by Jc Emery
On shaking wrists, I push myself up into a sitting position. My wrists aren’t bruised or anything, but my arms are sore as hell. Still, the discomfort in my body is nothing compared to the discomfort in my soul. Wyatt messed up all those years ago, but I left. I made the choice to walk out, and even if I can’t regret my choice to keep our son safe, I could have tried to mend fences, and I didn’t.
“I have to . . .” I start speaking but can’t finish my thought. “I have to tell you something.”
The only thing worse than having this conversation is the thought of not having it. If Diesel is the one to tell Wyatt about Zander and Piper, the outcome will be way worse. Tears well in my eyes at the thought. Fuck. I hate crying. If my dad saw me crying, he’d grab me by my shoulders and tell me that there are only three things worth crying over—death, your kid, and running out of whiskey. Then he’d hug me, because no matter how old I get or how little we see each other or whose old lady I am, I’m still his kid. But he’s not here. He’s at his house with my kids, who only get to see him once a year or so. This might actually be Piper’s second time seeing him, with the first being the day she was born. My dad may not show up for much, but he’s damn sure been there when his baby is having a baby.
“Babe, just say it.” Wyatt’s voice is gentle. Too gentle. I don’t deserve this kind of sweet from him. Part of me wants to start sobbing and play the victim, telling him I’m afraid he’ll hate me and how very sorry I am. But that’s fucked, and old ladies don’t act like that. The club didn’t vote me in so I could manipulate my man. They voted me in because I know how to take my hits, and I can do it without acting like a pathetic little bitch.
“I lied to you. When I left—I lied.” I suck in a deep breath, hoping it helps calm me some. It doesn’t. “I told you what I had to in order to get our son out safely.”
Wyatt’s eyes bore into mine, completely unmoving, like he’s trying to read between the lines but failing miserably. He’s smart, though. I know he knows. Somewhere, deep in his heart, he has to have thought about it. Or maybe I just don’t want to believe he’d ever buy that I cheated on him. Either way, it definitely doesn’t matter, because I left and he never came after me and I never took the opportunity to come home.
Until now.
When Wyatt finally reacts, it’s with a simple nod. I lower my eyes, unable to watch his eyes as the wheels turn in his brain. He’s working through it all—fourteen years of lies and betrayal all unmasked with a single word.
Our.
“I can’t believe a fucking word you say.” His words are barely audible, coming out on a whisper. He rubs his hands over his face and stares at the wall behind my head. I can’t see the look on his face anymore, just his movements, but it’s enough. Every ounce of fear and regret that’s built up over the years solidifies in my gut, leaving me with a weight that keeps me feeling like I’m being suffocated.
“You were a volatile drug addict, and you scared the shit out of me. I left because you made it clear that the only way I was going to keep Zander safe was if he was away from you.” I let my mouth run with all the thoughts in my head. I don’t give a single second’s thought to the consequences for this kind of honesty. I’ve spent my boy’s entire life in a lie, and I’m done with that life.
“Stop,” Wyatt barks. His voice is edgy, angry, and the muscles in his neck are strained as he speaks. If I don’t say it now, I know I won’t. So I keep going even though I wish I could just shut the hell up already.
“I begged you to lay off the whores, pleaded with you about the drugs and the drinking, and none of it made any difference. I think I would have lived like that, but then you went and threatened me. You were so fucked up, I bet you don’t remember the shit you were spewing, but I do.”
He pushes off the bed so quickly that the movement makes me jump. I watch every little thing he does, from frantically looking around the small room to the way his chest rises and falls quickly despite his attempts to slow his breathing.
“I can’t do this,” he says. He turns for the door, and I know if I don’t make a decision right now, then I won’t have the option anymore. There’s a dangerous aura around him that I remember all too well. His body radiates hate and hurt, all overlapping one another and becoming something entirely different—more desperate, dangerous, and depraved than I’ve ever seen from him in the past.
