, look at me. You’re not a freak. You did nothing wrong.” I don't meet your eyes. I’m embarrassed and afraid. My insecurities feel suffocating.
“What do you mean, she did nothing wrong? She was watching us make out through the bushes.”
“Heather, stop. Go home.”
“But what about us?” she whines. You look at her and say without emotion, “There is no us. It wasn’t even a good kiss. You don't talk to Mouse again. Yeah?”
“Whatever, asshole,” she yells and walks away.
“Mouse, look at me.”
I know I should lift my eyes. It’s not that I care what she said. People have called me worse. It was your lips on hers. The way my heart aches. I don’t want you to see that on my face. My legs finally kick in and decide to work. I run. You chase me, but I’m fast. By the time I reach my front door, you're winded, but close behind me.
“I’m sorry,” I say and close myself behind the door.
“Charlie, don’t.” Your fist hits the door once in defeat.
You see me after that and pretend it didn't happen. You never mention it again. You meet me as I walk to the park. You don’t mention Heather or why I ran.
Fourteen years old
I am a freshman and at the same school as you. This year feels different. I see you in the halls and you always stop to say hi.
You look at me differently. I’m not sure what it means. You seem like a loner; like me. You don’t hang with the jocks. You get into fights sometimes. I hate when that happens, because then you’re not at school. Even when I see you angry, I see the fuel behind your eyes. You have so much inside of you. Sometimes, I’m envious of the spark behind your eyes.
Cut Wide Open (A Bleeding Scars MC Book 1) Page 1