by Jc Emery
“She doesn’t know you, and you have Barky. He’s her favorite.”
He stares at me stupidly, so I nod to the dog in his hands. He eyes the dog questioningly and walks it over to the portable crib, bends at his knees, and shows it to her.
“It’s okay, Pippy,” I say in a gentle voice and move to stand next to Ryan, bending at the knee, too. Slowly, the tears stop and all that’s left is a crusted mess of boogers and tears on her face. “This is Ryan.”
She reaches her little arms out to him and says, “Mine.”
“How did Barky get out of your crib?” I ask, putting a hand up to stop Ryan from handing it to her. This throwing the fucking dog out and then pitching a fit about it business has to stop. The kid sniffles and just stares at me with knitted brows and a seriously ticked-off expression on her tiny little mug. I repeat the question and wait for her answer. Zander was a hot mess and was throwing his toys until he was three, but I learned this time. Sometimes I feel bad for my girl that she’s second in line and I’ve learned from raising her brother—she doesn’t get away with even half the shit he used to.
“Don’t know.” Well, she can say those two words almost as clearly as she can say no. I’m all about learning and growing as a person, but couldn’t she learn something other than sass? That answer doesn’t work for me, so I continue to wait.
Finally she tries to tell me some kind of complicated story. At least that’s what I’m inferring from the baby babble. It’s not really English and makes absolutely no sense, but it sounds an awful lot like an excuse.
“Stop throwing Barky, baby girl,” I say and let Ryan hand him over. She sits back down, hugging her dog and babbling to herself.
With the crisis averted, Ryan goes back to packing shit up. I refuse to let him touch my stuff and instead opt for packing it up myself. We didn’t bring much with us, just what would fit in my SUV and Elle’s stepdad’s truck bed. Everything else was put on a big-ass moving truck to arrive later.
I take a deep breath and try to focus on the task at hand. If I think too much about what’s coming, I’m going to make myself sick. I just need Wyatt here to tell me where we’re going and what’s going on. I want him to do that annoying fucking thing he’s been doing lately where he kisses my forehead when he sees me. It drives me nuts, but right now I need that contact. Everything keeps changing in my life and my kids’ lives, and it’s fucking scary. My life was stagnant for years, and now, in a matter of weeks, everything has flipped upside down.
The panic creeps in, sending boulders at my chest, butterflies to my stomach, and a shiver up my spine. I’m trying so hard to hold it together, facing the wall so nobody can see my face and focusing on keeping my breathing regulated, but nothing is working. Finally I resort to the one thing I know will help—Wyatt.
I fire off a quick text with the only thing I need to say: I NEED YOU.
CHAPTER 15
It’s been thirty-seven minutes and still no response from Wyatt. Jeremy got some kind of call as we were leaving the house to which he told the caller, “She’s fine,” and then promptly hung up. And now, for the second time this month, I’m being forced to ride as a passenger in my own vehicle. The first time was to prevent an escape, but this time is just stupid.
“Pres told me not to let you out of my sight,” Jeremy said when he slid behind the wheel. Much to my dismay, Diesel nabbed shotgun and left me in the backseat with Piper. I could’ve complained, but it would have gotten me nowhere. I doubt any of the boys would understand what I was complaining about anyway. Ryan and Bear took the Suburban and headed out after us. We’ve gotten on the highway, and we’re heading north into town now. Highway 101 lines the California coastline, oftentimes veering in and out of one small town after another, where it becomes a central street with stoplights and businesses before turning back into a real highway again just beyond the city limits. Before I got too pregnant to ride, Wyatt took me up the coast, and we tooled through at least four small towns before it got late and we headed back. That night he told me something he’d never said before—and something he’s never said since—that he was hoping for Baby Z. That’s always been one of my favorite memories of California. Actually it’s one of my favorite memories ever. It’s the only thing that ever pulls me out of the suffocating depression that sometimes kicks in. When Zander was a baby and I could barely get out of bed to care for him, knowing Wyatt wanted him—even if he wasn’t there—was the only thing that motivated me to make sure he was well cared for.
“Where are we going?” Zander asks.
