Rattler, I recognise from last night, and Saint, of course. But the other man? Listening to him speak, his words are measured and eloquent. I wait to see if I can catch his name. Finally I do, and I smile to myself when I find out it’s Words.
My plate is almost empty, my stomach full to overflowing, when Short leans into me.
“The clubhouse is no place for the boy. After breakfast, I’ll take you both to my house. You can stay there while you figure out what you want to do.”
I vaguely remember him saying something about a house last night. “I don’t want to put you out.” Though it’s said automatically. Something I should say, rather than having much meaning behind it. If he doesn’t help me, I’m actually stuck. Where do I go with no real money to my name and a traumatised boy with development issues?
“Where the fuck else are you going to go, Bron?”
I’d run last night, with no plan, just knowing I had to get Trip out of that toxic environment. I’m just thankful I had someone to run to, at least to give me some breathing space. And whether it’s Short’s house or not, it’s an option I didn’t have before. What can I do but accept it?
“I don’t know if I’ll ever be able to repay you, or pay you rent.”
Short’s jaw tenses, but that’s all he gives away of his thoughts. “We’ll figure it out.”
For some reason, Saint’s brow is furrowed as he gives a pointed look toward Short. In return, Short gives his VP a sharp dip, then a nod.
I’ve eaten more than I ever have of a home-cooked meal before. When the woman who served us comes and picks up our empty plates – Trip also having eaten everything that had been placed in front of him - I thank her profusely, able to overlook her barely there clothing.
“Oh fuck!” Pippa exclaims, suddenly leaping off Saint’s lap and disappearing out the door.
Saint stands abruptly, swears, and says, “Fuckin’ morning sickness.” He disappears after her.
Pippa’s pregnant?The nurse in me wants to go help, but I guess there’s not much I can do. They’ve probably got it covered. Now the ginger biscuit she was eating makes sense.
“You ready?” Short asks me, his voice bringing me back to the present. I must have sunk into a food coma, and I’m not sure what he means.Ready? For what?
As if reading my confusion, he adds, “To go see my house. Though I have to prepare you, it’s not much. I bought it cheap with a plan to do it up.”
As long as it’s a roof over our heads, and somewhere Dad won’t be able to find us, I don’t care if it’s a mud hut. Though there’s always the worry it might upset Trip if it’s not up to scratch. It pains me how little I really understand about him and his problems. I can only be grateful we’ve survived breakfast with these men who’ve taken us under their wing.
Short’s looking at me as if waiting for a response, and inside a kernel of excitement grows. He’s taken on my most pressing problem and has solved it – a place to live. A place to make a fresh start. Whatever state it’s in, I won’t complain.
This time, I answer with a grin on my face. “I’m so ready,” I truthfully confirm.
