by Stasia Black
“Miss Cruise?”
I try to shake off thinking about it as I stand up and walk through the familiar reception office at Charlie’s psychologist to see him for my weekly supervised visit. If there is any justice in this goddamn world, this will be the last time I have to be supervised just to see my own son. Although, knowing how slow the fucking court system takes to come to a decision, it will probably be at least another two months of this before the judge’s ruling gets implemented.
Anger makes my jaw tense, but no, calm the hell down, Callie. Charlie’s always been able to pick up on it if I’m upset and I only want him getting good vibes from me.
I take a second outside the door to grab several deep breaths and focus only on my little boy. The softness of his little-boy hair. The feel of his chubby little fingers when they curl around mine. Finally, when my heart rate is chilled out enough, I step inside.
Sometimes when I come in, Charlie is already playing with the blocks or the train set or coloring with the child psychologist, a friendly older woman.
When I open the door today, however, there’s some strange man I don’t recognize standing in one corner with a clipboard.
Charlie’s on the ground in the center of the room, tearing pages out of a book. Ripped and crumpled pieces of paper circle him, as do a completely upended box of scattered colored pencils and crayons. Not to mention the red and blue scribbles all over one wall. Right at Charlie’s level.
Oh shit. I really hope they’ve had other kids in here and it was one of the other kids who made most of this mess. I glare at the man with the clipboard in the corner. Who the fuck is this incompetent shit who’s supposed to be watching over the kids who come through here?
“What’s going on?” I march straight up to the aforementioned incompetent shit.
He looks up at me briefly before his eyes zero back in on Charlie.
I snap in front of his face. “Hey, I’m talking to you. Where’s Martha?” I hope the name of the normal child psychologist will get me somewhere.
“I’m filling in today.” An especially loud ripping sound comes from the ground behind us and Incompetent Shit looks down and scribbles away at the notepad attached to his clipboard.
I push the clipboard down and force him to see me. “Don’t you think you should be paying more attention to the child in your care than taking notes? He was basically unsupervised before I got here.”
The man looks at me with dispassionate eyes. “You were late.”
“Wha—?” I grab my phone out of my pocket and check the time. It’s two minutes after five, and considering how long I’ve been dealing with Incompetent Shit, I was maybe one minute late.
Screw this, I’m not getting anywhere and I’m missing time with my son. I turn around and go to sit with Charlie.
He starts to rip another page but I put my hands on his. “No,” I say in firm Mom Voice. “This is not how we treat books.”
Charlie’s chin starts to tremble. I know what’s coming next and brace for it.
“Aaaaaaaaaaa!”
Right on cue—the ear-splitting wail I was expecting. I see Incompetent Shit flinch in the corner and probably fail to hide my slight smirk. Charlie tries to reach for another book, but I pull it out of his hands as well.
“We treat books with respect. We do not rip out the pages.”
“No fun! No fair! No fun!” Charlie throws himself on the ground and starts to absolutely freak out, pounding his fists and feet on the ground in a total toddler meltdown.
Oh Charlie. My baby, what is going on with you? I’ve seen this before, but only when he was a lot younger and once seven months ago when he missed his nap and was extremely overtired.
“Baby, you need to calm down. Take a deep breath. Breathe with mommy. One, two, three,” I try to demonstrate breathing in and out.
He’s not listening at all.
“Charlie. Charlie.” I try several more times to gain his attention, but he’s working himself more and more up. If he doesn’t stop soon, I know from experience that he’ll make himself throw up.
“Charlie, it’s time to calm down or you’ll have to do it in time out.”
More nonstop freaking out.
“Okay, I need you to look at me.” I put a hand to one side of his face and he turns and tries to bite me.
Screw that. This has gone far enough. I’m not mad at him. Shit is obviously going on with my sweet boy. He was not like this when he was under my care. He’s three and this is not his fault. I want to murder my ex, but in the meantime, I need to take care of my baby. That does not, however, equal spoiling him and contributing to the problem.
I stand up and grab Charlie underneath his armpits, hiking him up with me.
“Charlie Bryan Cruise, you know this behavior is absolutely unacceptable and you’ve earned yourself a timeout.”
His crying abates for just a moment and then continues louder than ever. He struggles and kicks and the only way not to lose my grip is to hold him firmly against my body.
I go to a corner of the room that is emptier than the others and I sit him down.
“Two-and-a-half-minute timeout and then we’ll go clean up your mess,” I say, addressing Charlie directly.
He immediately stands up and tries to run away from me. My mouth drops open. He never did that when he was with me. He knew timeout meant serious business. What has been going on at his father’s house?
“Charlie Cruise, you have five seconds to get back in timeout or I’m adding a minute.”
He starts scrambling even faster out of the time out area. He takes advantage of my shock and grabs one of the crayons, runs to the wall and starts to scribble on it before I can snatch him back up again. He’s got a death-grip on the crayon. If I thought he was wailing before, it’s nothing to the screeching that comes out after I finally pry the green crayon from his fingers and take him back to timeout.
I want to press my hands over my ears to shut out the noise, but I don’t. A quick glance up shows the psychologist guy watching me with interest now. To him we are both fascinating specimens in a lab.
