We just landed at Denver International Airport and because of the turbulence we experienced from storms moving east, I’m feeling a bit nauseous. Hawk and I stand up as the rows ahead of us start to slowly make their way off the plane. He grabs our carry-ons from the overhead cabinet and hands mine over to me. “You doin’ okay?”
I think about toughing it out for a minute, but I can’t. I shake my head from side to side. “No, I feel like I might throw up.”
“Shit. The turbulence?” he asks, and I give him a nod.
“Yeah, I’ve never experienced it before.” My stomach is churning like we’re still up in the air. My mind may understand we’re on the ground, but it definitely hasn’t transmitted that signal to the rest of my body.
I breathe in through my nose and out through my mouth. It’s a technique I was taught by a dear friend of mine in college. Not only does it help when you’re going through an anxiety attack, but it also helps with hellish forms of hangovers, or if you think you’re going to throw up. She called it a focal point. I know it sounds like bullshit, but it does work sometimes. So, I focus on my breathing and not on the way my stomach is doing backflips inside of me. Or I think I’m focusing.
I glance to the right and see there are still four rows of people ahead of us slowly exiting the plane in an orderly fashion. I can’t help myself, but I fuck up the orderly fashion as I squeeze in front of Hawk and get myself into the aisle. “Sorry, gonna vomit,” I say loudly as I rush up the aisle. The v-word has a quick way of convincing everyone to make room for me. I run out of the plane, through the gate, and into the terminal where I see the sign for the restrooms.
I continue to rush over, open the door and walk in on a few flight attendants getting ready. They all give me an annoyed look with the way I’ve just shoved open the door and ran in, but I don’t give a fuck. My stomach is ruling the rest of my body right now.
I push open the door to the farthest stall away, but not the handicapped one because less fortunate people need it. I can’t even turn back to shut the door because puke has risen up my throat. I’m not going to pretend to be a tough girl here. I’m definitely not one of those bitches who can hold their vomit in their mouth and swallow it without batting an eyelash. Other girls have told me it’s the ladylike thing to do. Me on the other hand, I think it’s the disgusting thing to do.
I open my mouth and everything I’ve eaten today comes flying out. I taste cinnamon from the pastry I bought at a café back in the Billings airport this morning. If that isn’t the worst part, it comes soon after as I continue upchucking until my taste buds are covered in the citrusy taste of orange. “Jesus Christ,” I groan out into the toilet, “I fucking hate you, turbulence.”
All I can do right now is thank God we aren’t flying out to Vegas tonight. I don’t think my stomach could handle it.
I stay kneeling over the porcelain throne for a few minutes, giving myself time for the nausea to pass. I learned from one time back in my college days to never leave a bathroom if you think there’s even the slightest chance you might still throw up. I cringe at the memory of vomiting on my freshman crush, Jack Nichols. I wanted to give him a lasting impression of me, but not that kind.
I quickly wash my hands and also bring water into my mouth, gargling a bit to attempt to get the bile taste out of my mouth. Popping my carry-on bag on the counter, I unzip the top to see if I have any mints in here. I’m notorious for hiding mints in everything. I’m betting if I dig deep enough, I’ll be able to find one.
I dip my hand inside and search relentlessly, but don’t find one. I think about stopping my search but find a pair of socks with little unicorns on them and open up the pair. As I do it, I hear the unmistakable crackling of plastic and smile. It feels like I’ve won a battle.
Placing the mint in my mouth, I toss out the plastic wrapper and zip my bag back up, making my way outside. I’m starting to feel a bit better, but it all comes to a halting stop when I see a ghost from my past.
31
“Ghosts are guilt. Ghosts are secrets. Ghosts are regrets and failings. But most times, most times a ghost is a wish.”
~ Steven Crain
Raven
Part of me wants to believe my eyes are fucking with me right now, that there’s no way I’m seeing him right now. The last time I saw my father I was a little girl. Surely a man would change in almost twenty years, but not him. He looks almost the same. It’s weird. I remember him, the way he looked back then, him having some sort of presence in my life, but I don’t remember specific details. If anything. I remember my Momma more than him.
I keep staring at his ash-colored hair. Parts of it have smoky grays running through. He’s in a fitted navy blue suit with a briefcase sitting on the floor next to him. His eyes are glued to his phone and even from the thirty or so feet I must be away from him, his watch glistens in the LED lights.
I want to look for Hawk, but I can’t. Not right now. Not when I am looking at a ghost from my past. From the looks of it, he must still be a lawyer. He’s sure as hell dressed the part.
I sling my bag over my shoulder and make my way over to him. I try so hard to remember parts of my past, to remember things about him, but nothing is coming to the surface. I never cared much about my lack of memories of him when I was a child. In all honesty, I think it made me stronger. If I had remembered more of him, I would’ve been one of those little girls who cried for their daddy every night. I don’t remember crying. I only remember feeling relieved in his absence.
To this day I still don’t understand that feeling. This may be fucked up, but I had hoped if I ever had the chance to see him again something would jog my memory and help me understand why. Not why he left, but why I had no feeling of loss when it came to him.
