by Emily Minton
“I was gonna, but then I remembered that I’m the President. I can make other people deal with the shit at the club while I take care of my wife.”
Fuck, I really needed to be on my own for a little while. I love my husband, but I need some space. He has been up my ass since the day I told him about the cancer. I haven’t had a moment to breathe in weeks. The only time he will leave me alone is when the old ladies come over. Even then, he just goes to the other room and waits for them to leave. Then, he is right back by my side. As much as I like that he is willing to take care of me, right now, I just want to be alone.
“Go ahead and go to the club. I’m going to be heading out in a little bit,” I say, hoping he will listen to me.
His eyes narrow on me. “Where are you going?”
“I promised Gidget that I would help her plan Marley’s birthday party,” I explain, even though I am not supposed to be over there for a few hours.
“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me,” he growls, his cheeks flushing red with anger. “She asked you to help with a party, knowing how sick you are?”
“No, I asked her if I could help.” I immediately get defensive, raising my voice.
Once I got diagnosed, I decided to quit my job. I didn’t really need to work anyway, just did it to keep myself busy. Having to go through chemo, I didn’t want to have to deal with going to work. So now, the only place I ever go is to treatment. The rest of the time, I am stuck in the house. I need to get out, and I figured going to Gidget’s would be fun.
He slowly nods. “I can take you over there.”
Of course, he can. Boz has taken me everywhere. It’s like the idea of me behind a wheel scares the shit out him.
“No,” I say with a shake of my head. “I can drive myself.”
Even as I say the words, I know that probably isn’t the best idea. I had chemo this morning, and for once, I didn’t get sick. I don’t feel great, but I’m much better than after most treatments. But now, my stomach is starting to roll. I slowly close my eyes and try to breathe through it, praying I will not throw up again.
“I don’t know if it’s a good idea for you to be driving, Trix,” he states, causing my eyes to pop open. “You just had a treatment a few hours ago. What if you get sick when you’re behind the wheel?”
“Then, I’ll pull over. I can puke on the side of the road just as easily as I can do it here,” I reply acidly.
I want to shout, tell him to get the fuck away from me. Of course, I know none of this is his fault. I know he is just trying to help. Right now, his help is not needed. Instead, I want my old man. The man that would fight with me hard and fuck me just as hard. I want the non-apologetic biker that I fell in love with. I don’t want a babysitter.
“There’s no reason to get upset.” He quickly holds up his hand in a calming manner. “You can drive. I’ll follow you over there on my bike, just in case you need something.”
I start to scream, tell him that shit isn’t going to happen, but the bile raising in the back of my throat stops me. I try to breathe through it again, but it only takes a second for me to realize it isn’t going to work. I look at him, seeing a look of understanding and even a bit of pity in his eyes. I hate that look, fucking hate it. Before I can tell him that, my breakfast pushes its way up my throat.
Rushing to the bathroom, I barely make it to the toilet before hurling. My stomach spasms as everything comes out. It goes on and on, long after the food is gone. Boz holds my hair back as I dry heave for what feels likes hours. Even though my stomach is empty, it just won’t quit rebelling. By the time I’m done, I’ve thrown up so much my whole body is aching, aching in spots that I didn’t know could hurt. Right now, just lifting my head hurts.
“Shit,” I mumble, reaching out to grab a towel from the floor. “I don’t know if I can handle going through this for months.”
“I know it’s hard, but you can do it, darlin’. I will be by your side the whole way,” he says, handing me a damp washcloth.
His words wash over me, but I don’t really take them in. I’m too focused on the pain, on the gut wrenching ache wracking my body. I don’t have much of a choice. It’s either do this or die. Death is not an option for me; I have too much to live for. Still, the next few months are going to be grueling. I have no fucking idea how anyone can live through this.
I lean back, resting my head on his thigh. “I didn’t know it would be this hard. Hell, I didn’t even know death could be this hard.”
