by Jc Emery
"Now. Trash bags on the bar," he says, hitching his thumb over his shoulder toward the clubhouse behind him. His other hand frees me from his grip, and he takes a few steps backward. "Place is a mess."
Before he can get too far away, I find myself wanting to say something to him, no, needing to say something. I might be his pawn right now, but that doesn't mean I have to be silent. My voice is steady and loud when I say, "Maybe you're just trying to help. Maybe not. But I won't ever forget that threat you just made."
CHAPTER 6
June 1997
Sometimes, on days like today, I have to remind myself how much better my life is now. Three months ago, when Ian and I got to Fort Bragg, we had nothing but a suitcase and a backpack between the two of us. My boy had one pair of shoes. He had nightmares almost every night. Not just nightmares, but full-on night terrors that had him completely flipping out, screaming, and hurting himself. The six months before we got to California were undoubtedly some of the worst of his short little life. Before men who swore to protect us became the monsters that hunted us, Ian was a happy little boy who took our chaotic life with the ease of a child who knows nothing else. Afterward, he was nervous and on edge all the time. Even the times the clouds seemed to lift, he was still only a fraction of his old self. But now? In the last three months, I've seen more of who my boy used to be than ever before. And even though right now I'm ready to string him and his troublesome best friend up by their toes, I'm grateful for the life I have. Hell, I'm also grateful that Ian has a friend, much less a best friend.
I keep all these happy, sappy thoughts in mind as I carefully pull up to the elementary school in my borrowed minivan. It's a nice minivan, as far as minivans go, but it's not mine and so I'm driving like Miss Daisy. I don't actually know who it belongs to because Jim won't tell me. Not that we talk all that often. In the last three months, I've determined a few things about Jim Stone. He's not going to physically harm me. He meant what he said when he told me I wasn't going to be paid to have sex. He really is trying to help. Still, I don't know what his angle is. Nobody does something for nothing, and Forsaken's been doing a whole lot for me and my boy. When I got my first paycheck--or envelope full of money--I thought somebody had made a mistake. There was more than three times what I expected to find. After trying to ask Jim about it, he told me to talk to Ryan--his nine-year-old son--who's the one who told Jim he better pay me well. Two weeks later, Sylvia, Jim's mom, helped me find a little studio for me and Ian really close to the clubhouse. Despite the daggers the woman throws out of her eyeballs, she hasn't given me any trouble and she's good to my boy, treating him just like he was her own.
Ryan Stone. God, that kid is adorable. He's also a fucking handful, with a mouth that's made me blush a time or two and an attitude to match. Most days I can laugh it off, but this isn't one of those days. It's only the third day of summer school and I'm already getting a call to pick both boys up early. The lady on the phone didn't say anything except that there were behavioral issues. Which is just freaking perfect. Ian does not need to miss any school. As it is, I'm damn lucky Fort Bragg has a summer program to catch him up for the upcoming year. As long as he does everything that's asked of him and he scores high enough on his tests, they'll place him in the fourth grade, like he's supposed to be. Poor Ryan only got screwed into summer school because Jim got excited about free daycare. Not that the boy couldn't use some extra help. He's behind in writing and math but excels in reading.
Tentatively, I smooth down my hair and walk into the office. I almost forgot how brightly decorated elementary schools usually are. All in all, this seems to be a good one, not that I know a whole hell of a lot about it despite the fact that Ian's been to six different schools so far. I'm determined to make sure there's not a seventh. So when Jim Stone tells the school I can pick Ryan up and deal with his shit, I'm doing it. Even if the ridiculous little boy isn't mine, it looks like he's my responsibility for the day. I just hope his dad doesn't mind the fact that he's going to have to live by my rules, then.
"Can I help you?" Denise, the school's secretary, looks about middle-aged with only minor graying in her light brown hair. She has a friendly smile on her face, just like the two other times I've met her, and seems to really care about the kids.
