by K. L. Savage
I’m trapped.
Child locks.
I’m not mother material. Panic, fear, insecurity, everything starts to blur. His mom is going to see me and know. She’s going to judge me when she sees my bandages. She’s going to know what I did. I’m not good enough. I know that already, and now she’s going to know. What mother is going to want a woman like me for her son?
Eric opens the door, sending the humidity of the desert inside the cab. It’s sticky and hot, adding to the uncomfortable moment. “Ready?” he asks, as if he didn’t just drop a bomb and change my life.
I laugh, holding my stomach as the little baby inside me finds humor in this too because no way are these snorts my own. “Am I ready? To meet you mother?” I repeat his invitation, waiting for him to realize what just happened and why I’m in the truck with him.
He shrugs and puts the truck in reverse, lays his arms around the passenger seat, and turns his head to look out the back windshield.
His jaw flexes, and his arm is defined as he turns the wheel.
My hesitancy is gone. All I see is a hot man driving a truck. What is it about men reversing? The arm behind me, looking out the back window to see where we’re going. I can see the sharp edge of that jaw. The way his hand is clenched around the steering wheel showing the rope of muscle in his arm.
This is all a rouse.
No one, I repeat, no one, has ever made looking so damn good, so damn easy.
“Eric, is this a joke? Are you trying to freak me out?”
“What?” he asks, putting the truck in drive. When we get to the gate, Eric presses a button that’s clipped to his sun visor, and the gate swings open, creaking loudly. There are a few rods dented, some broken in half from the amount of bullets that peppered through them. “No, this isn’t a joke. I’m late to have dinner with my mom.” The truck lurches forward as we drive through the gate and onto the dirt road. The tires dip into the potholes, and my arm whacks against the door.
A shout of pain leaves me, and I clutch my arm, whimpering as the pain radiates all the way to the bone. The truck comes to a stop, and I do my best to push through the pain.
“Damn, are you okay, Jo? Let me see.”
“I’m fine. I just need a minute.”
“I should take you back to the hospi—”
“No!” I shout, clutching my arm to my chest. “No, I don’t want to go back there. Please. I’m fine.”
His fingers wrap around my elbow, and he bends down to kiss the wound. “Okay, but if it becomes too much, you let me know, okay?”
“I can’t believe you kidnapped me to go to your mom’s,” I say through a strained grin. When he sees that I’m alright, he starts driving again, but laces his fingers through mine.
“I had to get you to go. I didn’t want to leave you at the clubhouse.”
“Why? I would have been fine.”
The blinker sounds as he approaches Loneliest Road. Click. Click. Click.
The wheel turns to the right, and the rough dirt road smooths to flat pavement. “No. It isn’t safe there right now. I feel better knowing you’re with me.”
I don’t say anything. I look out the window and see the silhouettes of the cacti against the last of the horizon. My cheeks hurt from the smile on my face that I’m hiding from him. I’m scared to be this happy.
In my experience, happiness is temporary, and pain is the emotion that lasts forever.
I should know, I have plenty of scars to show for it.
I know I should have asked if she wanted to go to my mom’s, but she’s skittish, and she would have run away from me. I’m not chasing her; not because I don’t want to, I will, but I’ve been running around in circles with her for far too long.
Where I go, she goes from now on.
I pull into my mom’s driveway and throw the truck in park. I stare at her house, a Spanish-style two-bedroom. The front porch light is on, and it looks like no one is home, but she keeps her car in the garage.
“Don’t get out of the truck yet,” I tell her as I step out of the truck and shut the door. I run around the front of the truck, feeling the heat from the engine. She watches me through the windshield, her emeralds are brilliant glittering against the faint glow of the porch light illuminating the darkness. Jo is so damn beautiful, and she has no idea.
I open the door for her, and she slides down against the leather seat until her feet hit the ground. Her hair trickles down her shoulders, the ends dancing in the breeze, and I can smell the lavender shampoo and soot. I grin. She used Poodle’s shampoo. I bet she thought it was Sarah’s.
