by Nina Levine
I’ve spent days searching for the rat we have in our club. The one we just discovered when Zenith knew our plans for a gun delivery and attempted to kill our men on their way home. I haven’t had any luck finding him, so I asked Axe to do shit I’ve never contemplated before. I don’t like intruding on my members’ privacy, but fuck, we need to locate this asshole and end him.
“Thanks, brother.”
He narrows his eyes at me. “You look like shit. When was the last time you got some decent sleep?”
Before Max died. Before we lost our baby. “Too fucking long ago to remember.”
King joins us again. “Eloise Carter was a clubwhore a long time ago. Do we have an address for her?”
Axe nods. “Yeah, I’ll text it to you.”
King eyes me. “You free to pay her a visit now?”
“Yeah.”
“I’ll let you know when we have info on Leif,” Axe says. “And when I find anything on your rat.”
I pull my phone out as I exit the room, and call Scott Cole.
“Winter,” he answers.
“You heard from Griff today?”
“Yeah, we spoke briefly. He mentioned that it looks like Zenith is setting up here.”
“They’ve moved their men to Brisbane. Zane and Axe are keeping an ear out for any chatter.”
“I’ll get my guys onto looking for them. What are your plans?”
“We’re looking for the rat we have. I’m hopeful once we find him, we’ll be able to drag information out of him that’ll give us a better idea of how the gang operates. And once we know for sure they’re making a move in Brisbane, I’ll come up. I’ve got a shipment coming in soon from Torres that I need to take care of, too.”
“I’ll let you know as soon as I find anything. Hang tight till then, brother.”
We end the call and I follow King out to our bikes. Eloise Carter lives forty minutes away and when we pull up outside her house, I take in the run-down area. The houses in her street look like their paint has been sucked off them; the yards haven’t seen a mower in weeks; and it feels like people are watching from behind their curtains, ready for conflict at any moment. This isn’t an area I would allow Birdie to step foot in.
King checks the surroundings before making his way up the path to the front door. A minute or so after he knocks, the door is yanked open by a teenage boy who stares at us like we’ve interrupted something important. “Yeah?”
“We’re looking for Eloise,” King says.
The kid’s hard eyes bore into King. “You and every other asshole in this shithole city are looking for her.”
“She home?” King asks.
“No she’s not fucking home. I haven’t seen her for three days.”
King throws out another question. “Who is she to you?”
The kid scowls. “She’s my fucking aunt. Who the fuck is she to you?”
“I used to know her a long time ago,” King says. “I’m looking to catch up with her.”
The kid’s scowl intensifies. “Yeah, well she’s on one of her benders, so good luck with that.” He slams the door shut, leaving us staring at the graffiti-covered door.
“What a fucking ray of sunshine he was,” King says, turning to face me.
My thoughts exactly. “You want me to organise for Striker to keep an eye on the house for when she returns?”
“Yeah. I wanna know why Moses is living with her.”
I frown. “How do you know that was Moses?”
“The little shit looks exactly like his father.”
“So Eloise was his sister? Or was she related to the mother?”
“Neither. My guess is she took the baby and ran, but we’ll confirm that. Whatever the reason, though, it’s good to know he’s alive.”
“Christ.” This shit is all kinds of fucked up.
My phone rings.
“Axe,” I answer it. “What have you got for us?”
“Nothing much unfortunately. The preliminary checks we ran on Leif Jensen revealed nothing except that he’s a ghost. He disappeared off the radar about ten years ago after serving in the military for fifteen years. There’s not been a whisper about him anywhere since. Zane’s digging deeper, though, so we’ll let you know if anything comes up.”
“You think it will?” I’m running out of patience with this gang. With this whole fucking situation.
“Sometimes we get lucky, but I’m not expecting much, so keep your expectations low.”
Something I appreciate about Axe is his practical, no-nonsense approach. I always keep my expectations low, but I welcome the reminder. “They’re lower than even yours, brother.”
We end the call and I relay the information to King before saying, “I wanna pay another visit to Albert. See if we can’t get him to squeal.”
King’s eyes glitter. “I fucking like the way you think, brother.”
I make a call to Striker and organise him to get over here to watch for Eloise’s return. Then, King and I head to Albert’s club. The last time we visited him together didn’t end well for Albert. I’m in the mood for more of the same if he doesn’t have anything useful to share.
It’s nearly midnight by the time I arrive home. After King and I visited Albert, and got nothing new out of him, we made a few more visits around town, all yielding the same result. People’s lips are sealed tight. Either that, or they really don’t know more than we do.
I’m surprised to find Birdie still awake, working at the kitchen counter. I shouldn’t be, though; gone are the days where she would fall asleep by 9:30 p.m. These days, she’s up late most nights working. Since she miscarried, she’s thrown herself into work, often leaving home by 7:00 a.m. and working late most nights. Her business has grown significantly in this time, which seems to fuel her to work even harder.
“I’m worried about you,” I say as I brush a kiss across her cheek on my way to grab the whisky bottle.
She catches my eye briefly as she glances at me while I continue walking. “Why?”
