by Jc Emery
Speaking of people getting over their shit . . .
It's been over a month since Jim was patched in as VP. He's always been an asshole, but lately it's like he's competing in the asshole Olympics. The first couple of weeks, he'd probably have won bronze. But after yesterday? That motherfucker is a damn gold medalist. He makes my head spin with his mood swings. One minute he's smiling and flirting with me and the next he's shutting down and acting cold as ice. I can't make sense of it, and I'm done trying to. We spent months volleying between snapping at one another and flirting. Then we kissed, and it was romantic and all this stuff that I never thought I'd get. But because my life's a bitch, I never really got it. We kissed, and Jim finished his fight with Grady--he won--and then he got absolutely shit-faced with the boys. And I had to leave to take care of our kids. I don't know what I expected, but I expected a hell of a lot more than I got. That night just confirmed what I already knew but stupidly let myself forget. Anything I might be feeling for Jim is just that--a feeling--and it can't be anything more.
"Do what you want," Layla says with a coolness that's only there to mask her anger. Biting my tongue, I ignore her and walk away. Dumb bitch is pregnant but won't put the drugs away long enough to make sure her kid is born with half a brain. To say I hate her might be an understatement.
I start with the pleasure palace--because it's my least favorite room--and work my way back toward the main room. I skip over Jim's room long enough to finish the rest of them before I finally buck up enough to take care of it. The pleasure palace is my least favorite because of the sheer volume of gross going on in there, but Jim's room is the most difficult. It doesn't look any different from the other rooms when I first walk into it, and it's no bigger than any other room, either. He's not messier than his brothers, and it's not like it gets cleaned so seldomly that I find moldy food or dead rodents under the bed. It's just . . . the room smells like him. And when I open the door, it's the first thing I'm hit with. His scent. This intoxicating mix of leather and tobacco just subtle enough that the smell of his soap overrides it. There are only two rooms in the clubhouse that have their own bathrooms, and Jim's is one of them. He's been using this small room and attached bath as his home for a few weeks now. I don't even know when it started, but he's just kind of stopped going to his house. And I've had Ryan with me and Ian.
Sylvia knows, and she's offered to take Ryan on her good days. If I'm being honest with myself, I don't let her because I want him with me, not because I'm worried about how much she can handle right now. It doesn't really matter, though, because I think she knows. Ian is my son, and I love him in ways I don't have words for. My loving Ryan doesn't take away from that love--it only adds to it. When Ryan's around, I see my little boy, not the shell he was before we moved here, and for that alone I love that boy. But I also love his smile and his laugh. I love his heart and the way he seeks me out. I love the way he makes me feel needed and wanted and important. Ian's the only other person who's ever made me feel like this. So even though I'm tired and I want Jim to step up and be a damn parent, I also don't want to lose my boy. I don't relish the day I have to face the fact that Ryan isn't mine, and no amount of playing mommy is going to make up for that fact.
Before I know it, Jim's bathroom is clean. None of the typical signs of life were on the floor or in his wastebasket. Signs of life being condom wrappers and random pieces of underwear. Jim chases me for months, acts like he's my friend, and then lets me clean up his fucking condom wrappers. When he first told me he can't remember Ryan's mother, I was surprised. Not that I remember a whole hell of a lot about Ian's father, but that's on him, not me. Asshole didn't even wait until the stick turned blue to cut bait. Maybe it was less about surprise that a man could have a kid with somebody he can't remember--not that it matters since she's dead--but more that Jim, my friend, a guy I thought was a decent person, couldn't remember a woman who'd supposedly told him she was having his baby.
"Men. Fucking pigs--the whole lot of 'em," I walk back into the bedroom, muttering to myself, with the garbage bag in hand and contemplate whether or not to toss the pile of dirty clothes from the floor into the bag. My grandpa had a rule about that shit growing up--you put your clothes away. They end up on his floor and he'd chuck 'em. Didn't matter what they were. It's tempting, but I have enough shit to work out with Jim to add that infraction to the list.
