by Emily Minton
I let out a relieved breath and back out of his arms. “Let’s eat.”
CHAPTER THREE
Boz
Holding the phone to my ear, I listen to Hack talk, not really paying attention to what he is saying. My mind isn’t on club business; it’s on the look of worry that has filled Trix’s eyes all night. Every time I asked her to talk to me, she would put me off. First, it was at dinner. Then, she wanted to watch some stupid ass cartoon with the kids. After that, she just had to read Fiona a bedtime story. When the kids finally went down for the count, I thought I was going to get some answers. Instead, my phone started ringing. Of course, Trix used that as another excuse to delay the inevitable.
“We took payment for last month’s haul to Texas, and I paid everyone their share,” Hack yammers on about club money. “There’s enough left to update our security systems. I’m thinking we should hire that girl that works for Riot MC. She’d have our shit locked down so tight that even NASA couldn’t fuck with our files.”
“That sounds like a plan to me,” I mumble, not really giving a shit what he does with the money. “Give Tito a call and get her down here.”
Hack is in charge of security, at least when it comes to technical shit. If he thinks we need an update then we need an update. He’s the best tech guy any club could have. I trust him with every penny of the club’s money. He helps make it. Even better, he makes sure it stays hidden from the prying eyes of the IRS.
He starts to say something else, but I cut him off. “We’ll talk more tomorrow. I’ve got shit to do right now.”
Without bothering with a goodbye, I end the call and push open the bedroom door. Tossing my phone on the dresser, I sit down on the bed. I pull my shirt over my head and look toward the bathroom door. Trix has been in there for the last twenty minutes, probably hoping I’ll fall asleep. That shit is not going to happen. We are going to have this conversation, and she is going to tell me what the fuck has been going on with my old lady.
I’ve noticed shit, a lot of shit, over the last few weeks. She has been kind of standoffish and barely wants me to touch her. If I didn’t know my woman better, I’d think she was having an affair. That’s not Trix. Fuck, the woman loves me every bit as much as I love her. Like me, she would never stray. As President of the club, I get pussy thrown in my face every day, and I never even consider taking up what is offered. Trix is a beautiful woman, vibrant and funny as hell. She probably has men slobbering all over her. Still, she would never even consider giving what is mine to another man. Since it can’t be that, it can only be one thing. My woman must be pregnant again.
About a year after she had Fiona, we decided not to have any more kids. Trix thought about getting her tubes tied, and we even talked about me having a vasectomy. To be honest, I didn’t like the idea of getting my boys snipped. Just the thought of it made me cringe. The same thing with Trix. She had just went through a C-section with Fiona that year, and she didn’t like the idea of being cut on again so soon. In the end, we decided against it. Trix got an IUD instead. It was supposed to last ten years, and then she planned on going in to get her tubes tied. Guess things didn’t go as we planned. Not that having another baby would be all that bad.
I love my kids, wouldn’t mind having a house full of them. My major worry is Trix. She isn’t as young as she was when she first started giving me babies. With her edging up on forty, I’m guessing pregnancy isn’t going to be easy. Fuck, it wasn’t easy the first three times. She spent all three of her pregnancies puking her guts out and crying at the drop of a hat. I’m not looking forward to that shit again. I am kind of excited about holding another baby in my arms, looking at a child and seeing the gift my woman gave me.
My thoughts are brought to an abrupt end when the bathroom door finally opens. Trix hesitantly steps out, wearing a pair of light yellow pajamas. They’re the kind she wears when her body is off limits. Unless she is having her period, my woman always comes to bed wearing little to nothing. Considering I know that shit happened two weeks ago, I wonder what the fuck is going on.
Kicking off my boots, my eyes never leave her. “Are you gonna tell me what has you all tied up in knots?”
She hesitates long enough for me to stand up and unbutton my jeans. Just as I start to push them down, she whispers something. It is so low, I can’t hear a word she is saying. Leaving my jeans on the floor, I walk over to her and cup her chin.