He drops to the floor, pulling me into his arms. “I wish I could do this for you. I would do anything if I could take this pain away from you.”
“This is something I can do on my own. I have to fight cancer all by myself,” I whisper, laying my head against his chest.
With that, exhaustion overwhelms me. I’m barely aware of him picking me up and carrying me to the bed. He lays down with me, his arms still wrapped around my body, pulling me close. When he does, I let out a deep breath and let the blackness take me to dream land.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Boz
Taking a long draw off the joint, I hand it to Brew and grab a bottle of Jack. After downing a shot, I look around the clubhouse. This is the first time I have spent any time at the club since Trix had her surgery. I only agreed to come tonight because Pru and Lisa came over to stay with Trix. They haven’t seen her much since she got out of the hospital. They said they wanted to have a girl’s night and pretty much pushed me out of the house.
I really needed to be here tonight anyway. As President, I need to show my face from time to time. The common room is full to the rafters, everyone wanting to watch one of the prospects get his cut. All of the brothers are partying with our soon to be newest member. We only take a couple of new members each year. When it happens, we celebrate biker style. I spy Taser, the newest Grim Bastards, in the corner getting blown by a club whore. Not usually a voyeur, I’m surprised to feel my dick hardening.
Lately, a strong wind can make my boy stand up and salute. Trix and I haven’t had sex since a few days before she told me about the cancer. Even though the doctor cleared her a few weeks ago, she just doesn’t feel up to it. I can understand why; she’s so damn sick all the time. My old lady, being the champ she is, offered to relieve my pressure, but I just couldn’t let her. Our relationship has always been about give and take. There is no fucking way I’m gonna take without giving back. Still, I’m getting a little tired of my right hand. I will be glad when I can make love to my woman, when we can share that connection again.
“Smoke is thinking about stepping down,” Brew says, drawing my attention.
I lean forward, placing my elbows against the table. “What the fuck are you talking about? My VP is not stepping down.”
“His hands are messed up, brother,” Brew says before taking a long draw off the joint and handing it back to me. “He’s afraid he’s not gonna be able to ride much longer.”
A few months ago, Smoke’s old lady’s ex showed up in town. The dickhead threw a fucking fit, saying a biker wasn’t going to raise his son. He hasn’t given a shit about who’s been raising him, and I don’t know why he wanted to act like he did then, but I think the new woman he’d gotten had something to do with it. Hell, he had already signed over all rights to Parker a few years ago. Park is no longer his son. He now and always will carry the last name Roundtree, just like his father. Even though they share no blood ties, Smoke loves him with everything he is.
When that asshole showed up and started making trouble, my brother showed him what happens when you fuck with a biker. At least, his fists did. My brother tore him up, and the stupid fucker didn’t even get in a swing. He damn near killed the fucker, but Smoke was okay with that. In the end, it may have been better if that dickhead was dead. Smoke ended up spending three months inside for aggravated assault. When he finally got out, he started having trouble with his hands. Two surgeries later, they aren’t getting better.
“I’m not letting hi
m step down,” I state, taking a drag off the joint. “Able to ride or not, I’m not losing my brother. He’s too valuable.”
As a Vice President, Smoke has been irreplaceable. He has kept shit together when I needed to take care of Trix. Without him, the club would have fallen apart. Yeah, Brew would have stepped up. Hack and Round would have stepped up and did what was needed, but none of them would have done it the way Smoke did. The brother seems to channel me, knowing what I would do. I’m not surprised, since we’ve been best friends since we were kids.
“You need to tell him that, Boz,” Brew says, taking back the joint. “Right now, he feels like he is failing you.”
“What the fuck are you talking about?” I ask, but I am not listening for his answer.
My mind is focused on the new club whore. She is fucking beautiful. She’s dancing, swaying to the music, and giving every man in the room a hard on. I watch as she walks toward me, her long blonde hair swaying with every step. She reminds me of Trix so fucking much that my cock is twitching with excitement. The closer she gets, the harder I get.
