My Perfect Drug (Reapers MC: Ellsberg Chapter Book 2)

by Bijou Hunter

  Sissy does her best to step up and help, but she’s pretty useless at seeing the big picture. I give her smaller projects. My sister’s always been especially good at bookkeeping. As long as each business element is in a separate file, Sissy can wrap her brain around the project and finishes quickly.

  “I think you might be good at math,” I tell her a week after we’re back at work.

  “I don’t see how that’s possible.”

  “Math is precise. One plus one is always two. It doesn’t take a lot of contextualizing.”

  “Con-what?” she asks, cocking an eyebrow as if I might be making up a word.

  Smiling, I reach over and tug at one of her curls. “It means you’re good at bookkeeping. That’s your thing now. Cy sucked at math.”

  “He really did,” she says, all shiny-faced from receiving a rare compliment.

  Our brother’s escape from Ellsberg extends past the holidays. He doesn’t answer calls and sends nothing to his sons for Christmas. This last part leads Cy’s baby mamas to hound me every day.

  “He needs to do right for TJ,” Mykayla demands, and I’m struck for the millionth fucking time at Cy’s stupidity for naming his firstborn, Topher Junior. As if our father might actually give a shit. I still think the idea came from Mykayla whose genius moves include making a kid with a loser like Cy and tatting the deadbeat asshole’s name on her fucking neck.

  “He might be dead,” I say one evening when the constant calls get on my nerves. Lily hears my comment and cocks an eyebrow. Once I shrug, she smiles and returns to reading.

  After Mykayla hangs up from our call, she must immediately complain to Caylee because Cy’s second baby mama quickly rings me up to demand I support my nephew now.

  “Why not ask Topher about a monthly check for CJ?” I suggest, knowing she’s smarter than baby mama #1.

  “How am I supposed to pay for shit if Cy is gone for good?” she asks, sounding pathetic.

  I dislike the woman, and I loathe the other one even more. TJ and CJ are awful kids, and I hope my mutt never spends a single second with his cousins. However, I’m a bleeding-heart pussy willow, blown over by the thought of my nephews going hungry.

  Relenting to her pitiful tears, I say, “I’ll see if I can work something out but don’t expect too much. I know Cy wasn’t giving you more than a few hundred each month.”

  “Why would he just leave?” she asks like an idiot. Fucking hell, Cy never pretended to care about these women or his kids, but they refuse to accept what he made abundantly clear for years. “Do you really think he’s dead?”

  “I don’t know,” I lie. “Let me figure out what the family will do for CJ and TJ, but you gotta stop calling me all the fucking time. I got a kid on the way, and your calls are irritating my woman.”

  “I don’t care about your bitch, Dash Mullen. I want shit for my kid.”

  “Yeah,” I sigh, swallowing my temper because getting riled up over twats isn’t something I’ve ever wasted time doing, “but I’m the only one who will help you with that, and I do care about my bitch, so you need to know your place. Well, that or I can ask Topher to handle the problem.”

  Caylee says nothing, but I can nearly feel her working out her options. Assuming Cy was flush with cash, she took a calculated risk making a baby five years ago. Her meal ticket turned out to have a stingy father and no interest in his own blood. Now she’s stuck kissing my ass or getting shut down by Topher. Despite her hanging up without admitting she needs me more than I need her, I sense Caylee and Mykayla won’t call so much.

  Even with the baby mamas under control, I remain crushed under the fallout from Cy’s disappearance. He handled most of the booze side of the Mullen business. I don’t even know who most of our delivery guys are or how to contact them. My family’s business has never been well-managed, but this December is a crash-and-burn situation. Low sales from college kids heading home for the holidays, my couple of days of recouping, and finally Cy’s lack of any notes explaining what he did or how he did it leave us spiraling.

  “The cousins are coming,” Sissy tells me one day when I arrive at the car lot. “Don’t know when. They only said we aren’t making enough money. They told me someone here is fucking up, so they’re coming.”

  “Won’t be until after the New Year,” I say, patting her head before getting us coffee. “They love to party up in Columbus, so they’ll let us limp along at least until mid-January.”

  “Topher won’t take their calls,” Sissy says weakly. “He won’t talk to anyone.”