“What the hell is going on, darlin’?” I ask, meeting her gaze.
“The reason I took off work was because I had to see the doctor today,” she answers, again with a whisper. “Dr. Crump, my gynecologist.”
A smile spreads across my face as I realize I was right. “When are you due?”
She looks shocked for just a second before stepping away and saying, “I’m not pregnant, Boz.”
“Then what the hell is going on?” I ask, getting tired of her beating around the bush. “You’ve been acting weird for a while now, and I want to know what the fuck is wrong with you.”
She doesn’t answer, instead walks over to the window and looks out at the night sky. She is quiet so long, I start to worry. A sense of warning flashes through my body. Something is wrong, really fucking wrong, and my woman is scared to tell me.
“Trix, I need you to tell me what the hell is going on,” I order, trying to keep the fear from my voice.
As if on auto pilot, she turns and looks at me. “I have breast cancer.”
My heart stops, completely fucking stops, as the words ricochet through my brain. Cancer, breast cancer, no fucking way. Patty, Trix’s mom, died of breast cancer. I remember meeting the woman before she got sick. She was beautiful, bold and bright just like her daughter. She was every man’s wet dream. Other than brown eyes instead of Trix’s blue, she and her daughter looked just alike. I didn’t see her after she got sick, but I have seen pictures. By the time she died, she was just a shell of the woman she had been. Waif thin, with purple circles around her eyes, she looked miserable. No way can that shit happen to my woman.
“Fuck no,” I say in a near shout. “The doctor’s wrong. I’ll take you to see someone else, a better doctor.”
She slowly moves to me, reaching up to run her fingers over my stubble covered cheeks. “I had a biopsy. It is cancer.”
Trix steps back, taking a seat on the bed. She goes on to tell me about finding a knot in her breast. From there, she talks about seeing the doctor, getting a biopsy, and finally finding out the results. All of which she did without saying a word to me. She kept me in the fucking dark while she went through all of this on her own.
“Why…” I start, only to have to stop to clear the frustration and fear building up in my throat. “Why didn’t you tell me? I would have went to the doctor with you.”
Instead of answering my question, she tells me everything the doctor told her. “It’s actually called cribriform carcinoma of the breast. The mass is large but not huge. The doctor thinks that it was caught early enough that surgery and treatment will work.”
“What do you mean?” I ask, not quite able to makes sense of her words. “Work? Is there a chance it won’t work?”
“It’s cancer, Boz, so there is no guarantee anything will work,” she replies, wrapping her arms around herself in a protective gesture. “You know there are no promises with something like that. It’s really just fate.”
I reach out and grab the dresser, trying to keep from dropping to my knees and crying like a baby. “We’ll find another doctor, someone that knows how to fix this.”
“There isn’t anyone that is going to be able to just fix this. The doctors cannot make promises they may not be able to keep,” she says softly, not meeting my eyes. “But, if everything goes well, the five-year survival rate is seventy-eight percent.”
I do the math quickly and whisper, “Twenty-two.”
I have a twenty-two percent chance of losing my woman. That is twenty-two percent too fucking much. I have to fix this, have to make
everything okay. I instinctively reach for my phone, thinking of calling my brothers. There is nothing we can’t fix together. That’s what we do; we’re Grim Bastards. We take care of each other. As soon as my hand touches the metal, I realize there is nothing they can do to help. Just like me, they can’t do shit to make my woman better. Not a fucking thing.
“The doctor said I could try to get by with just a lumpectomy, but with my family history, he recommended a mastectomy,” she says, still speaking just barely above a whisper. “I don’t want to lose my breast, but I really don’t want to lose my life.”
“You do what the doctor says,” I order, not an ounce of give in my tone. “The only thing that matters is getting you healthy.”
“I agree,” she says, finally looking up at me. “Are you sure you’ll be okay with that? The doctor can do reconstructive surgery, but it will be different.”
For just a second, I look at her, dumbfounded. “Do you even have to ask that shit? How could you think I would care more about your fucking tit than I do about you living and breathing?”