What a bastard. I should have made timeout in the corner right beside him to make sure Charlie’s screeches give him the migraine I can feel pulsing behind my own eyes.
“Charlie, use your words with me. You know my expectations. We respect each other and the things around us. When we don’t, there are consequences. If you don’t stay in timeout, timeout starts all over again. You have choices and you need to make the right one.”
“No! No! No!” As soon as I put him down in timeout, he’s out again.
Charlie and I fight the timeout battle for more than half an hour, God, I lose track of time. But then he starts the ultimate freakout, banging his head against the ground so violently that I grab him up.
Dammit, I’m out of options. I flip him so that his back is to me and wrap my body around him, arms like a straightjacket over his, legs spidering over his so that all of his limbs are held down with all of mine. I have no idea how this looks to the psychologist monitoring us but I don’t fucking care. The bastard would’ve just stood there doing nothing while my child injured himself.
“Shhh, shhh, Charlie, it’s okay,” I whisper in his ear, rocking him back and forth. “Mama’s here. It’s okay. It’s okay now.”
Charlie struggles and keeps wailing for about thirty more seconds, but then finally, finally, he relaxes into me and his cries turn into hiccups and gasps.
“It’s okay, baby. Shh, it’s okay,” I keep cooing in his ear, relaxing my hold slightly so that now it’s just a full-body hug. I move one of my hands so that I can run my fingers through his curls.
“Shhh, Mama’s here.” I can’t stop saying it. Tears flow down my cheeks. Charlie shifts so that he’s sideways and his head lies on my breast, so reminiscent of when I used to nurse him.
Within moments, his whole body goes completely lax. I keep running my fingers through his hair and rocking back and forth, back and
forth. I hum some small broken melody, I don’t even know what song, but it does the trick. Charlie’s soft snore is the best music in the world. I hold him and tears continue down my cheeks in an endless silent fountain.
For a while, all is quiet. I calm down too and then just focus on the feel of Charlie in my arms. This beautiful little person who grew in my belly. He’s got a big, long future ahead of him. And it’s going to be a future full of bright things and happiness, I’m going to make goddamn sure of it. I want to squeeze him harder, but don’t dare since he’s sleeping so peacefully.
Instead, I inhale his little boy scent. At least they’re keeping him bathed. My fingers clench a little and Charlie shifts, nuzzling into my neck.
“Shhh.” Shit. It’s something I vowed when David came back into the picture—that I would never let Charlie see my fury at his father. All the books say it’s important for the child never to see the fighting between the parents but after today’s display, it’s going to be more difficult than ever.
My son is not okay. I don’t know if he’s getting the care he needs there or if it’s just because he misses me or what. That’s the bullshit of all this. I don’t know anything. I’m his mother and I know nothing about my son’s life other than this paltry two hours a week. One hundred and sixty-eight hours in a week and I’m only allowed two hours of my son’s time. It’s barely a blink and then it’s over.
As if proving my point, right as Charlie settles back down, a loud, beeping alarm goes off.
Incompetent Shit ignores the furious shake of my head and how I’m gesturing at my sleeping toddler.
Instead, he says loudly, “Your visiting period is over. Time for the exchange with Charlie’s legal guardian.”
And then the fucker actually has the audacity to come over to where I’m sitting and physically pry Charlie away from me. There’s a moment before Charlie is awake where I try to hold on. “You kidding? He’s sleeping,” I hiss. “You never wake up a sleeping toddler if you can help it.”
The man’s face goes hard. “Are you refusing to surrender your child? Because I know that your trial is upcoming and I’m happy to make note of your refusal—”
Fucker!
I let go of Charlie, hating myself as I do it because in this moment, the fucking system is forcing me to be a bad mother and I’m allowing it.
Exactly as I expect, Charlie’s eyes pop open as soon as the stranger has hold of him. The wailing I managed to stop starts right up again. Except this time, Charlie’s desperately reaching for me.
“Mama! Mama!” he calls, confused from just waking up. He catches on pretty fast though when the psychologist starts walking with him out of the room and I stay behind. His cries become shrieks. “Mama!! Mama, I want Mama!!”
The last thing I see is him twisting and kicking in the man’s arms, fat tears rolling down his cheeks as he reaches for me with every ounce of his little might.
And all I can do is sit there and sob, knowing that if I go with my instincts, run and rip my own child out of that incompetent idiot’s arms, I’m the one who’ll be called the criminal.
I stay sitting on the floor with scattered toys all around me until long after I’m sure David or his wife have picked up Charlie. Meeting them in the lobby would not have done good things for my court case next week.
The psychologist doesn’t come back either. Or maybe he took one look in the room, saw me still here, and hightailed it out of there like the coward he is.
After enough time, the fury burns away and I’m left with the absolute raw gulf of pain left behind after seeing what’s happening to my child without me in his life. It’s not just me selfishly wanting my son back.
He needs me. I’ve read the reports Jackson’s lawyers have gotten me from his daycare teachers. His acting out is getting worse. He cries a lot and they’ve noted that his sleep schedule seems off. I’ve tried to tell myself over and over: if we can just hold on a little longer until the trial, we’ll make it. Charlie’s still young. He’ll forget and everything will be okay. It’ll all be okay.