  I sit across from Sissy at our makeshift desk. “Don’t worry about him. That’s a problem for later. Right now, you worry about getting your work done so you can pick up the kids. Then you worry about cooking something nice for dinner since Lily’s working a late shift. Then you worry about what movie we can watch tonight.”

  Sissy smiles softly when I remind her how we don’t live in this always cold, never happy house anymore. Lily gave us a home, and the holidays are here. Topher can pout and plan his revenge on all those who’ve wronged him. No doubt he has a long list, but we can’t control him.

  We can only enjoy the happy shit this year has brought. With her face nearly healed and only a few days before the kids are on winter break, I hope my sister can stop worrying about evil men long enough to embrace what’ll probably be the best Christmas we’ll ever experience.

  I can’t imagine next year with Lily and the baby. I’m not convinced I’ll still be breathing by then. I’m relatively sure Sissy is headed for an early grave. Topher’s never been so sullen. Of course, he’d never gotten punched in the face by Cooper Johansson’s massive fist before. Now our father is biding his time before he rages through his family to ensure we feel as bad as he does.

  Until then, I’m living in Lily’s cozy world of Christmas carols, silly holiday-themed movies, and late evenings cuddled in front of the fireplace.

  THE PRINCESS

  The holidays are pure bliss. Sissy and I have a ball shopping for presents while the kiddos are at school. Mom comes over one night to bake cookies. Pop arrives another night to deliver a fruitcake from MJ. Before I can dump the joke food, Dash and Sissy nearly scream in horror.

  “You’re so spoiled, Lily Bear,” Dash says, saving the gross cake to Pop’s amusement. “That shit is edible.”

  “Yes, but it is shit,” Pop points out.

  Dash shakes his head, clearly disapproving of our wasteful ways. “Not if you’re stoned enough.”

  The kiddos don’t even need pot to eat that dreadful concoction. Cake is cake, and they like desserts.

  “Yeah, Lily Bear,” Hart says to me when I refuse to eat a bite.

  “You heard him, Lilian.”

  “Why does she keep calling me that?” I ask Sissy who shrugs.

  Dash snorts with laughter. “That’s what Cy used to call you. He said you were too uppity for the name Lily.”

  “Well, he can suck on an egg.”

  “Can I have an egg too?” Hart asks, and I pray my kid embraces food as easily as these do.

  Christmas is a two-house affair. We unwrap presents at my home where the kiddos lose their little minds over how Santa finally thought they were good enough for presents. Sissy looks at me as if she might be the worst parent in the world, so I spend most of the morning hugging her.

  “That was Topher,” Dash tells his sister. “Without him, see how much happier everyone is?”

  Sissy nods, but she feels guilty anyway. It never occurred to her to go against Topher’s wishes, so no tree or decorations, few gifts, and never Santa. I try to remind her how happy the kiddos are when she’s running the show, but she only mumbles, “Things are good because of you.”

  Sissy might be depressed, but she hides it well with all her smiles. She can’t help grinning when the kiddos do. I want so much to hug away her sadness. I even find myself struggling with despair over how long I left things to fester. Why didn’t I step in years ago? We could have been happier soo
ner.

  By the time the kiddos have unwrapped their presents and are chilling with their favorite toys, I’m spiraling into my own depression.

  Then Dash rests his head on my belly and sighs. “When’s our mutt going to kick the way MJ’s does?” he asks and smiles at me. “Hers kicked weeks ago. What’s the hold-up?”

  “It’ll be soon,” I whisper as my fingers explore the scarred flesh of his handsome face.

  “This is a really great day,” he says, sitting up and kissing my cheek. “You wouldn’t be so down in the dumps if today wasn’t fucking awesome.”

  “I wish—”

  Dash kisses away the rest of my words. He knows what I wish, and he knows there’s no rewriting history. It is what it is. We’re happy now. Dash and Sissy survived all these years and kept the kiddos safe long enough for me to offer them a way out. I suspect Dash wonders why he didn’t push for more sooner. He knows why, though. I do too. We accepted what the world offered rather than demanding what we deserved.

  No more.