"Yeah, I got a call to come pick up my kids." The words roll off my tongue before I even realize I've said them. Ryan's not mine--I know that. Sometimes it sure feels like it, though. With his dad coming in and out of the clubhouse at all hours, just leaving the kid there with me and Ian, I sometimes wonder if he even realizes his son exists. There's been no mention of a mother figure, and the only people I've ever seen take much time with the kid has been Sylvia and Jim. Once in a while one of the members' old ladies will talk to him or give him a hug, but all in all, I think the boy is starved for affection. My hackles rise, remembering Jim's threat to take Ian away if I didn't get my shit together. The more I think on it, the more pissed off I become. There's more than one way to fuck a kid up, asshole.
"Their names?"
"Ian Buckley and Ryan Stone."
She hands me a clipboard to sign in. When I'm done, I set it down and wait while she makes a phone call. Barely any time passes before another lady, this one older and slower moving, comes out of a room and calls me over. I give Denise a friendly smile and beat back the dread that rises. I hate school administrators with a passion. Even the good ones are just too meddlesome for my liking. This lady seems nice enough. She introduces herself as Mrs. Marsh, and when she brings me into her office, I find Ian and Ryan sitting on opposite sides of the room, each facing a wall. Both turn their heads toward me just slightly. Ryan's nostrils flare and his bottom lip is jutted out, but there's a nervousness in his eyes when he catches sight of me. Ian looks my way, but his face remains passive, as if he's not really seeing me.
"Thank you for coming down, Mrs. Stone," she says and motions to a seat in the middle of the two troublesome little boys. Lord help me, she did not just call me that. Ryan's head jerks a little at the suggestion.
"Miss Buckley," I say. I almost explain to her that I'm not Ryan's mom or guardian, that I'm just his babysitter for the day, but I stop myself. For some reason, I don't feel like divulging all that business to her.
"Right. Miss Buckley, we had an incident today concerning bullying, and your sons' teacher felt it was serious enough to dismiss them from class early."
"What happened?"
"Ryan was overheard making fun of Ian on the playground and calling him names. When Ian began to cry, Ryan pushed him to the ground. The yard attendant tried to stop it, but Ryan completely ignored her."
Mrs. Marsh gives me a minute to process what she's just said. I have to close my eyes and take several deep breaths before I turn my eyes on Jim Stone's son, all the while reminding myself that he's a nine-year-old boy and not a fucking little demon. Man, if it were legal to whoop his ass, I would.
"Do things like this happen at home?" There's the assumption again. I shouldn't have suggested Ryan's mine. He's not, and the school now seems to be under the impression that I'm with his father or something.
"No, they sure as hell don't," I say, with my eyes still boring holes into the back of Ryan's head. When he finally does turn to look at me, it's a very slow pivot. The steel of his jaw is betrayed by the water in his eyes.
"I have to say, Miss Buckley, that Ryan's always had behavioral problems. I reviewed his records before you got here. I also took a moment to review Ian's records, and I'm worried. This is not the first time Ryan's engaged in bullying behavior, and it likely won't be the last. With Ian's past--"
I don't let her finish.
"Stop right there," I warn coldly.
But she doesn't.
Because she's either stupid or prideful.
"With Ian's past, I'm not certain that this is a healthy situation for your son."
My eyes shoot first to Ian. All I can see beyond his mop of unruly dark blond hair is the single tear tha
t falls down his cheek. My boy's sensitive, and he really hates when people talk about his past. I'd give anything to never have him shed another tear. Not that I have much to give, but I'd do anything for the adults of this world to understand that when they talk about kids in front of them, it fucks them up.
"Miss Buckley?" Mrs. Marsh's voice is quieter now as she draws me out of my thoughts.
"My son is fine," I say and lean over to run my fingers through his hair. His shoulders relax just a little from the contact. "He and Ryan have been friends for months now, and this is the first I've heard of any bullying."
"With all due respect, you're new in town. I've been principal of this school for over twenty years. Ryan's father was a student here, and he wasn't much better. Don't get me wrong. I don't think Jim Stone or his son are bad people. The boy needs discipline, a firm hand."
