“I love it,” she says.
The story’s been told and retold again, and even brothers who weren’t there at the time still like to get some mileage out of it. It’s no secret, but letting her in on the origins of my road name has put a genuine smile on her face for the first time tonight.
I’m cognisant she must still be hurting, physically as well as mentally. Those black eyes, which match mine, and that gash on her face bear witness to it. I gentle my voice and say, “Go to bed, Bron. Get some sleep. We’ll talk more in the morning. And take the bed in the main bedroom.” Seeing the flicker of concern in her eyes, I quickly add, “I’ll be more than comfortable down here on the recliner.”
As if the mention of sleep triggers it, she gives a wide yawn. “Are you sure?”
“Get gone, Bron.” I jerk my head toward the stairs.
“G’night,Short.” She gives a quick grin as she uses my name, now knowing its origin.
As I return her salutation, she rises, takes her wine glass to the kitchen, rinses it, then makes her way through the living room and disappears upstairs.
I eye the recliner with distaste, but hell, I’ve slept in far worse places than that. In my time as a prospect and as a member on long rides, more than once I’ve gone to sleep in the open by the side of my bike.
After draining my whisky, I settle myself down and close my eyes, trying to follow the same advice as I’d given to her. But sleep evades me. The rage I’d suppressed at hearing her story, me witnessing Trip’s tantrum, no, what did she call it?Meltdownand her telling me how her parents dealt with him comes roaring back through me now.
I’d always suspected Doc’s a fucking animal who needed to be put down. Now, maybe, her fucking poor excuse for a mom needs to be added to the list, too.
That’s my wish and desire, but I doubt Bullseye will be of the same mind when I speak to him tomorrow. How much do the scales need to tip in the other direction before Doc’s deeds can no longer balance his usefulness to the club?
Even though it’s the last thing I want to do, claiming Bronwyn and Trip is the only way out that I can think of. They’d be club property, protected, and we could still use Doc, albeit I’d struggle to have that fucking abuser anywhere near me. Doc would need to understand that he’d have no claim to the children he’d sired.
He’s got no love for the fruit of his loins, you’d have to be blind not to see that. We may have something in common with him. We call our women and children property, but our way is done with respect with the main purpose being to protectthem. Him though? He sees them as his to use, abuse, and treat however he wants to.
I visit the bathroom to have a slash. Then I return to the recliner, push it back as far as it can go, and close my eyes with the intention of getting some sleep.
But Bron’s story goes around my head like a never-ending nightmare, keeping me awake for hours as I relive my guilt about how I lost my temper. I wronged her so badly, I wasn’t sure she’d ever be able to forgive me. I think she has, or at least she’s giving me another chance, and we’re back to being friends. Could we be more? My claim would suggest I want that, but would she? And could something real come out of it? One thing’s for certain, we’ve got a mountain of problems to summit before we can get close to that.
Eventually, I fall asleep. I seem to wake after only minutes to the sound of multiple elephants dancing the tango above my head.
Fuck.Sitting up, I push the heels of my hands into my eyes, trying to relieve the soreness. I rub at my temples to ease the slight ache there, a definite symptom of lack of sleep. When I was younger, I used to think nothing of partying all night, and even being able to put in a fair day’s work after. Now in my mid-thirties, age seems to be creeping up, and my sole wish is to be back at the club, in my own bed, where I can turn over, shove a pillow over my head, and forget the rest of the world exists until I feel ready to deal with it.
But I can’t. I’ve got Bronwyn and the boy to look after.
How is it that when I never saw myself having an old lady, let alone kids, that I now seem to have acquired both? Worse still, the former doesn’t want anything to do with the sexual nature of relationships, and the latter? Well, I doubt I’ve yet got to the bottom of his problems.
Fuck my life.
Pushing myself up to a standing position, I place my hands in the middle of my back to ease the ache there, and rotate my head to get the stiffness out of my neck. Then, taking a deep breath, I make my way into the kitchen to see what the prospect had delivered in the way of shit I can make some sort of breakfast from.
Opening the fridge, I find eggs and bacon, and in a cupboard, there’s a loaf of bread. I might not be a gourmet cook, but surely even I can make something edible with what I’ve found, without fucking it up too badly.
By the time I hear footsteps on the stairs, I’ve got an omelette cooking, bacon sizzling, and the toast’s just popping out of the toaster.
Bronwyn enters first, her eyes opening in surprise when she sees me in front of the stove. Not wanting to make this awkward, I immediately ask her, “Can you find some plates and silverware?”
As she moves forward to comply with my request, she reveals Trip standing behind her.
“Hey, Trip. You hungry?” When cautious eyes meet mine, I continue as I would to anyone else. “Not sure what you eat, but figured you wouldn’t turn down an omelette and bacon.” Already programmed, I don’t expect a reaction, so I am startled when I get a slight nod.
“Come sit.” I point to a chair. “It’s almost ready.” I take the plates Bronwyn hands to me, lay them on the worktop, then cut the large omelette in half, putting a portion on each of two plates. Then I load them up with bacon. I place one in front of Trip, and the other to his right, and point to the pile of toast that’s already in the middle of the table.
Bronwyn hovers.
“Sit down and eat.”
“But what about you?”