  We’re reborn today. Everyone’s happier. Even Sissy settles down by the time we head to my parents’ house. The kids can barely wait to tell my mom how Santa came, and Dash looks forward to the food always abundant at the Johansson place.

  Pop opens the door, wearing a Christmas-themed leather vest that Mom jokingly bought him years ago. Then his ugly attire became tradition, so he’s forced to wear it even when visited by people like Dash—who bursts into childlike giggles—and Sissy—who stares at it in horror.

  The rest of Christmas is filled with far too much food and an insane amount of Griswold movies. I can’t complain about a single moment. Even my tears act more as a way to say goodbye to the past. Right here and now, I’m in love with life.

  As relaxed as we are during the holidays, the mood shifts a few days after the New Year. I notice Sissy growing restless. I ask her more than once if she’s unhappy living at my house. Each time, she cries so hard she can’t answer. Even when she calms down, she doesn’t explain why she’s upset.

  I worry I’m an overbearing host. Or she misses her house and wants to move back there but fears telling me the truth.

  “It’s not you,” Dash says one night in bed. “It’s Topher. He’s been quiet for too long. If he doesn’t release his anger on a regular basis, he freaks in an epic fashion, and his favorite target is Sissy. She can’t run when she has the kids.” Dash pauses, thinking for a minute. “She also knows if he’s angry enough that he’ll get bored of hitting her. Since he usually can’t catch Cy or me, that leaves Haydee and Hart. Topher hates the boy something fierce. I think his fluffy fucking hair pisses him off. Topher hates all girls, so Haydee isn’t safe either.”

  “But they’re safe here,” I whisper, gripping his hand as if his touch alone can calm the storm rising in me.

  “But she isn’t always here. Sooner or later, Topher will lose his shit, and he’ll hunt her down. Each day that passes, she knows her punishment will be worse.”

  “But why doesn’t she tell me that?”

  “What if you get upset and the stress hurts the baby?” Dash asks, sliding his hand across my growing belly. “She’s put you on a high pedestal, and your needs vastly outweigh hers and even the kids. They’re Mullens, so shit will always roll down on them, but you deserve to be happy.”

  “I don’t accept it.”

  Dash sighs. “You can’t change how Sissy sees you.”

  “No, I mean Topher. I don’t accept he’ll hurt her or the kiddos again. I’m going to put a stop to it.”

  “How?” he asks, and I swear he thinks I’m funny.

  “How can you laugh at your sister’s suffering?”

  “I’m not laughing,” he mutters. “And you forget that if it isn’t Topher smacking her, it’d be Cy or some boyfriend. You know what kind of men she’s drawn to. If Topher dropped dead tomorrow, every asshole in Ellsberg would come calling. He’s the only reason they stay away from Sissy these days. Like all Mullen women, Sissy is her biggest enemy. How can you protect her from herself?”

  “I don’t know, but I can protect her from Topher.”

  “Okay,” he says, giving up on the conversation whenever Topher’s punishment comes up.

  “He needs to be dealt with.”

  Dash shrugs and pulls the heavy quilt over his bare chest. “Business is down, and my Ohio cousins aren’t happy. They’ll be here soon, so maybe they’ll end Topher.”

  I sense Dash worries they’ll end him instead, but he doesn’t say anything. He cuddles against me and dozes off reading the tablet in my lap. For Dash, Topher’s destruction isn’t something that can be contained, so why even discuss it.

  Remaining awake long after he crashes into seemingly pleasant dreams, I concoct plans to eliminate Topher. I imagine killing the cad in a dozen ways, and every fantasy makes murder seem easy. Shooting Rudy was undoubtedly effortless. Pop bought me a lightweight handgun. The pistol felt like nothing in my hand, and the tug at the trigger barely registered in my mind. Could it be as easy to kill Topher? Shooting Rudy was all instinct while Topher would be cold-blooded murder.

  I finally give in to sleep, still hoping for a way to end Topher and protect Dash, Sissy, and the kiddos. My heart wholeheartedly believes life will provide me a new path. Occasionally, when opportunities don't arise on their own, I’m forced to make grand moves as I did with the baby. Usually, though, the path arrives when I’m open to it.