Ryan's body shifts in his corner. I lean toward him and give him the same gentle treatment I did Ian. Ryan jerks in surprise and curls in on himself, as if my touch hurt him somehow. This poor boy. What kind of punishment does he get at home? I'm not here as a representative for just my son, but Jim's as well. Which is something he and I are going to have to deal with later, but for now, I'm their advocates.
"I'll agree with you there. The kid has a smart mouth, and he gets away with murder, but that doesn't mean he's somehow unfit to be around my son. He's a nine-year-old boy." Suddenly, I find myself protective over Ryan. I never want him jerking away from me like that again. Damn it. This whole situation is pissing me off, and not just at Jim for abandoning his responsibilities as a parent to be here, but at the principal who's just trying to help, and at myself as well for ending up in this situation. I have no business telling another parent how to take care of their kid, but Jim's negligence rings fresh in my head. My boy may not have had much, but he's always had me regardless of how fucked things were, and I have to believe that's the most important thing a parent can give their child. As I sit here and look at Ryan, I wonder if Ryan feels that kind of love from anyone.
"Thank you for bringing this to my attention," I say and stand from my seat. Mrs. Marsh blanches with my unexpected dismissal of the issue at hand. I'm not undermining the severity of bullying, and I'm certainly not condoning that behavior toward my own son. But it's not lost on me that neither boy is going to talk right now, so sitting here hashing out where Jim and I have gone wrong with our kids isn't going to help find a solution for either boy.
"Miss Buckley," she says, standing quickly and smoothing down her pantsuit. I can see the questions in her eyes, but I'm done and I need to get these kids out of here before my insecurities bubble over and I totally lose my shit on this poor woman. Without giving her a chance to protest, I lean forward and offer her my hand. She blinks once before snapping to and clasping her hand in mine.
"Boys, stand up and thank Mrs. Marsh for dealing with your shit." I mentally give myself a good, hard kick for cursing in front of their principal. Probably not the best way to convince people that I'm a fit mother.
Ian moves first, turning his stoic face to his new principal, and in a small voice, he thanks her. I wait a beat for Ryan to move, but when he doesn't, I clear my throat and tap my foot on the floor as hard as I can. His black hair swivels around slowly, and his gorgeous gray eyes lift to mine. He looks like a puppy that's been whacked with a newspaper. I'd be lying if I said that I didn't like the look on him. I'm not callous, but the kid is a disrespectful little shit to most people. Except right now he's showing me respect. And that matters.
Reluctantly, Ryan mutters something akin to a thank-you as he stands up. The three of us leave the principal's office without another word. I walk a few feet ahead of the boys, not interested in coddling either of them right now. I hated being called into the office when I was in school, and I hate it no less now, but I especially hate being forced to defend and punish a child that's not mine. I could fall into this way too easily.
I could take responsibility for Ryan. I could teach him and love him and show him that some parents are sweet and gentle and kind. I could do it, and I want to, so much. But he's not mine. And deep down, I know why I'm so attached to him, why I feel the need to protect him. He won't ever replace the hole my twins left in my heart, but he does make it a little less painful. I don't think I realized how much focusing on other people helps ease my soul until I met this little boy.
We make it to the damn Donna Reed minivan before the boys start bickering. I'm so lost in my own thoughts that I don't even know who starts it, nor do I care. These kids are going to drive me to drink. Pulling open the door to the back of the van, I turn to the boys and give them a damn mean glare to fit my mood. "Get this shit out of your systems now, because the moment we get to the clubhouse, I'm going to have bigger shit to deal with than this crap you two are pulling."
"The clubhouse?" Ian's voice is quiet as he asks the question. Ryan huffs and climbs into his seat. I take a deep breath and assure Ian that nobody is going to hurt him. He relaxes only a little, It breaks my heart that he has these fears, but I can't get into what happened at the school without Jim.
"My dad's gonna be really mad," Ryan says as well pull away from the school.
"I imagine he will be," I say, barely managing my own frustration at the whole thing.