And because I’m terrified of what his leaving means, I scramble to get to my feet and clear the bed, and in no time I’m wedged between him and the door. This isn’t how it was supposed to go. Not that I’d thought about this a thousand times before. Like the day Zander said his first word, or took his first step. I certainly didn’t think about this moment the first time my boy asked about his daddy—back when he was just barely figuring out what a daddy is—and I definitely didn’t think about this moment when the stick turned blue and I realized Zander was going to be a big brother.
“You’re going to have to, because as much as you hate me, there’s a fourteen-year-old boy out there who needs you, and I’ve fucked up with him enough. I’m not leaving here until you get your shit straight so you can be a father to your son.”
When he finally looks at me, I wish he hadn’t. I don’t see the man I love in his blue-green eyes. A deadness has crept in that worries me. His mouth forms the words my son, and no sooner than they’re off his lips is his fist flying at me. I brace myself for the hit that doesn’t come, but my relief is short-lived. Wyatt’s giant fist lands in the wall behind my head with a powerful blow that cracks through the paint and plaster. He leans in, pulls his fist out, pulling sheetrock with it, and does it again. I squeeze my eyes shut and count my breaths. One. Two. Three. I know all too well that it doesn’t matter how well you know someone, how much you love them. Violence is a part of this world—something I accepted a damn long time ago. It never gets old, though—the awful pain that comes from a set of knuckles to the face.
A guttural scream erupts from him, just inches from my ear, causing me to flinch and try to blend in with the wall behind me, but it’s no use. His fist is still punishing the wall, and I’m stuck between that and the closed door. My chest hurts. Every breath is more difficult than the last, and a thin sheen of sweat forms on my skin. I know better than to grab him and try to calm him down. With how charged he is, he’ll take a swing without realizing I’m not the wall. If I could take a few hits to get out of the emotional turmoil the situation I’ve created has caused, I would. But all that would get me is a broken nose to go with my broken heart.
A whimper sounds from my lips. I sound so weak and pathetic that it makes me sick. My man is smart, and he pays attention even when you think he isn’t. The whimper and flinching doesn’t get past him. He slides his eyes over my face for a long, confused moment before he’s back to shaking his head and raging about how awful I am.
Still. I’m not that woman who cowers in fear from anything or anyone. I don’t fear men. Not even ones twice my size. And I certainly don’t cry or whimper or let myself bitch out. I’m Forsaken. I’m stronger than that. I take my hits as they come just like any brother does, and when it’s over, I wipe away the blood and move on.
But this isn’t like every other time, is it? This is Wyatt, and he’s unpredictable. Naturally I’m afraid of him and what he’s capable of.
Another lie.
I’m not afraid of him or of being hit. I’m afraid that they represent what I’ve lost. Fourteen years, a couple thousand months, even more weeks, endless days, and countless hours since we’ve been us. And it hurts more than any broken bone ever could.
“Fourteen years!” He’s moved on from processing the news and has careened right into the psychotic anger that I knew would come. “Fourteen fucking years.”
When I don’t respond, he screams again. Lunging for me, he grabs me by my shoulders and holds me in place like I’m a rag doll he’s about to shake. His touch is gentler than I expect. He’s holding back now. I should be grateful that he�
��s going easy on me, but all I can feel is a deep sorrow that I’ve done this to him. The pain in his eyes, the gut-wrenching sound of his voice—that’s all on me.
Roaring out a frustrated, “Fuck,” he lets me go a little harder than necessary, and I stumble into the door behind me. I open my mouth to tell him to calm down, but I don’t have the chance to. Wyatt stomps to the other side of the room, picks up the lamp on the bedside table, and throws it at the same wall he mutilated with his fist. The lamp cracks and bursts into a thousand pieces just a foot from my head. I squeeze my eyes closed. If I’m not watching, I won’t have to see him destroy his own stuff. I have the space to run now, just in case something flies at me, or he lunges at me again, but I don’t. Instead, I open my eyes and watch the fallout. I let myself watch his pain and frustration. I don’t give myself the luxury of turning away when I catch sight of the wetness in his eyes. He wanted our son so much. Having grown up without a dad and doing a dime in foster care as a small child means my man knows how important family is and what it’s like to be without one. He asked me for a family before we knew I was already carrying our boy. Never once did I doubt that he wanted to be a father. I just wish he’d been ready back then. As much as he wants to be a dad—and I know he does—Zander wants a father.