“Hey, Pres. You’re looking a little lonely tonight,” she says, with a confident smile on her face. “Do you need a little company?”
As much as I want, as much as I need the release, I shake my head in the negative. I’ve been faithful to Trix for more than thirteen years. There is no way I am messing it up now. Just because she is sick doesn’t mean I can fuck any whore who throws her pussy at me. I love my woman, no matter what happens. She will always be the only woman for me. She’s doing without and so will I.
“I’ve got an old lady,” I say, my voice not as authoritative as it should be. “You know I don’t touch club whores.”
She looks at me with determination in her eyes. “Since you’ve just got half an old lady now, I figured you may want me tonight.”
The weed and whiskey must be fucking with me, because there is no way this cunt said what I think she did. No one, and I mean no fucking one, talks shit about my woman. A few of the brothers get off on that kind of shit. They like to hear the whores berating their old ladies, saying the woman does not deserve a man like us. Not me, no damn way. If anything, I am the one that does not deserve someone as amazing as Trix.
Pushing myself up from the chair, I stand over her. “What the fuck did you just say?”
“Uhmm…” She stammers, losing her confident smile. “I didn’t mean anything bad, but everyone is talking about how your old lady had to have one of her tits removed. I thought you may want to spend some time with a woman who has it all.”
My blood boils as I take in her words. This bitch has nothing on my old lady. Trix is mine, and I protect her. That includes protecting her from some bitch’s smart mouth. Without thinking, I swing my hand, smacking her so hard she drops to the floor. I go down with her, still swinging. My open hand makes contact with her face. Again and again, I rain blows. I’m about to swing again, when a pair of strong arms pulls me away.
“Brother, you gotta stop this shit,” Brew says, bringing me out of my drunken infused trance. “You know we don’t hit women.”
I look down at the whore and see blood trickling from her nose and mouth. I instantly feel regret. Trix would lose her mind if she knew I hit a woman. But this shit just can’t happen. No club whore, or anyone else for that matter, is going to talk about my woman. She needs to realize what the hierarchy is here, and my old lady sits right at the top. This bitch better learn fast, or she is going to end up bleeding a hell of a lot worse.
“She was talking shit about Trix,” I say as anger courses through me.
“Trix wouldn’t care what she said,” he says, still holding me. “You know she doesn’t like anyone hurting the women, club whore or old lady.”
With every word that leaves his mouth, I get more and more pissed. I don’t really think I’m angry with him. Honestly, I’m not even all that mad at the club whore anymore. I am just pissed at life, mad as hell that some disease is bringing my woman down, and I’m fucking furious there is nothing I can do to fix it for her. All I can do is watch her suffer, and I’m not sure how much more of it I can take. Just thinking about it causes my anger to build and build. Knowing Brew can feel the tension in me, I attempt to relax. As soon as I do, he releases me.
Figuring my brother will understand what I am feeling and the need to punish someone, I turn to him and swing. My fist connects with Brew’s face, causing him to stumble back a step. He blinks in surprise then stares into my eyes. Whatever he sees causes him to nod. He then takes a step forward and swings back. It connects, damn near sending me to my knees. I swing at him again and again, letting all my anger out. He gives as good as he gets, obviously knowing I need that bite of pain as bad as I need to give it. By the time it’s over, I feel drained. All the anger and pain I’ve had these last few weeks have disappeared. I flop down on the floor, and my brother drops down beside me.
Taking in a deep breath, I look over at him. “Thanks, I needed that.”
“I’m here to serve, Pres,” he says with a chuckle.
I’m a fucking lucky bastard. I’m surrounded by a group of brothers that would lay down their lives for me, and I would do the same for them. Like Brew, each one would take an ass kicking just to make me feel better. We have fought side by side many times, always having each other’s backs. I just wish there was a way we could fight this battle for Trix.