“Raven?” I hear Hawk’s voice, but I keep my eyes trained on my father.
“Yeah?” I respond back, watching as a woman walks up to him. She seems to be in her early forties. Her hair is long, flowing down in loose curls to the bottom of her ribs. She has a peachy-toned lipstick on. I look a bit closer and see a giant ring on her left hand, then look to my father and see he has a ring on as well.
Shit, I never knew he officially divorced my Momma.
“This is the first time I’ve seen him in almost twenty years,” I mutter, watching as two young girls walk up. The blonde looks like the woman, who I assume is the mother of them both. She giggles and tosses her head back, hugging my father. However, the one who shares the same dark hair as my father and I stick close to her mother. She looks anywhere she can to avoid looking at him.
“Who?” Hawk questions, putting his hand over mine.
“My father,” I respond, looking up at Hawk for a second before I direct my attention back at my father.
I keep staring at the dark-haired girl who can’t be older than ten and it’s like a curtain finally lifts. Everything my mind has kept hidden for years comes rushing back to me.
The first thing I remember is being a little girl, maybe three or four, when he gave me a drink of something that burned my throat. I complained about it and told him it made me feel warm. More than that, I remember the way his expression shifted from a stern line to an evil sneer. I think back then I knew something wasn’t right. I just didn’t know what. I try to recall more of that particular day, but I black out. Instead, I can remember feeling scared, hurt, and wanting to stay away from him.
“I need to go talk to him, but I have to do this alone,” I declare, dropping my bag next to Hawk as I head over to him. I walk across the open hallway and stand a few feet away from him and who I believe is his new family. His wife is chatting with him and his attention is still focused on his cellphone. His wife is the one who speaks to me. “Can I help you with something?”
She narrows her eyes, looking at me like I’m beneath her. I’ve never witnessed privilege in Montana because it’s such a small area. Everyone practically knows one another. But this woman reeks of money and she wants everyone to know
it.
I shake my head. “You can’t, but my father can.” I’m blunt because being anything else won’t help.
Her eyes go wide at the shock of what I’ve just said. All of a sudden, his attention has shifted to me. “My name is Chelsea Raven Grey. I’m Charles’s daughter,” I state, staring my father down.
His wife looks confused. “That’s impossible. Charles doesn’t have any other children. God, you must be one of those crazy clients of his. Aren’t you?”
I chuckle. “No, I’m most certainly not. It looks like he played you like a fool. Don’t fret, though. He does it to everyone.” I look down at the two girls. The blonde one is still hugging our father and the darker-haired one has her eyes on me but shifts them down to the floor when I meet hers.
There’s no doubt in my mind we have something in common, something that no two individuals should ever have to go through. I don’t know what comes over me, but I pull the little girl in my arms and hug her. This embrace is unlike any other I’ve had before. Through my arms being wrapped around her body, it’s like I can feel her anxiety, grief, and shame. I kneel down and ask her something no little girl should ever have to answer. “Does your father touch you? Give you juice that makes you feel all warm and fuzzy?”
Her eyes expand, and I have my answer. She nods once.
“Do you wake up the next morning and hurt?”
I want her to shake her head and tell me I’m wrong, but when she nods again I want him to drop dead in his place. I glance up to her mother and unleash my wrath. “You get these two girls far away from this pedophile. He did it to me and he’ll continue to do it if you allow him.”
“Who on Earth do you think you are?” he roars, taking a step toward me in an aggressive manner.
I smirk the same way he would at me before he’d do what he shouldn’t have. “I’m your dark Chels-belle, remember daddy?” I use the nickname he called me as a child against him, confirming my identity even further.
“Do you actually know this girl?” his wife asks, and I wanna throttle her because she’s not getting her girls away from him. Her dark-haired daughter is still holding me close.
He opens his mouth and just as he does, Hawk’s fist shows up out of nowhere and knocks him back into the wall.
32
You are free to choose, but you are not free from the consequence of your choice.
~ Unknown
Raven
“Have you lost your mind? I just told you what your husband did, your daughter confirmed it, and you’re asking him if he knows me. God, you’re disgusting. The only thing you should be worried about right now is the well-being of your children,” I snarl out at her.
The blonde, done-up woman beside him laughs. “I’m not his wife, honey. I’m his personal assistant. These brats aren’t mine. God, this is ridiculous.” She struts off in her high heels down the hall and disappears out of our sights.
Hawk now has my father by the neck, pressing him against the wall. “Did you or did you not do what Raven said?” Hawk hisses out at him. I can’t see his face, but from the way Hawk is speaking to my father . . . he’s about to rip his fuckin’ throat out.
“He did,” the dark-haired girl mumbles softly.
“I know he did, sweetie. What’s your name?”
“I’m Bridget, and this is Danica.” She points to her sister, who now looks visibly upset.
“I don’t understand what’s happening right now,” Danica says to Bridget and I. Every natural instinct within me wants to tell them they shouldn’t have to understand any of it because they’re little girls who should be playing with dolls and making up silly rhymes about boys.