So I force myself to watch his destruction. The consequences of my choices unfold around me, tearing at what little bit of my heart I’d thought I’d protected a long time ago.
Unsatisfied with a broken lamp, Wyatt moves on to picking up the bedside table like it weighs nothing and throws it at the cement floor. It cracks and splinters to the point of disrepair, but it’s still not enough. His heavy boots stomp the damn thing into the hard floor until all that’s left is an unrecognizable pile of broken wood. And this continues with the few items in the room until the mattress has been pulled off the box spring and is tossed against the wall, and the bed frame is so mangled that it looks like it was the victim of a twister. And still, through it all, I don’t run.
I’m done running and leaving my man behind.
When he stops tearing the room apart, he stands just two feet in front of me. My fingers twitch to reach for him, but my touch won’t comfort him no matter how much I want it to. His chest rises and falls quickly, the sound of his strained breathing loud enough to worry me, and his heart beating so hard that I can almost hear it. Once he calms down, his heart always goes crazy fast from the exertion of acting like a human bulldozer. I guess some things never leave you, no matter the time or distance.
“He’s really mine?” The words are so fractured and pitiful that it gets me right in my heart. I could burst into tears right now if that didn’t feel manipulative and really fucked. This is Wyatt’s time to be upset, not mine.
Every ounce of him.
Of course he’s yours.
He looks exactly like you.
I try to say any one of the things I’m thinking, but I get distracted by his cut. Right above his heart where it used to say V. PRESIDENT on a dirt-covered white patch is a different patch that takes my breath away. It’s older, more worn, and dotted with a spot or two of dried blood. I gasp as I absorb the meaning behind the patch staring back at me.
“You did it,” I whisper as I memorize the stitching of each and every letter on his president patch.
One day, baby, I’m going to be king and you’re going to be my queen.
He’d told me wanted the gavel the first time I met him, which was right before he started prospecting for Detroit. Dad had seen him hanging around at club events and parties for a year or so by then. Wyatt was a good kid as far as Dad remembers. I’d never seen him around, mostly because I wasn’t welcome at the parties. I was barely Zander’s age when I met Wyatt. Mom and Dad would have killed me and Mishy if we’d shown up to the clubhouse uninvited. But that day was a family day. Wyatt got to flirting with me, having no idea the world of hurt he could bring on himself by hitting on the president’s fourteen-year-old daughter. I told him he could get in a lot of trouble, but he didn’t care. He just fed me that line and said he was going to be prospecting and that I was going to be his. I nearly died when he walked right up to my dad, said a few words, and then took Dad’s fist to his face a few times without fighting back.
He got his cut and started working on his top rocker that night.
And almost three years later, after he’d been patched, I was voted in and officially his. Club rules didn’t mean much, though, because I’ve belonged to this man since the day we met.
“Tell me he’s mine.” I’m jarred from my memories by a hopeful, desperate plea. The only thing I can compare the pain and want in his voice to is my own when Rig had our son. I’d have given anything, hurt anyone, and made mountains fucking move to get my boy back in my arms. And it’s in this moment that I know we can make this work. He loves our boy—despite all the time that’s passed, he still loves Baby Z.
I nod, unable to speak, and watch as all six feet and six inches of my man falls to the ground. He hits the cement with his knees and holds his torso up with his bruised and bloody fists pushed into the top of his legs. I throw myself at my old man and wrap him in my arms as he tucks his face in my neck. His body jerks in my hold. It’s not until my neck is wet and my hair is sticking to my skin that I realize this is another first for us.
He’s crying.
My own tears fall, dampening the top of his head, but I don’t move.