  The next day, my heart proves me right when I receive a phone call from Aunt Bailey. Pop’s younger sister didn’t visit Ellsberg for the holidays this year, though I did talk to her in passing on Christmas. Today, she rings me directly during my lunch break.

  “Hey, girl, we didn’t get to chat long the other day,” Bailey says, sounding as if she’s been partying so long that she can’t turn down the volume on her voice. “More importantly, there was no gossip time. So, word has reached Conroe about your sordid affair with a Mullen. Oh, Lily, we’re judging you so hard right now.”

  I roll my eyes while she snickers in the background with my younger aunt, Sawyer.

  “Did you call to mock me?” I ask. “You should be aware that I prefer such things to happen behind my back.”

  “No, we were already talking about you before we heard about whose dick you worship.”

  “I don’t worship it.”

  “That’s not what we heard!” Sawyer yells in the background.

  “Am I on speakerphone?”

  “Of course. How else will everyone hear you squirm?”

  “Who exactly is with you?” I ask, nibbling on a chip while they party at my expense.

  “Just your aunt, uncle, a few cousins, and our neighbors. Oh, and the mailman dropped by. Wait, did you want me to patch in your parents too?” Bailey asks before laughing again.

  Sighing, I want to crack open my soup, but I sense they won’t willingly end this conversation anytime soon. “On a scale of one to ten, how upset would you be if I hung up on you now?”

  “An eleven,” Bailey says immediately. “We have important business to discuss with you, and I’m too lazy to dial again.”

  “What business?”

  “Sawyer and I want your feedback on a house we have here in Conroe.”

  “Continue,” I say, suspicious of where the conversation is heading.

  “It’s a big green Victorian whose former owner converted into apartments. After he let the place fall into shambles and lost his tenants, we snapped it up in foreclosure.”

  Bailey falls silent, and I suspect I’m supposed to say something. “Uh-huh.”

  Getting a response, she continues, “We thought you might drive to Conroe and share some ideas on how to fix it up?”

  “Why me?”

  “You like those old homes, and the place needs fixing. Plus, there’s not a big apartment market here. A duplex would make more sense or a single family. Before we start breaking through walls and changing the floor plan, we wanted to get your feedback.
”

  “Besides,” Sawyer declares, “we haven’t seen you in a while, and I don’t want to drive to Ellsberg.”

  “Why not?”

  “I don’t like to drive in cold weather.”

  “Why do I feel as if you’re lying, Sawyer?”

  “Because she is,” Bailey snickers. “Cooper swore he would kick her in the ass the next time he saw her.”

  “Why would Pop kick your behind?”

  “No, Lily, my ass. A-S-S!” Sawyer yells, spelling it out for me.

  “Fine, why would he kick your scrawny ass?”

  “Hey, not cool,” Sawyer grumbles.

  “Your ass is fine,” Bailey reassures her. “You know, for a white girl with a flat ass.”

  “Bitch.”

  “It’s that kind of attitude right there that led your brother to want to kick your ass.”

  Sawyer grunts. “He isn’t happy with you either.”

  “That’s neither here nor there.”

  Interrupting their bickering, I ask, “Is Pop upset because you didn’t visit for Christmas or is Pop’s irritation the reason why you didn’t visit for Christmas?”

  “Both and neither,” they say in unison.

  “Ladies, I’m at lunch, so I think maybe I’ll hang up now and talk to you later.”

  “No, wait, we want you to drive up,” Bailey insists.

  “When?”

  “This weekend?”

  Sighing, I really don’t want to drive to Conroe. Before I can weasel out of the trip, Bailey adds, “And bring along the penis you worship.”

  “Why?”

  “It’ll be good to get away from Ellsberg where everyone thinks he’s a loser. Here in Conroe, only like five people will know he’s a Mullen. That’ll be a load off for the loser.”

  Her words trigger my recurring dream of living our lives without the baggage of our last names. Conroe might not be an exciting destination, but it’ll provide anonymity.

  Plus, maybe Sissy could find a home away from Ellsberg where she’s no longer Topher’s punching bag. Without the Mullen baggage, she could start over with her kiddos. A new beginning that’ll allow her to rise or fall based on her choices and not the ones made by generations of losers.