"What's wrong, momma?" Jim's deep voice sounds curious, not worried. But I'm screaming from the shock of it. I thought I was alone. My right hand grips the half-full trash bag as I swing it out in front of me. My left just flies around maniacally. Only when I come to the realization that I'm screaming like a banshee do I come to my damn senses and shut myself up. Comfortably stretched out on the bed is Jim. His jet-black hair is tucked behind his ears, and his gray eyes dance as he smiles up at me.
"I hope you're better at defense when you're home with our boys."
Our boys?
I don't put a voice to the words that fly through my head, but I know damn well that my face is saying it for me. He has got to be fucking kidding me. I struggle every single day to be a decent mother to my own kid, and because Jim can't step up and be a fucking father, I've got Ryan, too. And he has the nerve to suggest I can't take care of those boys on my own? Hell no, and fuck that and fuck him, too.
And because this man makes me lose my marbles and doesn't even have the courtesy to patronize me a little, I let out another scream and throw the bag of trash at him. I don't run, which is really what I should be doing right now. MC's are all the same. The club is about brotherhood, and the brotherhood is about pride and respect. Even though the guys try to turn the bullshit off with their women in private, they never fully do. Those patches and that ink becomes who they are, whether they like it or not. If I run, Jim would find me quickly, but at least I'd have a head start before I had to deal with the consequences of my actions. Because there are always consequences.
Always.
But I don't run, because I promised myself I'm going to do different, better even, than before. I told Ian that we're home now, and I meant it. So I dig my heels in, chest heaving, eyes narrowed, and I dare Jim to say a word to me.
And because he's fucking stupid, he does.
Roaring up off the bed, he's in my face in a matter of moments. With our height difference, he bends at his knees to meet my eyes. His stubbled jaw is locked in place. And we stand like this, each about ready to clock the other, in total silence. I'm pretty sure if I speak right now, it'll be to tell him to go fuck himself, and he'd probably be saying much the same thing to me.
The last few weeks Jim's been even more distant, and the soft and flirty thing he does has been fewer and further between. I should be grateful that this is my biggest issue in life. My boy and I have a home, he even has a regular pediatrician, and he's fucking killing it in summer school. We read every night and work on our math and vocab words every afternoon. Ryan's doing good, too, but he's such a pain in the ass about doing his homework. At this point, I'm just glad I've managed to find ways to get him to do it. It was touch and go for a couple of weeks there, but once I figured out his vulnerabilities, I've been able to exploit them. Which is another thing--my kid has friends. As in plural, as in holy shit, my poor, sweet little boy plays with other kids, and he smiles and he fucking laughs. Jim doesn't get why that hits me so hard. He told me I was overreacting, but Sylvia got it. She doesn't know Ian's history--nobody here does--but she's a mother. She doesn't have to know my boy's damage to appreciate my happiness over something so small. She's not doing great these days, but she hides it well in front of the boys. I give her what support I can, but Sylvia Stone is not one to accept help no matter how much she needs it.
"Well, you gonna stand there all day, or are you gonna yell? I got shit to do," I say. In the time it's taken my mind to wander over how much worse my situation could be, he's stood stock still and just stared at me. His eyes are at first blazing hot and crinkled in the corners, like
he's angry, but then he's just kind of spaced out. Which might actually be worse, because I can't figure out what he's thinking.
And he doesn't tell me. Instead, he reaches out and cups my face in his hands and pulls me in. In a rush, his lips are on mine, and they feel damn good. All soft and velvety and . . . like bubble gum. Only he's not chewing bubble gum. I straighten my back and try to pull away, but he won't let me, and fuck him for this shit. What an asshole. Jim's lips are never this soft, and he damn sure doesn't go around chewing bubble gum. Without another option, I reach up and place my hands on his chest. And I bite down on his lower hip. Hard.
He pushes himself off me, sending me back into the door frame. Pain radiates from the back of my skull, but it doesn't matter. The quick rise and fall of his chest in partnership with the narrowing of his eyes is all the satisfaction I need.