“You work too much, angel.”
“And you don’t?”
I pull the whisky down from the cupboard and look at her across the kitchen counter where she’s set up with her laptop. Pouring some into a glass, I say, “Yeah, but your body never got the rest it needed before you started pushing it this hard. I want you to take some time off.”
“I can’t take time off. You know that.”
We’ve argued over this a few times the last four months. It was barely two weeks after she lost the baby that she was back at work with a vengeance, and she hasn’t stopped since. She doesn’t often take days off on the weekends either.
I throw some whisky down my throat. “It’s your business, Birdie. You can do whatever the fuck you want.”
Her lips flatten and she leans back in her seat and runs her fingers through her hair. “Can we please not do this tonight? I really need to get these budgets finalised by tomorrow, and at the rate I’m going, I’ve still got about two hours work to do.”
“We need to make a time for when we will do this, then, because you getting four hours of sleep a night needs to end.”
She stares at me like she’s not happy with what I’ve just said. “I get that, but our bank balance doesn’t.”
“Life’s not all about money. I’d prefer a wife who’s home more.” Not to mention, a wife who smiles a fuckuva lot more.
“So I thought we decided to knuckle down and pay off our debt. Did I misunderstand that?” Her attitude doesn’t escape me.
IVF left us with a massive debt after we refinanced our mortgage at one point. Neither of us want to sell my parents’ homes I inherited, so instead of doing that, we did agree to do everything in our power to pay off the debt as fast as possible. I didn’t fucking mean for Birdie to work herself into the ground, though.
“Yeah, you did,” I say. “I’d rather take longer to pay it off than the situation we’ve got now.”
“Well I wouldn’t. We’ve
already lost eight years to IVF sucking us dry; I want us to start living again.”
“We are living, Birdie. We don’t need cash to do that.”
She watches me silently for another minute before placing her fingers back on her laptop and saying, “We do need cash for that.” With that, she directs her attention back to her work and I know the conversation is over as far as she’s concerned.
This kind of exchange has become our routine. I try to broach the subject with her; she engages briefly before shutting down on me. It’s like we’re back in the cycle of IVF where she became hard for me to reach. Where I have no fucking idea how to connect with my wife except for the few fleeting moments we have every now and then.
We might be done with IVF, but it still fucking haunts us.
29
Birdie
* * *
I search madly in my make-up drawer for my favourite pink lipstick while Eminem blares from the bedroom speakers. I need him loud today to drown out the noise in my head. Also, I need this bloody lipstick because I’ve got a meeting with an Instagram influencer this afternoon, and I really want to make a good impression on her so she agrees to work with Cleo and me. My favourite lipstick always makes me feel like a goddess, and when I’m feeling as far from a goddess as possible like I am today, I need the freaking lipstick.
“Bloody hell!” I shriek after I trash the make-up drawer without locating it. Today has gone to shit in a big way and I’m ready for it to be over. And it’s only 10:06 a.m.
I need Cleo to talk me down.
I turn Eminem off, pull Cleo’s number up on my phone, and put it on speaker so I can continue fixing my hair and make-up.
“Hey, babe,” she says. “You all ready for this meeting?”
“No! I can’t find my lipstick.”
“Okay, deep breath, Birdie. You don’t need the lipstick.” Cleo is used to my mental breakdowns over lipstick. “Just find a different one and while you do that, talk to me about what’s going on with you and Winter.”
“Huh? What do you mean?” She and I speak every day; she knows what’s going on with Winter and me. Well, as much as I share with her. Some stuff is just too hard to talk about, so I avoid it.
“Okay,” she starts and then pauses briefly before continuing, “he called me today and asked me to talk to you about cutting back your work hours. I told him I agree that I’d like to see you work less, but that I don’t have any control over how much you work.”
I’ve been rummaging through my lipsticks while she talks, but I stop and look at her. “You think I work too much?” Winter and I got into a discussion over this last night, and just like every other time we’ve discussed it, he failed to see where I was coming from. We’re drowning in debt and I just want it to be gone. I want us to start this next part of our life without that hanging over us.
“Yes. I think the number of hours you’re working are going to start affecting your health soon. I also worry you’re working so much to avoid dealing with your pain. And I think it says a lot that Winter asked me to help. In all your years of marriage, he’s never once come to me for help. I’m worried about you guys, B.”
If I’m honest with myself, I’m worried about us, too, but I’ve buried all that worry under a mountain of work the last four months. It’s easier than facing the fact we’ve lost our way after losing our baby and coming to the end of the road of IVF.
At first, we clung to each other, but then I needed something to take my mind off the fact I had no fucking idea how to move forward knowing I would never have a baby, so I began channelling all the energy I’d given IVF to work instead.
“I know you’re right,” I say, not really wanting to admit it. “But I like working; I like that it helps me stop thinking about the fact I’ll never have a child. And Winter’s barely home, so work gives me something to do while he’s not around.”
“He’s still busy with the club?”
I don’t share a lot of club stuff with Cleo; Lily’s my girl for that. All she knows is he’s been flat out lately. “Yeah, and it’s just getting busier.”