I take her hand in mine and follow the stone walkway from the driveway to the front door. I don’t bother knocking. She leaves the door unlocked when she knows I’m coming to see her. The oak door is heavy as I push it open. “Mom!” I call out for her. The entryway is extravagant. There’s a chandelier hanging above us from an inverted tray ceiling. The walls are painted a warm beige, decorated in different size canvases. Mom loves art from local artists.
Along the right side of the wall is a narrow coffee table and on top are pictures of me and Mom throughout the years.
“Aw, look at you with braces.” Jo giggles, picking up my eighth grade yearbook photo.
I snatch it from her and lay it facedown. “You aren’t allowed to see me like that.” My face flames with embarrassment, and I immediately knock over my prom picture before she can see it. I had really long hair and still had braces. I didn’t grow into myself until I was around twenty. I was awkward and all arms and legs.
“I thought you were cute.” Jo puckers her lips in a cute pout. “It’s so different to see you as an innocent kid than this big, bad, handsome biker.”
I wrap my arm around her waist and pull her to me, pushing her hair over her shoulder as I admire the high peaks of her cheekbones. “You think I’m handsome?”
She rolls her eyes and wiggles out of my arms.
“Of course she thinks you’re handsome. You’re my son.”
I kiss Jo’s forehead before turning around and wrapping Mom up in a bear hug. Her hair is white from age, but her skin still looks youthful. Her blue eyes shine with happiness as she smiles at me. “Hey, Mom,” I greet her, kissing each cheek. “It’s good to see you.”
She pats her palm against my face then pinches me. “You’re going to have to warm up your food since you’re late. I made your favorite.”
“Really?” I say with excitement and head toward the kitchen, almost forgetting to introduce Jo. I turn around, scratch the back of my head, and chuckle. “Sorry, Mom. This is Jo. Jo, this is my mom, Rachel.”
My mom gives Jo the biggest fucking smile. Her cheeks turn pink, and if I’m not mistaken, Mom’s eyes water. “Oh my goodness,” Mom says, voice trembling with emotion as she grabs Jo’s hands, minding the bandages. Jo blushes and looks away, unable to meet Mom’s eyes. “Aren’t you just beautiful? Oh, my boy finally found someone. I was so worried he was going to grow old and die alone.”
I scoff, “Well, jeez. Thanks, Mom.”
“What? You’re a brat when it comes to women. Not once have I ever met one of your girlfriends. Not even in high school, college, or medical school. For the longest time, I thought you were gay. You know, I was okay with that too. I was ready for you to bring a man home. Someone, anyone! But time went on, and I realized my boy would only bring someone to meet me if they were special to him.”
“Oh, I don’t know if I’m—” Jo starts to say, but I interrupt her.
“Jo is special. I’ve known that for a while.” Her eyes meet mine as she lifts her head and stares at me over mom’s shoulder. I keep my expression serious and my tone soft. “I didn’t know how to win her over is all.”
“Well, I’m just happy you manned up and brought her here. Gosh, Jo. You are skinny. Does he feed you? Don’t worry, I’ll send you back with some food. Your poor little girl is withering away, Eric.” Mom pops me on the back of the head as she scurries by me. “I taught you b
etter than that.”
“Mom, she eats. I feed her!”
“This ass didn’t come from starving myself, I can tell you that much,” Jo mutters under her breath, and it wasn’t meant to be heard, but Mom turns around, spanning her flowy cardigan to the side as she lifts her arms.
She points a finger at Jo and shakes it. “Those are childbearing hips, young lady. Don’t you be ashamed. You swing those hips. Own them.” Mom rocks her lower body back and forth as if reggae is blaring on the stereo.
I chuckle at Mom’s antics, but Jo’s face is pale.
I know exactly what she’s thinking about. The pregnancy. The pregnancy she doesn’t know she wants. She and I haven’t had the opportunity to dive in and really talk about what happened and see if we can’t jog her memory. I want the name of the person she thinks took advantage of her. I’m going to fucking ruin them when I figure out who they are.
“Anyway, sit down, and I’ll bring you something to drink. Your chicken alfredo is warming now,” Mom informs us as she opens the fridge door and grabs a few Pellegrinos.