"You stupid bitch," he hisses. For the first time since I got to know him, a sliver of genuine fear runs through me. Jim won't hit me, I tell myself. He's not like the rest of them. But he takes a step forward, and it's so slow and calculated that I recognize it for what it is. He won't hit me, I promise myself. Another step and he's almost on me. But he might. Because that's what men do--even good men.
"Stop." The word leaves my mouth as something between a command and a panicked shout.
"You're going to pay for that."
I put up shaking hands and take a deep breath. I say it again when he doesn't listen, but my voice breaks under the effort. My hands clench into balls at my sides as my lungs strain for breath. Jim's black hair lightens to the darkest brown I've ever seen. It's no longer a windswept mess around his face and is slicked back with an expensive mouse that keeps it set. His pale skin darkens and takes on an olive complexion that is purely Mediterranean. Gray eyes darken to a deep brown, and the man before me grows a few inches. Jim Stone, my infuriating friend who stood before me moments ago, is no longer. In his place is Carlo Mancuso--Mike, when I knew him. And his lip is curled, his voice spitting venom, and he's holding my six-year-old son to him with a knife to my boy's throat. I try to shake it away, knowing it's just an illusion, but it feels so real. Short pulls of breath are all I can take in, and they're not nearly enough to keep the pressure from swimming in my head. My eyes fall closed as I try to regain control of my mind and body. I can barely think clearly enough to suck what little air I can into my lungs. It's just . . . my throat is so tight. This doesn't make sense. None of it makes sense.
Jim says my name, but it sounds like he's far away, and his voice still carries a thick New York accent. I reach out but lose my balance. No sooner than I'm falling forward is Jim catching me in his arms. He cradles me against his hard chest, murmuring soft words I don't understand. I suck in a deep breath, knowing it's Jim and not Mike. The anger that flowed through my veins is gone now, and all that's left in its wake is a sorrow I don't understand. Jim isn't Mike, and I know that, but the fear still lingers.
A subtle tingle starts in my toes and works its way up through my legs to my torso and finally my arms. As it travels, it feels less like a tingle and more like a buzzing, but then a heaviness comes over me, and it feels so right and perfect that I welcome it. Mike's image slowly fades from my mind, but before it disappears completely, I relive the worst moment of my entire life as Mike's blade pierces Ian's flesh. Blood spills from his small, frightened face, mixing with tears that stream his cheeks. Not my boy. Not Ian.
"No, Mike. No," I whisper to myself, knowing Jim can hear me and he's going to ask questions. I just can't stop myself. The moment still haunts me, despite the passage of time, and it doesn't cease to hurt.
"Who the fuck is Mike and what did he do to you?"
When the fog lifts and it's just me and Jim once again, I stiffen in his arms. He's asking questions and demanding answers. Answers I don't want to give, moments I don't want to relive. But I have to. Because Jim doesn't want me, and the only way to convince him of that is to tell him the truth about the woman he calls his girl.
"Won't ask again, babe."
"No," I say firmly. Once I tell him, this is all over, and he doesn't get to dictate my pain. "I'll tell you when I'm ready, and I'm not ready now. You don't have to like it, but you do have to deal with it."
"Just tell me," he says softly, and it breaks down my walls just a bit. "I want to know you. Every broken little part of you."
"Why?" I can't think of a single reason.
"I can't put you back together if I don't know where you're broken."
Sucking in a deep breath, I force myself to speak the words I never have before. Not to anyone.
CHAPTER 10
Ruby
Fort Bragg, California
July 1997
"I'm gonna go clean up the rooms," I say to Layla, Grady's wife. She's had her ass perched at the bar for over an hour now and hasn't said much of anything after I pissed her off. She needed to hear what I had to say, so she can just get over her shit. Babies deserve a mother who puts them first and fuck her for not putting all that shit aside for her baby.
Speaking of people getting over their shit...