I open my mouth to tell him that I wish I knew, but I decide against it. I’m supposed to be the adult here, and adults are supposed to have answers like this for their kids. Zander and I have never been in this situation before. I always keep him tuned in when it involves him. But this isn’t my show. This is his dad’s shit, and I don’t know what’s going on. I trust Wyatt to take care of us, though. He would never do anything to intentionally hurt us. I let out a heavy sigh and tell my boy we’re going to our new home. I don’t want him getting the idea that it’s cool to just take over someone’s entire life like Forsaken men are known to do, but I’m not going to condemn the club for it either, so it’s best I keep my mouth shut.
This situation is entirely new for my little family, so I do my best to put on a happy face. It doesn’t work—Zander sees right through it—so I give up halfway to town. By the time we’re on Main Street, breezing past a few neighborhoods I could see myself living in, Zander quips that this is basically a kidnapping. Jeremy’s jaw tenses, and he eyes my kid like he’s fixing to kick his ass or something equally as stupid, but he thinks better of it and just tells Z that it’s not kidnapping if you’re with your parents. Z doesn’t take kindly to Jeremy’s attitude, and he spends the rest of the drive giving him a dirty look but wisely keeps his mouth shut. Christ, I have one boy already. I don’t need another one on my hands, but it looks like these two are awful keen on giving each other shit, so it doesn’t really matter what I want.
By the time I chill a little about the looks Zander and Jeremy are giving each other, I realize that we’ve already been through town, and before I know it, we’re on Sherwood Road. I can’t imagine where Wyatt’s planned on moving us to, but I just hope it’s not too far out of town. It would suck to be out in the middle of nowhere—again.
Much to my surprise, Jeremy slows the SUV and turns down Riverdale Drive. It’s been years since I’ve been out here. I think Zander had just turned six or something when Grady had called, telling me Wyatt was on a bender. He must have been at the end of his rope. He had never called before, and he never has since. The only other time I’ve been called out to handle my man was when we conceived Piper. That time, though, it was Mishy who called at Ruby’s behest. I’d refused that time, but then he went missing, and I gave in. I may hate all the shit he’s put me through, but he’s the father of my kids. I didn’t have to like him or his behavior to help. Keeping Zander and Piper’s dad safe is the absolute least I can do for my kids.
“Thinkin’ too much, babe,” Diesel says, breaking the silence in the car.
I pull myself from my thoughts and fix my eyes on his. Wide, sympathetic eyes stare back at me the same way they did the day I turned up at the clubhouse to tell Wyatt about Z. I flush in embarrassment. Did my little trip down memory lane worry Diesel that much? The last time he looked at me like this I was in the middle of a panic attack. When I finally tear my eyes from Diesel, I find Zander’s body is completely still. He’s listening intently even if he appears to be looking out the window.
“Last time I was here, Wyatt had gone off the deep end,” I say honestly. I don’t lie to my kids, and even if the truth sucks, I’m going to respect Zander enough to give it to him. “I know he’s different now. I don’t doubt that. Just can’t always keep the memories at bay is all.”
The tension in the vehicle skyrockets. Zander doesn’t move, but his face forms into a glower. I probably shouldn’t hav
e said anything. It’s an awkward thing, talking about my old man to his brothers, his men, but I can’t tiptoe around the reality of the situation with my kid. If the guys don’t like it, they don’t have to listen, much less talk to me. I’m being uncooperative and I know it. I have a responsibility to my kid to protect his heart as much as I can, and part of that means not lying to him about what being an addict means.
Pushing everything else mentally aside, I focus on the road ahead. The ground is a mix of loose gravel and dirt, giving the entire street a quiet, country feel. The homes are even farther apart here than they were before. They’re bigger, too. Grady got in on this neighborhood early enough and had the house built the way he wanted it, with some parts—like the garage—not being added on until later, thus making the whole thing more affordable than if he had bought it resale. One thing Dad always preached was investing. He encouraged his brothers to invest their money in something—mostly a house—because no matter how flush money may be at the time, the tides will turn and they’ll end up in the hole. My dad’s a real asshole, but he’s a smart asshole.
