CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR
BRONWYN
On entering the clubroom this morning, I noticed Jenni and Alice Jane seemed to be missing. I asked Paint the question while I was re-bandaging his arm. He informed me, having deemed it safe to go home, Jenni had wasted no time leaving, chasing the semblance of normality her own four walls offered her and her daughter. I couldn’t blame them, though I hoped it wouldn’t be the last I saw of them. I liked Jenni and thought we could become friends. Likewise, Words told me his mom, Cathy, had also taken the opportunity to go, but not, he added with a wink, before dropping more hints about him and me getting together. I’d laughed, told him that deal was off the table, feeling relieved Short was still upstairs asleep in his bed.
While I was still treating the rest of my patients, Short had finally come down. Seeing I was working, he’d gone into the kitchen to check on Trip and had gotten something to eat. I’d been frequently looking in on my son all morning, so I knew he was happy. Pippa kept him amused, which allowed me to get on with my nursing duties.
Shortly after the New Mexico brothers arrived, returning from Short’s house where they had spent the night, all the men disappeared into their meeting, reappeared not long after to see the members of the visiting chapter off on their way home, then vanished once again. With my patients absent, I roll up my metaphorical shirt sleeves and offer to help clear up the clubhouse.
Pippa has already got the club girls working. All the glass from the windows that had been hurriedly swept against the walls yesterday to clear the floor for the men to sleep has now been collected and deposited into the dumpster outside. I’m relieved, as I’d been worried about Trip cutting himself. Behind the bar, it’s a different story. Gunfire had smashed a lot of the bottles, leaving a sour smell, glass, and a sticky mess on the floor. Any bottles left undamaged had obviously been drunk by the brothers last night, though due to the surrounding mayhem, they hadn’t bothered to clear the empties up. A task I do now.
Then I grab a broom and a mop and start having a go at cleaning the residual mess, keeping one eye on my son, who, having moved from the kitchen, is now sitting at one of the few remaining upright tables, with his building bricks, rather than crayons, in front of him. He’s lost in his own little world as the rest of us work around him. I thank my lucky stars he’s oblivious to what’s going on. In this instance, I’m pleased my mom got him into the habit of amusing himself. It’s not ideal, nor something I’d want to encourage, but for now, it works.
With the club girls working alongside us, we make good inroads into clearing up the mess. When I see Pippa trying to take out the remnants of a heavy chair, I stop her. “You’re pregnant. You should be looking after yourself. Leave the heavy lifting until the men get out of church.”
She bites her lip and then shrugs. “I suppose you’re right.” She glances around at the damage and then at the busted-indoor. For a moment, she looks so despondent, I want to give her a hug. But uncertain how she’d receive that, I keep my distance and keep to my words.
“This can be fixed, Pippa.” I glance around the room, noticing the walls and ceiling, yellowed with years’ worth of nicotine. “It can be made better than it ever was before.”
She gives a tired grin, and her lips curve. Bumping her hip against mine, she continues, “Yeah, the club’s got two old ladies now, so maybe we can decorate. And perhaps new furniture wouldn’t hurt. Oh, er, Bronwyn…?”
I hear it at the same time as her. Trip’s suddenly swept all his bricks onto the floor, and has started to make a keening sound. I rack my brains to figure out what has upset him. I know he likes routine… Oh shit. It’s well past lunchtime, and he hasn’t had anything to eat. He doesn’t have the words to express how he’s feeling.
“Trip.” I go to him and repeat his name again, trying to get him to focus on me. “Shall we go get something to eat?” Still unsure of exactly how much he comprehends, I mime putting something into my mouth. Then I hold out my hand, relieved when he takes it.
Going into the kitchen, I quickly assemble the makings of a sandwich that will satisfy him. Then, realising the women working and the men still in their meeting will probably be hungry when they finally come out, I start to make a buffet they can pick from.
Trip, who’s quieted, now that he’s got food in his stomach, is just finishing off a glass of milk when there’s a stampede of feet and the kitchen suddenly fills with men. Going to my son, I hover close by him, but of course, once he sees Short, he starts with his “Dada” chant again, making me smile even if it isn’t me he’s so pleased to see.
Keeping in the background, while the men devour with obvious appreciation the simple feast I’ve laid out, I ask no questions but instead listen, and take in the information I’m finding out. I hadn’t thought about those who’d lived in the bunkhouse losing everything. On hearing that, I quickly search out some paper and a pen, and start making notes of what they need. When my note-taking is observed, suddenly I’ve got all the now-homeless bikers talking to me, telling me their sizes, and the items they want replaced.
When I’ve got a complete shopping list, I offer to go into town and shop for them. Short stops me with a look toward Trip.
“He can come with me.”
Short raises a brow.
Well, perhaps that wasn’t my best idea. Trip’s never been shopping for anything.
Short takes the list from me. “I’ll get Trixie and Heaven to go into town,” he tells me. “But maybe you can get together with Pippa and work out where the boys are all going to sleep.” He looks a little sheepish. “I offered up our room to have a couple of brothers stay with us at our house. We can have Trip in with us. But, Bron, who would you be comfortable with having in close proximity?”
Glad to have something to do, I smile at him. “I’ll get onto that.” I tamp down my disappointment that Short and I won’t have a bedroom to ourselves. Now I know how good it feels to have him inside me, I really want to make love with him again. But that’s selfish. These men do need somewhere to sleep.
Short looks around the kitchen filled with hungry men. “Trixie, can you watch Trip for a while? I just need to talk to Bronwyn.”
My brow furrows. He’s been talking to me just fine where we are. Then I sigh, realising I’m being naïve. Trixie’s snort, lewd grin, and shooing motion tell me Short might just have read mymind, or at least his is running along the same tracks as mine. So, when he quickly ushers me out of the crowded room, across the clubroom, and up the stairs, I’m as eager as he is.
Once inside his room, he backs me against the door. His hands shake as he cups my face, as if he’s having difficulty holding himself back.
“I can’t get last night out of my fuckin’ mind,” he tells me. “I was so fuckin’ scared I’d lose you and Trip. I didn’t know how you were holding up or how Trip was coping. I can’t even think how I would have survived if I’d lost you both when we’re just starting out.”
“I was scared for you, for me, for Trip, for all of us.” It’s an easy response.
“Have to admit, there was a time when I wasn’t sure you’d be a good fit for the club, thought it might swallow you whole and spit you out. But hell, Bron, the way you stepped up, treated the injuries without blinking… You’re the best ol’ lady I could ever have dreamed of.”
“The danger was over by then,” I respond, wondering how he’d expected I’d react. Did he think the blood would have sent me running? “It wasn’t worse than the ER. I just did what I’ve been trained to do.”
His pupils enlarge, and as he presses himself against me, I feel the evidence of his arousal against my stomach. I know I’m becoming wet. It’s as if it’s already instinct for my body to respond to his.