It's been over a month since Jim was patched in as VP. He's always been an asshole, but lately it's like he's competing in the asshole Olympics. The first couple of weeks, he'd probably have won bronze. But after yesterday? That motherfucker is a damn gold medalist. He makes my head spin with his mood swings. One minute he's smiling and flirting with me and the next he's shutting down and is acting cold as ice. I can't make sense of it, and I'm done trying to. We spent months volleying between snipping at one another and flirting. Then we kissed and it was romantic and all this stuff that I never thought I'd get. But because my life's a bitch, I never did really get it. We kissed, and Jim finished his fight with Grady--he won--and then he got absolutely shit-faced with the boys. And I had to leave to take care of our kids. I don't know what I expected, but I expected a hell of a lot more than I got. That night just confirmed what I already knew, but stupidly let myself forget. Anything I might be feeling for Jim is just that--a feeling--and it can't be anything more.
"Do what you want," Layla says with a coolness that's only there to mask her anger. Biting my tongue, I ignore her and walk away. Dumb bitch is pregnant but won't put the drugs away long enough to make sure her kid is born with half a brain. To say I hate her might be an understatement.
I start with the pleasure palace--because it's my least favorite room--and work my way back toward the main room. I skip over Jim's room long enough to finish the rest of them before I finally buck up enough to take care of it. The pleasure palace is my least favorite because of the sheer volume of gross going on in there, but Jim's room is the most difficult. It doesn't look any different from the other rooms when I first walk into it, and it's no bigger than any other room either. He's not messier than his brothers and it's not like it gets cleaned so seldomly that I find moldy food or dead rodents under the bed. It's just... the room smells like him. And when I open the door, it's the first thing I'm hit with. His scent. This intoxicating mix of leather and tobacco that's just subtle enough that the smell of his soap overrides it. There are only two rooms in the clubhouse that have their own bathrooms, and Jim's is one of them. He's been using this small room and attached bath as his home for a few weeks now. I don't even know when it started, but he's just kind of stopped going to his house. And I've had Ryan with me and Ian.
Silvia knows, and she's offered to take Ryan on her good days. If I'm being honest with myself, I don't let her because I want him with me, not because I'm worried about how much she can handle right now. It doesn't really matter though, because I think she knows. Ian is my son and I love him in ways I don't have words for. My loving Ryan doesn't take away from that love, it only adds to it. When Ryan's around, I see my little boy--not this shell that he was before we moved here--and for that alone I love that boy. But I also love his smile and his laugh. I love his heart and the way he seeks me out. I love the way he makes me feel needed and wa
nted and important. Ian's the only other person who's ever made me feel like this. So even though I'm tired and I want Jim to step up and be a damn parent, I also don't want to lose my boy. I don't relish the day I have to face the fact that Ryan isn't mine and no amount of playing mommy is going to make up for that fact.
Before I know it, Jim's bathroom is clean. None of the typical signs of life were on the floor or in his wastebasket. Signs of life being condom wrappers and random pieces of underwear. Jim chases me for months, acts like he's my friend, and then lets me clean up his fucking condom wrappers. When he first told me he can't remember Ryan's mother, I was surprised. Not that I remember a whole hell of a lot about Ian's father, but that's on him, not me. Asshole didn't even wait until the stick turned blue to cut bait. Maybe it was less about surprise that a man could have a kid with somebody he can't remember--not that it matters since she's dead--but more that Jim, my friend, a guy I thought was a decent person, couldn't remember a woman who'd supposedly told him she was having his baby.
"Men. Fucking pigs--the whole lot of 'em," I walk back into the bedroom, muttering to myself, with the garbage bag in hand and contemplate whether or not to toss the pile of dirty clothes from the floor into the bag. My grandpa had a rule about that shit growing up. You put your clothes away. They end up on his floor and he'd chuck 'em. Didn't matter what they were. It's tempting, but I have enough shit to work out with Jim to add that infraction to the list.
"What's wrong, Momma?" Jim's deep voice sounds curious, not worried. But I'm screaming from the shock of it. I thought I was alone. My right hand grips the half-full trash bag as I swing it out in front of me. My left just flies around maniacally. Only when I come to the realization that I'm screaming like a banshee do I come to my damn senses and shut myself up. Comfortably stretched out on the bed is Jim. His jet black hair is tucked behind his ears and his gray eyes dance as he smiles up at me.