I lay my hand on Jo’s lower back and guide her toward the kitchen. Jo plucks her shirt, then rubs her hands down her sides, nervous and feeling underdressed.
“You look beautiful,” I tell her, passing the oversized light blue couch in the living room.
Jo doesn’t say anything in return, and my goal is to hear her say thank you one day. Not because I want to be thanked for complimenting her, but because I want her to believe me. I want her to know she’s beautiful. One day she will. I’ll heal her when she thinks she can’t heal anymore. I’ll morph her stitches into scars and transform her insecurities to strengths.
The chair skids across the floor as I pull it out from under the table for Jo. She sits slowly, and for a moment I feel bad for dragging her with me before she was ready, but I wanted her to meet the most important person in the world to me.
My mom is a small woman, skinny; a strong wind would blow her over, but she’s a badass. A protector, fiercer than a lot of men in the club. She’s a ruthless killer, but no one would ever know it because she’s so damn sweet.
“Okay, here we go.” Mom places a warm bowl in front of Jo, then me, and then she sits down with her own.
“I’m sorry I’m not dressed for dinner. I didn’t know I’d be coming.” Jo cuts an accusatory glare at me before stabbing a piece of chicken with the fork. I hear the metal and porcelain bowl clink together, and I wince. She doesn’t take her eyes off me as she yanks the chicken off the fork roughly, probably imagining tearing me apart if I’m guessing correctly.
“Oh, it’s fine. That sounds like Eric. He doesn’t ask. He’ll just throw you over his shoulder and do what he wants, but he always means well.”
I twist the fork in a circle, gathering the noodles in a hurricane of homemade sauce. “You said you needed to talk to me about something? I’m sorry I couldn’t come earlier. A lot of stuff went down at the clubhouse—”
“She knows you’re in a motorcycle club?” Jo gasps, and the piece of chicken on her fork falls off into the bowl.
“Psh, Jo, I’ve known more bikers than you will in your entire life. Most of the time, they are good men and always willing to lend a hand. Isn’t that right, Eric?” Mom asks me, patting her lips elegantly with a red cloth napkin. She’s reminding me of when Demon’s Fury MC came and cleaned up Dad’s body and stitched me up.
Their doctor did a good job, but there was no saving my back. It’s fucked up. Forever. The scars are sensitive and painful, some days more than others.
“Right, Mom.” Jo is silent, nibbling on a noodle. “So, what did you want to talk about?” I shove another bite in my mouth and chew.
“We can wait until dinner is over. Enjoy your food.” Mom keeps her head down, and my hackles raise. That isn’t like her. She’s jovial, honest, and doesn’t give a damn where she lays the truth. Whether it’s on the dinner table or at someone’s funeral. Mom lives on the truth.
“Mom, don’t lie to me.” It makes my fingers itch for my scalpel to start making cuts. “You don’t lie. You know better. What is it?”
“Eric, don’t you take that tone with me,” she warns.
My fists clench on the table, and the air around us changes from happy and welcome, to thick with tension. Jo sips her water and swallows loudly, placing the green Pellegrino bottle on the table.
“Maybe we should go,” she says.
“No, I’m not leaving until she tells me what’s going on.”
“Eric—”
“Mom!” I slam my fist on the table so hard, the glass water bottle topples over, rolls off the edge of the table, and shatters on the floor.
Mom stands up and throws her napkin down, then leans her hands on the table, and grips the edge. “You better realize who you’re talking to, son. You will respect me in my house!”
“Why won’t you tell me? You’re freaking me out. This isn’t like you. Did you meet someone? You know I’ve been wanting you to. I don’t like that you’re alone in this house—”
“Eric, no, I haven’t met anyone.” Mom lays her hand against her neck and sits down as if she’s in pain.
“Then, what is it? Just tell me, stop dragging it out. I don’t like lies. Don’t lie to me about it. You know how that makes me feel.”
“You and I need to talk in private.” She starts to get up for us to go to another room, but I shake my head.
“No, anything you want to say, you can say in front of Jo. I’ll tell her anyway.”
“It’s okay. I can give you two some space. It isn’t a problem.”
