“I’ll have the same,” Ace puts in.
Both boys are at different points on the spectrum. But somehow, from the first time they met, they’d bonded. And my ma? Well, she adores both of them.
Maybe that was my mistake. I wasn’t born special. For a start, I wasn’t offered any breakfast options. I ate what I was given.
“You guys have a good night?” Ma asks them, while I take the plate she offers me.
As she gets them talking – well, mainly Ace, with Trip nodding –about the games they played last night, I lose track of the conversation, lost in my own thoughts.How am I going to broach Ace about his aunt appearing?And how far has Antoinette already gotten her claws into him?
It hasn’t all been easy sailing raising Ace, even with the not inconsiderable help of Ma. When I’d witnessed Trip having meltdowns, I’d known exactly what they were, having experienced them all too often with Ace.
If I hadn’t prospected with the Kings, I hate to think how I’d have coped. Once the Kings knew about Ace, even as a prospect, I was allowed far more leeway than would be allotted in any civilian role. They’d allowed me the time that I needed to do what was best for him.
Knowing he was missing out on interaction with kids his own age, I’d taken him to a toddlers’ play group. He’d hated it. Hated the noise of other kids screaming and shouting as they were having fun. He’d clung to me and wouldn’t join in. I’d sung nursery rhymes like the best of them. If I never hear “wheels on the fucking bus” again, I’d die a happy man. But he’d just cover his ears and curl into a ball.
“He’s overwhelmed,” Ma would tell me. “He’ll come right if we persevere.”
But a couple more visits to the play group, and I was done. Ace hated it, and I wasn’t going to force him.
His mobility was fine. He was walking at eleven months, but he was slow to start talking. When he finally started using words, he was almost three years old, and even then, he was economical with them, uttering single words rather than sentences. He developed a singular dislike of knitted clothing, a great disappointment to Ma, who’d taken up a new hobby and learned to make sweaters for him. And silk? Anything smooth to the touch was apparently abhorrent. As for food, it had been hard getting him to eat any vegetables, unless they were cooked so soft there was no crunch left in them.
He hadn’t even responded to his name for such a long time that if I hadn’t seen him reacting to sound, I’d have thought he was deaf. And then, even when he had learned what was expected of him, he wouldn’t meet mine or any other person’s eyes.
At first, I’d been scared he’d inherited some form of what was wrong with his mom, but though I’d been on the lookoutfor mood swings, in truth, he barely showed any emotion at all. He had a temper, for sure, if anything wasn’t exactly to his preference. Suggesting he’d eat an apple could trigger a meltdown.
He never appeared happy with whatever we did for him. And that worried me most of all.
I’d delayed the inevitable for as long as I could, scared that if I took him to a doctor, he’d either diagnose the mental illness he’d inherited from his mother or put his slow or lack of development down to my parenting skills. I’d surprised myself by how much I loved that boy, and the last thing I wanted was to have him taken from me. Sure, we had Ma to back us up, and both he and I were living in her house. But I was a one-percenter biker, afraid that one look at me would have all his problems put down to the environment I provided.
They wouldn’t understand that I kept my biker lifestyle, the alcohol, soft drugs, and sex strictly to the clubhouse. It was harder to hide that I had no love for authority, and I suspected any medical professional would be biased as soon as they found out who I was.
When he turned four, Ma had persuaded me we needed answers. She even came with me to the child therapist, which meant there was at least one respectable adult there, as long as they didn’t ask her about the number of guns and weapons in her house.
He had tests and medical examinations to rule anything else out, but finally came the diagnosis – he was autistic, and would need extra help.
We’d enrolled him in the recommended school with provision for special needs, and I’d done my damndest to understand his condition and how I could help him. Instead of being wary, I became thankful for the professionals, as with theirhelp, we were able to assist him in navigating this strange-to-him world he found himself in.
He started speaking, began reacting to others, and became less awkward in social settings. It was slow progress, but I felt we were getting somewhere. He’d just needed time and the right guidance to find his place in the world. When he was eight, one of his teachers suggested that we get him a computer – he’d shown an aptitude for using one at school. By the age of ten, he’d asked me for an enhanced motherboard to install in it and talked about things such as defragging a hard drive.
Having something to focus on helped him, but when he was twelve, he‘d hacked into his school’s database and changed his friends’ grades.
I was equal parts horrified and impressed. Loath to take his computer away from him, I’d spoken to Genie instead. The club’s tech expert said he’d be happy to work with Ace, give him pointers, and hopefully teach him that while he could do something, there were good reasons why he shouldn’t. It wasn’t long, though, until the student knew more than the teacher. Genie could no longer control him, and Ace was a law unto himself. I knew he could get himself into trouble one day, and with my association, could bring heat down on the club.
Enter Pippa, the woman whom I’d originally thought was such a risk to the Kings, and that we’d all be safer if she were dead. But as she’d started to become a fixture in the club, she’d offered to take my son under her wing. As a Secret Service agent, she had been involved in taking down hackers like Ace. She could teach him how to get in and out of systems without leaving a trace.
My boy had turned out to be a high-functioning autistic. I’m proud as fuck, but also terrified. I rely on Pippa to put the brakes on him, and so far it has worked.
“We going, Dad?” Ace’s voice pulls me back into the present. “Trip needs to get home.”
Draining my, by now, cold cup of coffee, I respond, “Yeah, we’ll drop Trip off with his parents, and then go to the clubhouse.”
“Will Pippa be there?”
I fucking hope so.Not wanting to tell my rapidly maturing child that the likelihood is that Saint hasn’t yet let her out of bed, I simply shrug my shoulders and hedge my bets. “Maybe.”
Ace helps Trip repack the bag he’d brought with him and assists him into the back of the SUV.
It’s a short journey to Short’s. Banging loudly on the door, I grit my teeth as he takes time opening up, anxious to have some private time alone with my son. When he finally opens the door, he looks bleary-eyed from lack of sleep, dressed in sweats he’s apparently just thrown on. Well, it had been his wedding night. I shouldn’t criticise.