“Tell me we’re not staying with Grady and Holly.” It’s more of a demand than a question. I’ve only met Holly that once at the clubhouse, and she was perfectly nice. They’re pretty new, though, even if she is pregnant, and I don’t want to feel like an inconvenience. I eyeball Grady’s white house warily as we pass it without slowing. Nobody says a word, but I take this as a sign we aren’t staying with Grady and Holly. I breathe a sigh of relief and search the street for something small and quaint enough that I think Wyatt would have reasonably rented.
My mood sours as we approach the end of the street. In the distance sits a white farmhouse. The same white farmhouse that’s soured my mood to every farmhouse—whether that’s reasonable or not—because I once found Wyatt there, slumped over on the house’s porch. At the very least, it was empty, so nobody had called the cops. It’s not the house’s fault my man chose that exact spot to pass out after overindulging on God only knows what. But it doesn’t matter. The image of Wyatt looking half-dead is burned into my memory. It doesn’t matter that I used to love farmhouses—and I wanted a white one. It doesn’t matter that it’s perfectly set on the land, having disturbed as few trees as possible. There’s more trees around this home than the rest. The builder must have had a hell of a time keeping all those trees in place. Even Grady, who values his privacy more than almost anyone I know, chopped down a considerable number of trees around his property to make room to build. But not this stupid farmhouse. None of it matters because I still see Wyatt, with shallow breaths, a heart that isn’t beating properly, and glazed eyes, staring back at me from that fucking porch.
And it makes me want to burn the goddamn thing to the ground.
Right when I’m in the middle of a full-on hatefest, Jeremy slows the SUV as we approach the house and stops. He then backs the SUV into the farmhouse’s driveway, puts it in park, and cuts the engine. Bad memories aside, there’s no way I can afford to live in a house like this. If I’m being honest, there’s no way I can afford to live in any of these homes. Even the more modest ones. What the hell was Wyatt thinking?
“This isn’t right,” I say to no one in particular. Because it can’t be. The rent on a place like this alone must be at least triple my old little ranch in Detroit.
Jeremy and Diesel ignore me as they exit the vehicle and walk around to the back, where they start pulling out Piper’s mobile crib and setting it on the ground. Zander climbs out, and I unbuckle a sleeping Piper from her car seat. I catch sight of Jeremy tossing a set of keys at Zander and telling him to go explore just as I’m getting us out of the car. Deciding I won’t get anywhere with the guys, I follow my boy to the house in silence. He’s dragging his feet, but the moment he catches sight of the gleaming chrome-and-black Harley that’s set off to the side, he picks up his pace and rushes up the steps with an enthusiasm I haven’t seen in days. I bite my tongue when I feel the urge to tell him not to get comfortable.
I’ve never worked outside of the club before, but I can probably find something in town if I have to. Rig had promised my dad he’d keep me employed in something respectable. I’ve spent the last thirteen years keeping the books for the strip club the Detroit charter owns. It didn’t pay big, but it paid enough to afford the essentials and a few extras. Most old ladies don’t work. The club can be a little archaic about that stuff. The brothers like to show they can take care of their own, so it’s not something that’s done often, but when it is, it shouldn’t ever be out of necessity. Christ, even growing up in this shit I can see how outdated it is. Still, Wyatt and I aren’t technically together, so I can’t rely on him to foot the bill for us.
By the time we’re inside, my nerves are totally shot. I make quick work of identifying the dining room to the left and the living room to the right. There’s a staircase sidled up to the left wall that separates this space from the dining. Opposite the staircase, the wall dividing the living room and foyer is covered in black frames of various sizes and styles. We get closer only to find that they’re our photographs. All arranged nearly the same way they were on our living room wall back in Detroit. My mind races as I find my living room furniture already set up in a way that makes it look like it belongs. The dining room has a plethora of moving boxes, some stacked so high that they nearly tower over me. On the back end of the foyer is a large country kitchen with my kitchen table sitting center stage. To its left is what looks like a mud room and to the right is an open space that might be the family room. There’s nothing in there, so I can’t really tell what its function should be.