I just hold him and don’t ask him to talk or look at me. I’ve never seen this before and as cathartic as it is, it scares me how badly I’ve hurt him. Wyatt doesn’t just get upset. He tortures himself with every drug he can find, knowing it’s going to send me away. I won’t let him fall apart again. If he’s this torn up about our son, I can’t help but freak out about how he’s going to react when he finds out we also have a daughter.
CHAPTER 5
“Come on, Gramps. Just one shot?”
I shake my head at Zander begging my dad to let him shoot his rifle. The kid is actually fucking bouncing. All six feet of him is buzzing with excitement over getting to play with Dad’s toys. I don’t tell him that the rifle in question actually belonged to my mother and was passed down to my sister, Michele, when she died. I also don’t tell him I’m the reason Dad keeps shooting him down. No pun intended.
“Boy, do you really think my answer is going to change just because you won’t stop fucking asking?” Dad asks him.
Zander’s eyes roll into the back of his head, and he blows out a frustrated breath. His big-ass sneaker kicks at the wall behind him in frustration. I taught Zander how to shoot a damn long time ago, but I have my rules. He doesn’t get to touch a gun if he’s being a little asshole and just generally pissing me off. This morning it was his snapping at his sister and sending her into an hour-long meltdown that pissed me off. An hour later it was his asking Dad to take him to the clubhouse after I’d made it clear that he was staying in this way-too-small-for-four-people house until further notice. Now it’s the constant asking that’s making me want to run away. Not that my dad would let me. Don’t get me wrong. He loves me and my kids—Piper has him wrapped around her little finger—but he’s not a patient man.
It’s been three days since I’ve seen Wyatt, and I haven’t heard from him once. Our moment had been interrupted by Grady—who, last I checked, was Jim’s sergeant-at-arms back when he was president, but is now Wyatt’s VP. Club business takes precedent. Always has, always will. I wasn’t expecting some grand declaration of love and for him to make love to me on the floor next to a thousand splinters from the furniture he broke, but I also didn’t expect him to stand up and leave me without even looking back. To be honest, I don’t know what I expected.
“Hey, Dad?” I can’t believe I’m about to ask my dad to watch the kids again. I’ve been relying on him too much lately, but I find myself asking even though I know I shouldn’t. My dad—Elmore “Thumper” Wallace—is a serious badass. He likes his bike, his booze, and his women, and h
e’s not shy about any of it. I love him, even though he’s never really been a hands-on dad, and admire the man greatly. But he’s the world’s worst babysitter. If it weren’t important to me that I see Wyatt tonight, I wouldn’t even leave the kids.
The night Diesel dragged me off to the clubhouse, I came home really late to find Dad gone, Piper passed out on the couch with chocolate on her face, and my son in Dad’s room with the door locked and some cheap-ass porn music coming through the door. I was embarrassed, for sure, but this is the life of a boy in puberty. I can’t tell him to stop doing his business, because as a grown-ass woman and mother of two, I need my alone time or I’m going to kill somebody. I just figure he’s like his momma and appreciates a little self-loving. I want to say I’m a cool mom, but it’s taken me two years of wigging out to get to this point. Now I only ask that he keep it to himself. Another reason he needs his dad around. The best advice I’ve given him when it comes to sex is to keep it in his pants, and then I handed Piper off to him and walked away. Needless to say, I think his baby sister is a pretty awesome form of birth control. She’s cute all right, and I love her to bits, but holy fuck is she a demanding little terrorist at times. Just like her older brother, she needs her dad, too. They need their dad, and I need a nap.
“Been waiting for you to ask,” Dad says. He sticks his thumb over his shoulder and tells me to go.
“Why the hell do you get to go to the clubhouse but I can’t?” Zander whines. He seriously whines. He’s bigger than half the men I know, and he’s starting to grow in facial hair, but he’s not a man. He’s a little boy who’s on his way to becoming the man he think he already is. It’s crazy how he straddles the fence between being a child and an adult at times. I just wish I had Wyatt here with me to share these small moments with.