“It’s just hard, knowing my body will be different. I’ve always thought about getting a boob job, but not like this.” She laughs, looking away.
Anger fills me as I realize she is making light of the situation. How the fuck can she laugh about shit like this? I could be losing her; the kids could end up living without their mom. Fuck, she could die, and our lives would turn to shit.
“This shit isn’t funny,” I growl, wanting to shake some sense into her.
She nods, red hitting her cheeks. “If I don’t laugh, I’ll cry.”
We are both quiet for a few minutes, lost in our own thoughts. My mind is completely focused on losing my woman. Trix is my life. I love my kids, love my mom, love my brothers, but Trix is my world. I would live on for my kids, but I wouldn’t be the same person I am now. I wouldn’t be able to be. I would only be half a person if I lost her. Only the thought of her being sick is keeping me from losing my shit. Right now, I want to rail at my woman for not telling me about the lump as soon as she found it. I can’t do that though, can’t scream at her when she is facing the biggest battle of her life.
“I have to have an ultrasound done in the morning. Then, I go in for bloodwork on Tuesday. The surgery is scheduled for Wednesday morning at seven. If everything goes well, I will only have to be in the hospital for a few days at the most,” she says, pushing herself off the bed and walking to me. “I know I kept this to myself too long, but I need you to be there every step of the way from now on. I can’t do this on my own anymore.”
A part of me wants to scream, bitch at her for keeping me in the dark so long. Instead, I just pull her into my arms and hold her close. I bury my nose in her hair and inhale her sweet scent, praying that she will still be in my arms five years from now and fifty more after that.
CHAPTER FOUR
Boz
I watch my sons lead their sister down the hallway in hopes of finding her something edible to eat in this fucking hospital. This place, the Sarah Cannon Cancer Center, is supposed to be one of the best cancer hospitals in the world, but it doesn’t even have a decent cafeteria for my kids to fill their bellies. I wish like hell they were at home eating their momma’s home cooking, instead of being stuck here waiting to find out if the woman they love most in the world is going to live or die.
“She’s gonna be okay,” Mom says, grabbing my hand and squeezing it. “She’ll make it through this surgery, and she’ll make it through all the shit that comes next. It’ll be hard, but our girl is tough. Plus, she is going to have all of us by her side the whole way.”
I know my mom loves me and just wants to help, but I don’t need to hear this shit right now. At the moment, I want nothing more than to wallow in my misery. I want to be able to mourn the loss of the woman I love. No matter what happens today, that woman is going to change. A person doesn’t go through all this shit without coming out on the other side at least a little different, a little more jaded.
I know Trix is worried about losing her breast, thinks it will bother me, but I don’t give a fuck about that. The doctors could take both breasts, and it wouldn’t mean shit to me. She could carry scars from head to toe, and I would still love her with all my heart. No, I’m not worried about her breasts at all. I am worried about her mind, worried about how she is going to deal with the mental ramifications of all this. I think any woman, or man for that matter, would have trouble dealing with the fallout of cancer. Live or die, beat the disease or the disease beats them, it doesn’t matter. The person living through it is going to carry scars, scars no one can see, for a long damn time.
“I’m okay, Mom. Why don’t you go check on Hoss?” I say, nodding my head toward Trix’s dad. “I think your old man needs you.”
“Hoss is just gonna have to wait. My son needs me now,” she states with a shrug. “He knows you always come first.”
I let go of her hand, pull her in for a tight hug, and say, “Right now, what I need is for you to go take care of Hoss.”
She pulls back just enough to look into my eyes. Whatever she sees in them has her placing a kiss on my cheek then stepping away. I watch as she walks over to Hoss and wraps her arms around him. The tension he was carrying fades away as soon as she touches him. Jealousy fills me as I watch them, watch her comfort him. I want that; I want Trix to comfort me. That’s what she does. She fixes everything, makes sure everything is okay. I just hope like hell she can make this okay, too. If not, we’re all fucked.