“Where’s Dad?” Zander’s voice is a mix of accusation and disappointment and booming with teenage theatrics. Piper jolts awake quickly in my arms and stares at her brother in indignation. Her lower lip trembles before she pulls it back and kicks at me to let her down. I lower her to the floor and do the irresponsible mom thing and let her wander off on her own for a minute. She’s still sleepy, so she’s kind of slow, so I don’t feel too awful about it.
Through the wall of kitchen windows that overlooks the backyard, something catches my eye. And when I see what it is, a smile brightens my face. I grab at Zander excitedly and pull him to the windows so he can see what I’m seeing.
Wyatt’s barbecuing.
“Your dad barbecues like a fucking boss,” I say. We watch as he stands over the grill, a grilling spatula in one hand, a bottle in the other. There’s a wooden table and chairs behind him, already made up, waiting for a family of four to join. A brand new highchair sits in place of the fourth chair, and my heart sings at the sight. He’s been waiting for us. My stomach rumbles, suddenly in dire need of food. Zander perks up instantly and rushes out the back. I almost follow when I remember I sent Baby Godzilla off on her own, and I go find her before joining my boys in the backyard.
CHAPTER 16
Somewhere in the back of my mind, I know I’ve dozed off during the movie. I don’t even care that I’m half-asleep, snoring softly, and with my mouth hanging open. In the background, I can hear the final scene of Point Break—the 1990 version, not the remake—on the TV. This is Wyatt’s favorite movie. It’s actually mine, too. As ridiculous as it sounds, we bonded over our shared love of the brotherhood between Bodhi and Utah. Wyatt used to tease me that I only fell for him because of his excellent taste in cinema. He was half-right, I think. Still, I never kept a copy of it in the house after we broke up. I couldn’t stand the idea of seeing it on a shelf, much less watching it without him. So this was Zander’s first watch, and it seems like he’s a fan.
“What happened to him?” Zander asks. He shifts in his seat, almost elbowing me in the arm before pulling away. The sofa dips, and I slump to the side just before a large warm body—Wyatt’s large warm body—pulls me against him. I do my level best not to tense up at the contact and to just go with it. We’ve had a good day—a really good day. Despite the fact that Wyatt did indeed move us into this blasted farmho
use, he’s made a point of making this a home for us. The kitchen already had an assortment of necessities that were brought over from my rental in Detroit, as well as a few new things he’d supplied. There’s still a lot of boxes to go through, but he’s already done so much.
I’m supposed to be asleep. I really did doze off sometime between Utah and Tyler hooking up and the botched bank robbery, and I didn’t come to until Utah was in Australia. Wyatt’s deep voice rumbles against my head as the credits roll. “He let him go.”
“Did he die?” Zander’s voice comes from across the room. My heart warms at my boy’s enthusiasm. I was worried the film would be too dated for him, but he’s a good egg.
“Probably, but it doesn’t really matter,” Wyatt says. “What’s important is that he got the chance to do something he loves. All men should be so lucky.”
There’s a long silence between the two that makes me uncomfortable. We had such a great dinner out in the backyard. Even my messy little girl ate the baby burger I made her without protest. Zander kept asking Wyatt how long we got to stay in this house for, and Wyatt kept saying forever. It bugged me, Wyatt telling him that. He can’t just promise shit to kids that he can’t follow through with. Z will hang onto that like a lifeline, and the minute his dad’s promise becomes a lie, it’s going to blow up. After dinner, Zander suggested a movie, and with little convincing, Wyatt got us to watch Point Break. We wedged ourselves onto the sofa—Wyatt and I on the ends with Zander in the middle—and it was so normal and perfect and right. Piper even fell asleep on her dad’s lap. He held her there until—well, for all I know he could still be holding her. At some point all the perfect family shit just became too much and I closed my eyes. I don’t hear her breathing, though, so she might be in her portable crib. I want to worry about where she is. I feel like I should. I can’t bring myself to though. She has Zander and Wyatt, so she’s safe and taken care of, even if I did fall down on the job. There’s this thing that happens with depression. Even when things don’t change, they feel like they suck or it’s all just numb. Then the really good stuff starts up, and I just can’t handle it. It’s like every ounce of hope is threatening to spill out and flood the world. And once the hope is out there, I’m raw. There’s nothing that can protect me from being destroyed by my dream falling apart again.