“But you guys make time for each other, right?”
This is the hard stuff I haven’t shared with her. Hell, I’ve barely talked to myself about it, let alone anyone else. Some days, Winter and I are lucky to see each other. Those are the days he leaves home before I’m awake, or the days he comes home after I’m in bed. On other days, we might have half an hour together before we leave in the morning, and a little time together at night. But I always bring work home and he tends to leave me alone to do it. We haven’t had a date night since my miscarriage, and our sex life has taken a hit, too.
We’ve stopped talking like we used to. The kind of talking where we share our highs and lows, and our goals and dreams. Now, our conversations revolve around what we want for dinner, when we need to get the car serviced or the tyres changed, what bills are due, and scheduling time for home maintenance. I’ve stopped visiting the clubhouse as much as I used to. I still help out, but I don’t spend a lot of time with Winter there. And he shares even less with me about what’s happening with the club. I know he’s got some serious stuff going on right now, but I think he only told me so I know he’s got one of his guys keeping an eye on me for safety reasons.
Telling Cleo all this feels like admitting I not only failed to bring a child into the world, but that I’m also failing with my marriage. Because, I am. Big time. I know what I should do, but it’s like my heart doesn’t want to go there. Starting the necessary conversations with Winter will bring up all our hurt and pain and disappointment, and I’m not sure I’m ready to face that yet.
I stare at her. “Well, we try to make time,” I say, my words stilted because I’m lying. “It’s hard some days, you know?”
Her brows pull together. “Don’t bullshit me, Birdie. I always know when you’re lying. What’s going on?”
Shit.
Shit.
Shit.
I take a deep breath.
What’s the worst that could happen if you open up to her?
I’m just going to do it.
Get it out there.
Maybe she’ll help me figure it all out.
God knows I could do with the help.
“We haven’t had sex for nearly three weeks,” I blurt, starting with the thing that will let her know just how bad it’s gotten for Winter and me.
Her eyes flare with surprise. “Okay, so shit is bad.”
“Yeah, that’s one way to put it.”
“What’s causing that? And don’t try to tell me it’s just because you’re working all the time. You guys never let long hours get in the way of your sex life before.”
She knows me so damn well.
And it’s time for me to get super honest.
“So I thought it started because we’ve both been really busy, and tired, and grieving Max and the baby, but if I’m honest, I think we’re both avoiding dealing with the fallout of IVF not working.”
“I thought you guys stuck close after your miscarriage?”
“We did for a couple of weeks and then we got busy with work and club stuff. And I think Winter is probably shutting down his feelings over losing the baby and never being able to try again just as much as I am.”
“Oh babe, why didn’t you talk to me about all of this? I hate that you’ve been going through this alone.”
I point at my eyes. “See this? No tears. I’ve numbed myself to it by working all the time and not talking about it. And I like the fact I’ve stopped crying every second of every day.” I swallow hard as an unexpected and unwelcome wave of emotion hits me. God damn you feelings. Why can’t you fuck off and leave me alone? I grip the vanity and breathe through the pain. “This all feels too hard, Cleo.” My voice cracks. “Too hard to think about. Too hard to talk about. Too fucking hard to face. I want my husband back, but I know to do that we’re going to have to finally deal with this, and I’m not sure either of us are ready fo
r that.”
Her face creases with sadness. “I know, B, but what if you guys drift too far apart that it becomes impossible to bridge that distance? Are you willing to chance losing Winter altogether because you didn’t want to talk about hard stuff?”
She’s right.
I know she is.
It scares the hell out of me to think about the worst happening. Pushing those fears down deep is what’s gotten me through, but at what cost? Maybe falling apart is what I need to do in order to grow stronger and to start living again.
Swallowing hard again, I say, “Tell me what to do. Please. Tell me how to fix this, because I’ve reached the point where I don’t even know how to bring stuff up with my own husband. I don’t know how to get past the silences and the miscommunications and the fear of us breaking. It feels easier to not chance breaking us even more, but I know you’re right; we can’t go on like this.”
“Start small. Find ways to be with him again and maybe don’t bring up the difficult conversations to begin with. Cut back on work and make time for the two of you, and just start there.”
I can do that.
We can just spend time together and talk about things other than babies and the family we don’t have.
“Okay, yes. I’ll do that. Maybe I’ll go to the clubhouse after I see this Instagram chick today. Surprise him with a visit.”
She smiles. “Yes. You used to do that all the time.”
“Yeah, and he used to love it.” I exhale the breath I’ve been holding. We can do this. “Thank you.”
“Always. But please don’t do this alone anymore. Talk to me, especially when it all feels too fucking hard. And remember, sometimes the bravest thing you can do is just show up.”
Oh my God, I’m gonna cry if I stay on the phone with her any longer. Quoting Brené Brown to me always affects me like this.
“Okay, I love you, but I’m going now, otherwise you’re gonna make me cry and my make-up for this meeting will be ruined.”
After we end the call, I stare at myself in the mirror. Really stare. I see the things I’ve been avoiding for months.
