CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
BRONWYN
My bruises fade after a few days, and it’s come to the end of the week off work that Dad had bought me with yet another of his lies. I’m partly dreading going back to the hospital, but mostly looking forward to getting back to normal. Well, normal as it can be with the proposed plan that a prospect should follow me to work, wait outside while I’m there, and bring me home again.
The thought that I could really be in danger chills me. The only threat I’d previously considered was my father would find me and drag me home. But that first talk, the night Short bought Trip toys, and subsequent conversations have lifted the veil from my eyes. It’s not a stretch to believe there’s a benefit to Dad getting me out of the way permanently – all because I’m the only witness to there ever having been a child in that house. Except for my mom, of course, but she’d keep quiet, being just as guilty of concealing Trip’s birth as Dad had been.
My hands clench the edge of the kitchen sink as I try to come to terms with the future Dad had planned for Trip. It had taken a while to convince me of the peril Trip is in. As a nurse, I’mnot blind to the evil that exists in this world, and, of course, I’ve already had a taste of it courtesy of my dad. But for a child to be removed from his family, sold into depravity, well, bile rises into my throat each time I think of it.
Trip’s made progress these last few days we’ve lived with Short, and I can’t take the credit for that. Too used to a boy who exists, but doesn’t communicate or interact, it’s hard to reverse the low expectations I have of my son. To my chagrin, I’d initially thought all he needed was the same attention he got from my mom, which basically amounted to only being fed and clothed. Short, though, hadn’t got the same memo. From that evening, when he’d brought all the toys home, he’s spent time playing with him, and encouraging me to join in. And to my surprise, there’s been more interaction daily. Trip now claps his hands when he’s happy about something, and has even gained some confidence to ask, in his own way, for something he needs. He’ll now approach me, with one of his cars in his hands, if he wants me to play with him.
I’m becoming more and more convinced his condition was made worse by the way my parents treated him.
Apart from the first night, he’s not had a meltdown.
At the top of my to-do list when I get a free moment at work is to see if there’s a reputable therapist my colleagues can recommend. One who can deal with childhood trauma, which would probably work for both of us.
“You ready for this?” Short comes up behind me, hovering close. He always uses his voice so as not to startle me when he approaches. I’m becoming used to having Short sharing my space, but so far, he hasn’t touched me, nor I him. Though increasingly I’m starting to wonder what it would feel like if I were brave enough to seek comfort in his arms.
Pippa and Saint had come around together the other night, and their obvious intimacy had intrigued me. While I’d alwaysknown the VP as a scary, unapproachable man, fair, yes, but one who gave off vibes if you ever crossed him, you’d regret it, Pippa obviously regards him differently. She teases him, touches him, kisses him without a care who’s looking. And the loving looks they exchange would melt even the hardest heart. Saint was constantly placing his hand on her stomach, clearly relishing the growing child inside her. I couldn’t help but compare to my own pregnancy, which, once it was discovered, was ignored, hidden, not to be talked about, and attracted none of the soft glances exchanged by this pair, but outright animosity that I’d put my parents in that position.
What would it be like to have a baby that was wanted from the very start?
“Cat got your tongue?” I can hear the smile in Short’s voice.
Belatedly, I remember the question he’d asked, and gather my thoughts to answer him seriously. “I’m as ready as I’ll ever be. But, Short, so much has changed. Am I the same person?”
“You’re still the same person, perhaps a little stronger, and you have control of your life now, not your fuckin’ dad. You always had secrets you kept hidden.” His voice is low, patient. “All that’s different is that it’s up to you to disclose them. No one’s going to know anything you don’t want them to. Unless you want, or need, to come clean.”
I spin around to face him. “Nothing will make me spill those secrets, Short.”
His hand comes up, hovers in the air, then he lets it sink down when I know he was going to cup my cheek. I almost wish he had touched me, but maybe not today, when I’ve got enough to deal with.
“I’m gonna say something you won’t want to hear, but, Bron, listen to me. Sooner or later, you’ll have to reveal the truth about your relationship with Trip.” I open my mouth, but he places afinger to my lips. “Not today, but when you're ready to deal with publicly claiming him. Unless something forces your hand.”
Again, I try to interject that there’s nothing on this earth that will persuade me, but he continues speaking over me. “The prospect will be there, but he’ll be outside. The plan is that he’ll spot your dad if he comes to the hospital and intercept him. But if he evades the prospect and gets in, well, I want you to threaten to expose everything, publicly if need be. You scream about the abuse he put you through, the existence of Trip, how he’s your son – something DNA won’t deny. I promise you, he’ll back off fast. Don’t be afraid to use every weapon in your arsenal. And remember, it’s not you who’s got anything to be ashamed about.”
While I’m loath to let the truth come out, Short’s right. It would hurt my father more than me. And to achieve my goal of being a real mother to Trip, my secret has to come out sooner or later.
But that’s the last resort at the moment, my weapon to be used only if Dad confronts me. Otherwise, Short’s advised I should keep my powder dry and let the Kings of Anarchy sort out the timing for me. It’s best that no one suspects I know anything about my son's whereabouts.
“You sure he’s going to be okay at the clubhouse?” That’s one thing I’m nervous about. Bikers and club girls are the very last babysitters I should ever think of for my child. Bad mom from the start, and it seems like that’s continuing.
“I told you, I’ll keep him with me.” Short chuckles. “He’ll be fine, don’t worry. Pippa will be there and is willing to help out and…” He shakes his head as if amused. “Even Freak has offered his help. I think Ace has been digging through some of his old toys.”
Accepting it is what it is, and without his help, I wouldn’t be able to return to work, I try to lighten the mood. “Little biker in training.”
But Short takes me seriously and shrugs. “If that’s what he wants to be.”
The thought of Trip all grown up, straddling one of their monster bikes, causes dual emotions in me. The first, surely, I should want better for my son. The second, if he grows to achieve such goals, well, that would be a freaking miracle.
See? That’s the difference between Short and me. I’ve lived with Trip’s issues for so long, I can’t see a future without care twenty-four seven. Short though? He thinks with the right help, treatment, and support, Trip will surprise us all. I’d love to be optimistic, but the realism that’s been drummed into me is difficult to shake off.
“Knight’s here,” Short announces, checking through the window as one of the club’s trucks draws up. “You get your stuff together, I’ll just go have a word with him.”
Suspecting he’ll be re-emphasising the importance of protecting me, I give them a few moments as I gather my phone and purse. Then, saying “goodbye” to Trip, even if he doesn’t notice me, I walk out the door, ready to take up at least some of the reins of my old life.
The trip to the hospital is taken in silence. I’m too wound up, and I admit, too shy to make conversation with the prospect as I haven’t been formally introduced to him. I’ve obviously seen him around the clubhouse before, and remember him delivering furniture to the house, but that had hardly been one of the best days of my life. There seems to be no basis for small talk, and he doesn’t engage with me.