“No,” my mom and I say at the same time, and Jo pushes her bowl forward and lays her hands in her lap.
We fall into an awkward silence, and Jo reaches for my hand for support. Whatever is about to happen, I’m going to need it. It’s bad—the news. Mom isn’t like this. She’s always been about ripping off the band-aid.
“Eric, I’ve been diagnosed with breast cancer.”
“No. No, you haven’t. You haven’t,” I deny and let go of Jo’s hand. I plop back in the chair, my scars burning once again from stress. “No, you know what? Breast cancer can be treated. There are options. We can beat it, Mom. It’s okay. It’s fine. We will figure it out.”
“I’ve had breast cancer for two years, Eric. Treatment isn’t working. The doctor has diagnosed me with stage four. Nothing else can be done. I’ve stopped all treatment.”
I blink at her in disbelief. She wouldn’t have hidden this from me. Plus, I would have noticed. I’m a fucking doctor. All this time I could have helped—I could have been here. I would have moved in. “What?” is all I can say because my mind is running so fast. I can’t think of anything else to say. “You hid this from me?” The truth and immensity of her lie hits me. I take my fork and stab it into the table. “You can’t… You … why? God, Mom! What the fuck? No. No! You can’t.” I push away from the table, and my chest tightens. Anxiety. No one understands. No one understands that my mom isn’t just my mom—she’s my best friend. She keeps me grounded, human. I’m not like my MC brothers. I’m not violent, but that’s only because of my mom.
I have violent tendencies, thoughts, and wants, but I do nothing about them. Cutting into human flesh helps ease the need to inflict pain. Being a doctor, that wasn’t a decision I made because I wanted to save lives.
I want to save the lives that matter, that are worthy. I want to be in control of the scalpel for once in my life.
“Eric, it’s okay. Everything is fine. Sit down.”
“Sit down?” I gape at her in disbelief. “You want me to sit down, finish my food, and pretend my own mom didn’t tell me she had cancer for two years and now she’s dying? Is that what you want? Okay,” I yank the chair out, biting back tears, and sit my ass down in the seat. “This?” I shove bite after bite in my mouth until I can hardly chew. Noodles slip out of my mouth. Alfredo drips down my chin. I nearly choke.
Jo slides her hand into min
e. “Eric, stop,” she pleads.
“I didn’t tell you because I knew how you would react. I wanted to see if I could beat it before I said anything. I didn’t expect the treatments not to work. I’m sorry, Eric.”
I lean my elbows against the table and fold my hands in front of my face, thinking about what to do and say. I think about treatments and our next move, a way for my mom to survive this. “How long are they giving you?” I close my burning eyes and let the truth choke me. My mom is dying. I don’t think I can say it out loud. She’s young. She’s only sixty. Years. We were supposed to have years left. Good memories to be made to completely bury the bad ones.
“You know it’s all relevant. I could—”
“How. Long?” I punctuate with impatience and heartbreak.
“Three months, give or take.”
“Three…” I say on a long breath and cross my hands behind my head. “Three months? Months?” I swing my arm across the table and roar, letting the anger take root. The bowl filled with alfredo crashes, shattering against the wall. I take the Pellegrino bottle in my hand and throw it next, sending water everywhere.
“No, why didn’t you tell me? I’m a doctor. I would have helped you.”
“Eric.” She stands and hurries around the table to stand in front of me. “Because I knew you’d obsess over it, and it would’ve been unhealthy. I don’t want you to live like that. I’ve never wanted you to live in pain, only peace. You know that,” she says. “You know why I didn’t want to torture you with something you couldn’t have changed.”
“I might have,” I say weakly.
“No, baby. Not this time.” Mom cups my face, and I should be embarrassed for losing it like I did in front of Jo, but I risk a quick glance her way, and she has wet cheeks. “Nothing could have been done. Don’t beat yourself up over this. This isn’t the past, Eric. This isn’t something that can be changed like yours.”
“I can’t lose you.” I engulf her in a hug, squeezing her too tight. Part of me is afraid it will be the last time I’ll ever get to hug her like this. “I don’t know what I’ll do.”