“Here, brother,” Smoke says, drawing my attention back to the here and now. “Figured you could use a cup.”
I turn toward him to see him handing me a cup of shitty ass hospital coffee. Bad or not, I take it and take a swallow. The bitter swill leaves a sour taste in the back of my throat. Still, I finish it off, wishing it was a cold beer instead. Better yet, a shot of Jack. Fuck, right now, a whole bottle would be nice.
“You could make it Irish next time, brother,” I tell him, walking over to the trash can and tossing the empty cup in. “Or, you could just forget the coffee and bring me something a hell of a lot stronger.”
Smoke’s lips tip up just a bit as he says, “I ain’t got a bottle on me, but I do have a joint in my pocket. We could head outside and take the edge off.”
It’s tempting, really fucking tempting, but I can’t do that right now. I’ve got to stay strong and clear headed. I have to be here for my family, to take care of the kids, and be by Trix’s side when this fucking surgery is finally over. Then, I can take a little time to deal with this shit my way, with a little smoke and a bottle of Jack.
“After this shit is over, I’ll take you up on that,” I say, walking away from him and taking a seat in the back of the waiting room.
As soon as my ass hits the seat, flashes of my life with Trix flicker through my mind. We’ve been through club betrayal, kidnapping, and attempted murder, but none of that holds a candle to this. Just knowing my wife has cancer is the scariest fucking thing I’ve ever had to deal with. I don’t know how to fight a disease. I can’t take her pain away, can’t keep her safe. I would if I could. I would take her place in a blink of an eye.
Trying to keep my mind occupied, I look around for a clock. It seems like we’ve been sitting in this damn hospital for hours, but when my eyes finally land on the clock, it proves she’s only been back there a couple of hours. The surgeon said the operation could take anywhere from two to six hours. The length of time depends on how far the cancer has spread and the reconstruction. Since it’s already been two, I’m praying like hell that he comes out of there soon. Fuck, I’m praying that the doctor will walk out of the surgery saying this was all a mistake. My woman doesn’t have cancer, and all is well.
“How are you holding up, Boz?” Brew asks, taking a seat next to mine.
I want to shout at him for asking such a fucking stupid question. I want to ask him how the fuck he thinks I’m feeling. The truth of the matter is I’m
not holding up, not at all. I feel like my life is falling apart, ripping apart at the seams. What if the doctor gets in there and finds more cancer? What if the mastectomy isn’t enough? What if the chemo and radiation don’t work? What if I lose the woman I love, the one woman that makes me feel whole? I can’t lose her now, when we have so much more living to do. I can’t say any of that shit to him though. Those are my burdens to bear.
“Do you know that she wouldn’t even let me stay in the room when they were examining her before the surgery?” I ask with a frustrated breath. “After everything we’ve been through together, she didn’t want me to be with her.”
When she first asked me to leave her room, I freaked the fuck out. I told her flat out that I wasn’t going anywhere. Then, she started to cry. My strong as nails old lady started to cry. I couldn’t handle seeing her break apart like that. I ended up letting her have her way, even though it hurt like hell to leave her to deal with that shit on her own.
“She didn’t want you to see her like that,” Addy says, intruding into our conversation. “She wants you and the kids to think of her as Wonder Woman. She doesn’t want you to watch her be poked and prodded.”
“I don’t need her to be Wonder Woman. I just need my damn wife to come out of this without any fucking cancer, so that I know she isn’t gonna die on me,” I say, my voiced filled with anger.
Addy sits down on the arm of Brew’s chair and looks at me. I can see the pain in her eyes, pain at the thought of losing her best friend. She doesn’t have any tears, but she’s fucking close to losing her shit. Addy and Trix have been as close as sisters since elementary school. She may not be feeling as bad as me, but it’s really damn close.
“I’m scared,” I whisper, looking into her eyes. “I can’t lose her, Addy. She’s my everything. I’m nothing without her.”