CHAPTER 7
The clubhouse is pretty empty this afternoon, despite the big party the lost girls are prepping for. When I left to go to the school, they were all discussing everything they needed to get at the store, so that's where they probably are right now. I can't say I'm not happy about having fewer people here to witness the shit storm I'm inviting on myself. It needs to happen, though. More than not wanting to get into a fight with Jim, I want him to take care of his kid. Ryan isn't my responsibility, and today is just one of the several times in the last few months that Jim's left me to parent his kid. And it has to stop.
Sylvia Stone, Jim's mother, sits at the bar with a highball filled with a dark, caramel-colored liquid clutched in her shaking hand. Her eyes are downcast, but the telltale nod of her head tells me she's listening to the woman who's leaning over the bar top and whispering in her ear.
Ryan rushes into the room, shouting for his grandma and taking everyone's attention away from what they were doing. This is typical for Ryan. I'm not sure he's ever entered a room like a normal person. Sylvia pulls herself away from the other woman, who I only now recognize as Lona Phillips, one of the brother's old lady.
"You're home early," Sylvia says to Ryan with a raised brow. She lifts her eyes to mine. Her brow falls, and the expression on her face is none too pleased. Join the club, lady.
"Got in trouble. Grandma, you should have heard Ruby yell at my principal. She was awesome!"
"I didn't yell and it wasn't awesome," I say dismissively in Ryan's direction. Sylvia's face lifts just a bit, and I might be imagining things, but it's entirely possible she's giving me the world's smallest, most demure smile. I must be tired, though, because in the entire time Ian and I have been in Fort Bragg, Sylvia Stone has never so much as regarded me with any kind of thought, much less smiled at me.
"Is Jim here?"
"Is his bike outside?" Sylvia's mouth stretches in a firm line, but her blue-gray eyes shine in a way I've never seen before.
"That a yes or a no? I'm not in the mood for your shit right now."
Sylvia smiles with narrowed eyes. It's more predatory than I expect. Her lips quirk up and she preens, saying, "There she is."
"He's in his room," Lona says with a tight smile. Lona doesn't hang around the clubhouse much, but when she does, she always has her and Chief's daughter, Elle, with her. Ryan doesn't think I've noticed, but he's sporting a pretty big crush on Elle. She's a few years older than him and miles ahead in maturity, but it doesn't seem to matter to the kid. Sure enough, Elle rounds the corner with a pool cue in her hands. She taps her foot impatiently on the ground and stares at her mother. "You said you'd play with me."
"In a minute, b
aby."
"We'll play with you," Ryan says. He grabs Ian's arm and drags him over to the unimpressed girl. To my surprise, Ian doesn't flinch or pull back. He just goes along with his friend. My jaw almost drops when I see a glint in my boy's eye that dances when Elle smiles at him. I let the sight warm my heart for just a moment before I force it down. I remind myself that I'm still pissed at Jim and can't have happy, fuzzy, mommy thoughts clouding my brain when I'm dealing with the way-too-sexy overgrown child. As it is, he has a way of distracting me from my purpose, and today I've vowed to myself that I won't be distracted.
Once the kids are off in the pool room, I excuse myself from Lona and Sylvia's presence and march across the room. The hallway off the main room of the clubhouse leads to the chapel--where the club's members have their meetings--and the pleasure palace, which is really no better than a seedy strip club but also houses six small bedrooms for the club's members to crash in when they need to. I know for a fact that one or two of them don't just crash in their room but keep it as their primary residence. Part of my job is cleaning not only the public areas of the clubhouse but the private areas as well. My least favorite part of the job is cleaning the bedrooms. I'm not stupid, so I don't talk about the things I find in there, but I can't say some of my findings don't make me look differently at some of the guys.
Especially Jim. When we first met, he was all suave and saying all the right things. Then he moved into the full-on flirting and casual mentions of how hot we'd be together. I've had more than a few rough nights of sleep after he'd dropped a comment like that, but the plethora of different-sized women's panties I've found in his room in combination with the dozens of condom wrappers gives me a damn good idea of what he's all about, and it definitely doesn't add up to the sweet nothings he tries to whisper in my ear. Jim Stone is a pig, plain and simple. Which I could handle if not for his incessant need to try to convince me he's not. I've fallen for that line of bull before, and I won't do it again. The price of being an idiot is way too high.