When he has everyone’s reluctant agreement, and we’re alone, Chase cups my uninjured cheek, leveling his eyes on mine. His rich brown eyes and the pain I see there startles me, but not enough to drag me out of the depression I feel myself sinking into.
“I’m sorry, Emmy. So fucking sorry,” he whispers hoarsely. “But I need you to climb out of that hole you’re digging yourself and come back to us. You’re stronger than this, Em. With everyone willing to take your back, you can get through this,” he implores.
Studying him closely, I notice that there’s something different about Chase’s expression. Something I didn’t see in anyone else’s eyes when they looked at me. Something that prompts me to ask,
“What are you not saying?”
Chase’s body strings tight at my obviously correct assessment of the situation.
“That’s not for today, Emmy,” he replies, not confirming or denying anything.
“I think it’s up to me what I think I can handle, wouldn’t you say?” I retort acidly.
With clear warning in his tone, Chase says,
“Em…”
“No, Chase. I didn’t want to come to Lower Falls. I didn’t want to have to make an impossible choice. I couldn’t protect myself against that monster. I didn’t get to decide if my baby was ripped from my body or not. And my dad isn’t giving me a choice whether I see her or not. I have no say in my life right now, so give me this. Please,” I end on a sob.
Carefully gathering me into his arms, Chase holds me while I cry. I do it loud, and I do it long, and not once does he ask me to stop or tell me what to do. Instead, he just holds me tighter, making sure he avoids the most severe of my injuries.
Resting my head on his broad chest, he mutters,
“I get what you’re saying, Emmy. I can even see where you’re coming from. But what I’ve got to tell you is probably going to push you over the edge, and I don’t want to lose you, Em. None of us do.”
“Please,” I try one last time.
Sighing heavily, Chase relents and in turn, rips the fabric of my life apart.
“I overheard your dad’s boys talking out in the hall. Wasn’t eavesdropping or anything, just waiting to get into see you. Heard them mention Sarge’s name and my interest
was peaked, so I started paying attention. According to your dad’s right-hand man, Sarge’s missus is somewhere in the hospital with their kid. Not sure why, they didn’t have the details, but they were talking about them getting married sometime next month. Making it official and all, since they’ve been together a while now and have a kid together and all.”
My heart stops dead in my chest, and my breathing escalates to shallow pants. Oh dear God, please, please tell me Atlas isn’t with her. As if he’s reading my mind, Chase quickly adds,
“He’s not here. Or if he is the boys haven’t seen him, so you can relax, babe.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yeah, pretty solid on that. By the sounds of it, Demon went down and is keeping an eye on her.” It’s not much of a relief, but it does quell some of my initial panic, so that’s something at least.
After neither of us says anything for a good long while, Chase shifts until he’s sitting with his hip to the mattress on his side facing me.
“I know this has got to come as a blow, Emmy, but I need you to tell me where your head’s at. Talk to me, sweetheart.”
I don’t know what there is to say. Atlas has a child. He’s getting married. He’s moved on. Sure, rationally I knew he had proposed to Gwen, Hoss told me that much months ago
when I showed up at the clubhouse to tell him about my pregnancy. But hearing that Atlas is actually going through with it, that he’s going to marry another woman is something else altogether.
The numbness creeps in again, shutting my mind down and locking my heart behind walls fortified with ice and steel. All thoughts of happy endings and white picket fences disintegrate, falling in tatters at my feet. Placing the love I have felt for Atlas since the very first time I laid eyes on him in a box and burying it in the deepest recesses of my mind, I turn my thoughts to something far more important right now.
“I need you to do something for me,” I rasp, my voice thick with emotion.
“If I can, you know I will, Emmy,” Chase replies, stroking a soothing hand across my brow.
“I want a photo of her, just one,” I tell him.
“Em…”
“Did you know I had a name picked out for her? One for a girl and one for a boy, just in case. Deep down, I think I knew she was going to be a girl, but I wanted to be prepared,” I whisper the last part.
Breathing in the scent of my hair at my crown, Chase asks,
“What’s her name, Emmy? You tell me, and I’ll make
sure they know. I can’t promise they’ll keep it, but I’ll tell them,” he says, referring to the people who would be given the gift of my perfect little girl.
“Gemma Layne. Her name is Gemma Layne.”
*****
Drawing in a deep breath that has pain shooting through my broken ribs, I hobble out of the bathroom and head out to the living room to meet, Stewart and Ana Nichols, the couple who would be tasked with raising my child.
From everything Catherine has told me over the last twelve or so hours, they are wonderful people, kind, caring, and financially secure. They tried for six years to get pregnant, and finally, five years ago, Ana gave birth to a healthy little boy. They knew then their family wasn’t complete, so they began trying again but with no success. Two years ago, Stewart begged Ana to start looking into adoption because he couldn’t bear to see his wife so devastated month after month when the pregnancy tests she took came up negative. So they did. And here we are.
According to Catherine, Stewart is a highly successful investment banker, employed by a large firm in Denver, and Ana is a homemaker. Their son, Luke is a smart, funny, happy little boy, who is almost always smiling. If I had to pick the perfect family to trust my baby with, by the sounds of it, the Nichols are it.