But the truth is, I don’t know if David and his wife are providing the stability Charlie needs at home or not. Maybe they don’t know how or even want to deal with him when he’s a handful like tonight.
Or maybe all of Charlie’s behavior problems are a reaction to feeling abandoned by me—something I had absolutely zero control over, but how is a two-and-a-half-year-old supposed to understand that?
Bottom line: Charlie is not doing okay without me. He needs me.
My phone beeps in my pocket and I take it out to check my messages.
My phone beeps three times signaling a text right as I’m about to ring the bell.
GENTRY: Where is my prototype? We meet on Monday or I send this video wide and you lose your son in court on Thurs.
Mother fucking son of a bitch cunt—
I breathe out and count to three.
Double bottom line: I have to do whatever it takes to get my son back. Jackson’s face flashes through my head. Him telling me he loves me. But it’s quickly drowned out by the image of my screaming child being torn away from me. Jackson’s a grown man and Charlie’s two and a half. Just a baby, really.
There’s still time to fix what I’ve broken. And yes, I might be damned to hell for it, but one thing hasn’t will never change. I’ll always do whatever it takes for my son.
My thumbs don’t even fumble as I text back a quick message
My phone beeps three times signaling a text right as I’m about to ring the bell.
ME TO GENTRY: Done.
Chapter Twenty-Three
CALLIE
Which is how I end up in Jackson’s office a little after midnight on Saturday night. I shut the door behind me and squeeze my eyes shut.
The thing is, I didn’t even have to covertly steal his access card or anything like in the movies. Jackson gave the seven of us on the team working directly with him security clearance to come and go from his office since his terminal is the only one where the actual source code is kept. This computer is off grid, not connected to the internet so it’s unhackable. It’s the only real way to keep secrets secure these days.
Unless someone like me on the inside steals them.
The lights in his office are motion activated, so as soon as my converse-clad foot takes a step onto the plush carpet of his thick, ornamental rug, his whole corner office lights up.
I pause like I’ve been caught at something. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.
Stop panicking. I’m only feeling like this because I am actually doing something wrong. To the outside, I look like I do every other time I come in here to tweak something on the code. If anyone knew why I was really here tonight, though…
If Jackson knew…
Nope. Can’t think about that. Charlie. There’s only Charlie. He’s being threatened.
Mothers make sacrifices all the time. Sacrificing my happiness is nothing. Nothing.
And Jackson? What about his happiness? What will this betrayal do to him?
CHARLIE, I shout internally back at the other stupid voice. Charlie’s an innocent. He hasn’t been touched by any of this and he doesn’t deserve to be.
I clench my jaw and sit down at Jackson’s desk with renewed determination. Last night I went into the machine shop after hours. I’ve been spending so much time in there, no one even batted an eye. Nor did anyone notice when the big purse I always carry around had a slightly larger bulge as I left with one of the out-of-commission prototypes.
No one realized that all week I’ve been working on said out-of-commission prototype, switching out parts to make it work again. So that now it’s a perfectly functioning prototype. I walked right out of the building with it, no one the wiser. They’ll miss it eventually, but I imagine it won’t matter by then. I’ll be long gone.
The pang that hits my chest feels like a physical stab. I even put a hand over my heart and look down.
But there’s no blood. No wound.
> Not on the outside at least. I type in the password Jackson shared with me out of trust—what at first appears to be a completely nonsensical series of letters and numbers but is actually the consonants of his father’s name, a mixture of asterisks, exclamation points, and the first letters of whatever song happens to be charting on the top 40 that week since he has to change it so often.
I type in the first letter of the Twenty-One Pilots song lyrics and then look back down at my chest.
It still aches like a bitch. But God, I don’t even have the right to be hurting. I’m not the one who will really be left bleeding when this is all said and done.
I grit my teeth and forge on anyway.
I click on the encrypted file with the firmware to the prototype and you guessed it—I have the password for it too. I keep waiting for a password to be different. In the end for Jackson to have not trusted me. But the bastard fucking did. Goddamn idiot. Why would he make himself so vulnerable? Just because sometimes I’m his Domme? Stupid fucking bastard.
As I pop in the several terabyte memory stick and click copy, I’m struck by the extreme urge to throw up. Because here I am, what a bitch, trying to blame Jackson for being a good guy—the best guy.
His only flaw? Trusting me, a super fucked-up girl.
If there were only some other way…
There is no other way.
I stare at the comfortable carpet under my feet, only glancing up every once in a while to watch the status bar of the copy process. Sixty percent.
Jackson’s face flashes through my mind. His many faces. The stoic one that seemed like his permanent expression when I first met him. The first time I saw him smile and the appearance of the dimple. How even then I knew I was in trouble.
Seventy percent copied. Eighty. Eighty-five—
I love you. I can see it so clearly in my mind’s eye, the way he dropped to his knees before me. Offering me everything. And later, how vulnerable he made himself, looking at me with those eyes that pleaded as much as they demanded.