“She’s hurting, hurting so damn bad. This shit is killing her,” I tell him, not caring who else hears. “I am supposed to help her. I am supposed to keep her safe, but nothing seems to help. I’m the one that feels like a failure. Every time she gets sick or pushes me away, I feel like I’m letting her down.”
Brew uses the back of his hand to wipe the blood lingering on his mouth and says, “There’s nothing more you can do, brother. You’re doing everything you can. Just be there for her, that’s what she wants and needs.”
Knowing he is right, I push myself off the floor and head toward the door. I only came tonight to show solidarity, to honor a new brother. Well, I’ve done enough. They can handle the rest on their own. I have to get home, have to be with my woman. That’s where I’m needed most right now.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Boz
As we watch television, I keep looking over at the kids. Each one has their eyes glued to the TV, but I can tell only Fiona and Jamie are watching it. Leland is lost in his thoughts, no doubt thinking about his mom. This shit has been hard on all the kids, but it has been brutal on Leland. The boy is old enough to realize just what cancer means. He realizes that his mother may be all right today, as okay as someone can be that just had chemotherapy a couple of hours ago, but this shit could take her from us at any moment.
I wait until the episode is over then look to my two youngest and say, “Go on up and get ready for bed.”
They complain, like they always do, but finally push off the couch and head upstairs. When Leland goes to follow them, I call him. He stops, looking over to me. The pain and worry I see in his eyes tears me apart inside. I wish I could rewind time, take him back to a place where he had nothing to worry about other than getting his homework done and keeping his room clean.
“You doing okay?” I ask, already knowing the answer.
Just like that, he breaks down. He comes over to me and plops down at my side, curling his body into mine. The sound of him crying reaches my ears, and I can feel my own eyes sting with tears. I hold them back, reminding myself I need to be strong for him. It takes forever for him to calm down, but I don’t rush it. I just hold him and let him cry it out, knowing he needs this.
“Momma’s so sick,” he whispers, but it comes out like a whimper.
“I know, Land,” I say, knowing I can’t lie to him.
My boy is smart as a whip, always has been. He was walking by ten months and talking in full sentences by eighteen months. That same smart whit is what is making this all the harder on him. With Jamie and Fiona, cancer isn’t any m
ore serious that the common cold. They don’t know any better, but Leland understands just how serious this shit is.
“She’s been throwing up ever since she got home,” he says, pulling back enough to look up at me. “And, she’s getting skinny.”
Trix has never been stick thin, thank God, and over the years, she has put on a few extra pounds. With each kid, a bit of the baby weight stuck, and like me, the years have added a pound or two here and there. I don’t mind a bit, never have. She could weight six-hundred pounds, and I would still love her body.
Things have definitely changed. Even after only doing chemo for two months, every bit of that extra weight she had on her body has disappeared. Right now, she is about the same size she was when we first got together. After another few months of this shit, she’s going to be nothing more than skin and bones. She won’t have anything left if she ends up having to do another round.
“I know this has been hard, and we still have a ways to go, but we’ll make it through it,” I say, hoping my words are true.
Right now, I am more worried about the treatment than the actual disease. I have spent hours on Google, researching Trix’s cancer, not to mention numerous conversations with her oncologist. According to what I have learned, it is not an aggressive form of cancer. According to the doctor, she’s lucky it wasn’t a different kind of the shit. What he is most worried about is the side effects of the chemotherapy. That shit is nothing but poison, literally killing off the cancer by poisoning her.
“Will Momma make it?” Leland asks, his voice filled with emotion.
“Will I make what?” Trix asks, walking into the room.
I look at her, a wave of helplessness filling me. My woman looks like death warmed over, much like the pictures I saw of her mom. Her hair has lost its vibrancy, clinging to her head. It’s thinner already, reminding me of the hair I keep finding in the bathtub drain. Her beautiful blue eyes are dull and lifeless, sunken into her head and surrounded by a faint purple color. The sweats and tee she is wearing are hanging from her frame, the shirt nearly falling off her shoulders. All in all, she looks like she feels like shit.