I place my hand on Danica’s shoulder. “That’s okay, sweetie. Just know everything is going to be okay. Alright?” Danica nods after I finish speaking. “Where is your mother?”
Bridget is the one who speaks up. “She died in a car crash when I was six.”
Oh my God. These girls have been going through hell for years.
“Excuse me, ma’am.” I turn around to see an airport security guard behind me. He’s looking past me at Hawk, who has my father pinned against the wall, not letting him gain an inch of leeway. “Do you need any help?”
“Yes, please. I need to speak with a police officer immediately,” I state.
I’m not a broken little girl anymore who’s going to forget about the traumatic things that were done to me. I’m a strong woman who won’t let this monster get away with the acts he’s committed. Even more than that, I won’t allow him to go free after what he’s done. My sisters deserve more than that.
The security officer informs me they don’t have a police officer nearby, and escorts the group of us to a holding facility. It’s more like an airport jail. The security officer cuffs my father and puts him in a room where he’s assured me he won’t be able to harm himself. I keep comments to myself about wishing the man was dead and decide to wait on the bench quietly with my sisters and Hawk.
When the officer arrives, I discover the girls came with our father’s assistant, Denise, to pick him up from the airport after he was out of town for a work trip. They live in a suburb close to Denver and we end up going to the nearest police station. If things weren’t bad enough, finding out the girls have no next of kin besides me was a complete shock. The officers informed me our father wouldn’t be released for quite a while and is in no way, shape, or form caring for them.
Because of the severity of the case, a detective ended up coming into the room we were in. Thankfully, they were able to put the girls in another room while they spoke with me. They asked Hawk to step out but he refused, wanting to be there for me.
The detective gave me the grave news that because there’s no next of kin, the legal system would be making a decision on who would retain guardianship of the girls or if Child Protective Services would get involved. He asked me if I felt that I was in a place where I could care for two children. In all my life, I never would’ve dreamed I’d have a question like this asked of me.
I was honest with him and said I didn’t think anyone was ever in a place where they felt ready for it. The detective laughed but told me he could pull a few strings with a friend, who’s a judge. He said he felt like I was the safest place for the girls, especially given I’d gone through the same experience.
It’s evident Bridget went through the same trauma, but I’m not sure about Danica. It’s something we’ll have to discover and work through during therapy. I may have only met these girls, but I want the absolute best for them.
I didn’t even blink when I told the detective I’d gladly take care of my sisters. I didn’t care what Hawk had to say because I will put these little girls above our relationship. He knows how big my heart is and in my opinion, he knew what he signed up for when he wanted to be with me. I had to ask the detective if we could leave out of state with the girls and he said it was a question for the judge.
I’m crossing every finger I have we can start our lives where we planned without any impact on our timeline. In my mind, I’m thinking the girls need to get the hell out of here too. We all need a fresh start.
33
If you feel like you’re losing everything, remember that trees lose their leaves every year and they still stand tall and wait for better days to come.
~ Unknown
Raven
In the last two weeks, my life has done a complete one-eighty. I had finally accepted the fact I was moving halfway across the country to be with a man I’d been smitten over for far longer than I care to admit, only to have the train called life hit me in the face and fuck it all up. I even started to daydream about what life would be like in Vegas. What I didn’t take into account was raising my two half-sisters.
The judge in Colorado did award me guardianship of my sisters and allowed us to leave the state as long as we come back to Denver when our father’s trial starts. In Colorado, they have a no-tolerance policy when it comes to sexual violence, especially ag
ainst minors. While he will get jail time, the sad thing is he will eventually be freed and could do the same to others. I, however, will make it my life’s mission to make sure he never harms another girl. Hell, I even spoke to Hawk privately about how angry I am over it all. He offered to have a guy on the inside handle it when we know which prison my father will be staying in. I declined, saying it was too easy. What I mean by easy is that it’s too kind. I want him to stay in jail for as long as he can and become someone’s bitch. Maybe then he might understand a fraction of the pain he inflicted.
As far as my sisters go, Bridget is far more vocal about her trauma than Danica is. However, Danica had let a few things slip when she wasn’t paying attention. Danica prefers to act like it never happened, pretending to be normal, whereas I think Bridget understands the severity of what they endured a bit more. Bridget is older, though, so it makes sense. At eleven and eight years old, they should never have had to go through it.
Part of me is beating myself up, wishing I had done some sort of research into my father’s whereabouts earlier. If I had, I could’ve saved these two from some of their pain. Hawk tells me I shouldn’t be so hard on myself, or think about the what-ifs, but I do have anxiety after all. It’s hardwired into my brain to think the way I do.
We arrived in Las Vegas this morning to warm and welcoming arms. I’d filled Ivy in on the hell we were going through. She made sure the rest of the club understood a little bit, but they didn’t need to know the nitty, gritty details. I don’t want anyone looking at my sisters any differently than normal kids. The only thing the club needs to know is that our father was deemed unfit to care for them and they’re in my custody now.
Hawk: Reapers MC Book #6 Page 13