Their visit today is merely a formality I’m told. All I
have to do is sit there and play nice, sign some papers, and find a way to piece together the broken pieces of my soul so that I can eventually go home to my son. If only it were that easy, I muse, tenderly cradling my ribs with my casted arm.
“Babe?” Chase’s rich cadence echoes down the hall. “You want me in there with you?”
I want to say, yes. I want to lean on Chase’s broad shoulders for support. But then again, this is something I know I have to do alone. If I can’t withstand half an hour with these people, relying on my own strength of will, how will I manage to live the rest of my life without needing someone to prop me up when things get tough?
Shaking my head, I don’t turn to face him because I can’t. I don’t want Chase to see the tears in my eyes again. Over the last few days, he’s been the one to dry my eyes more often than anyone else. And while I appreciate everything he’s done for me, I need to start doing it for myself.
“No, but thanks for the offer,” I finally say, sadness dripping from every word.
Chase stops me with a hand on my shoulder. His other hand reaches around in front of me as he places something in between the closed fingers of the fist on my good hand.
“Keep this safe. Don’t know if or when I’ll ever be able to get you more, but at least you’ll have this.”
Looking down at what he’s given me, I gasp part in
shock and a lot in awe. The image is slightly out of focus, but that doesn’t matter. My eyes take in every detail of her beautiful face, from the way her nose is scrunched up in indignation to her tightly shut eyes. She is sucking readily on one tiny balled up fist, and her cheeks are pink and healthy. My Gemma. My perfect miracle.
“Thank you,” I whisper, clutching the photo to my chest. “You can’t possibly know what this means to me.”
“Yeah, I think I do, babe. And you’re welcome,” he replies, k
issing the top of my head, heading back in the direction he came from as if he were never there.
*****
One very uncomfortable, agonizing hour later, I’m standing at the window in Grayson and Catherine’s living room, watching as Ana and Stewart Nichols drive down the driveway and turn left into town in the direction of the hospital. My tears stream down my face, unconstrained misery apparent for all to see.
My thoughts go to my little girl, to Gemma, as I mourn the loss of what will never be. I will never see her smile light up the room, or be there to dry her tears. I will never hold her hand as she walks out of school, telling me all about her day. I won’t be able to give her advice about life and boys or help her make the right choices. Nor will I be there to watch her grow into the amazing woman I have no doubt she will become.
Immediately, my mind turns to her father – the man who like me will remain forever absent and unknown to her. My conscience prickles at me, reminding me that I should feel guilt, remorse, something over not telling Atlas we created a child together. Under ordinary circumstances, I probably would. If I had kept Gemma, hidden her from him, allowed her to grow up never knowing how amazing he is, sure. But there’s nothing ordinary about this situation, so I can’t bring myself to feel bad about not feeling what I know I should.
I’m sure one day, the choice I followed through with today will come back to bite me on the ass, and it’s my job to be ready for it. It’s my lot in life to bear the consequences, and I will for I have no one else to blame but myself. Regardless of Atlas’ impending marriage or the birth of his child, it doesn’t change that what I’ve done by not involving him is wrong. And that too is my cross to bear. And bear it I will.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
~ Sarge ~
Unexpected visitors
Eleven years later…
My eyes wander between my brothers and their wives that have filled the hospitals only waiting room on this floor to capacity. Their heads are bowed, their bodies strung tight, awaiting the news we’ve all been dreading. Hoss is standing off to the side of the room, holding up the wall with his shoulder, his gaze never once leaving mine. No one else had noticed me yet, all of them lost as they try to work through their grief.
Coming to stand beside me, Hoss rests what I’m sure he thinks is a comforting hand on my shoulder. It’s not. I don’t feel a goddamn thing. I’m numb. Empty. Broken beyond the limits of what I imagine can be repaired.
“How’s she doing? She up for visitors?” He asks, tipping his head toward the hall leading to Marlee’s hospital room.
My throat clogs with emotion, causing a strangled
sound to escape my throat. All eyes in the room come to settle on me. Some pensive. Some pitying. Most relaying the same devastation I feel eating away at me from the inside out.
Swallowing past the pit of dread in my gut, I stare straight ahead.
“She’s gone,” I deliver in a voice devoid of emotion.
“Fuck. Fuck me, brother. I’m so, so fucking sorry,” Hoss rasps, his fingers digging into my shoulder as his hand spasms out of shock.
Marlee was initially diagnosed with childhood Leukemia just a few days after her fifth birthday. My otherwise healthy, funny, happy girl all of a sudden become lethargic, her appetite disappeared, and she complained of constant aches and pains. To hear her describe it, her bones felt too big for her body. Since Gwen was conveniently absent, like she was for most of my daughter’s life to date, or at least, when it mattered, I took Marlee to her pediatrician’s office.
Doctor Sable, a woman in her early forties with the best bedside manner of any doctor I’ve ever met, ran a metric shit ton of tests over the course of the next week. Blood, urine, CAT scans, an MRI, ultrasounds, even a lumbar puncture, which took me and two nurses holding Marlee down to complete. The look in my baby girl’s eyes when they inserted that needle into her spine was heartbreaking. They were wide with fear and abject terror, and no amount of me promising she’d be okay, that it would be over soon
could soothe her.
When the results came back, my worst fears were confirmed. Marlee didn’t have the flu, nor did she have an illness that could be cured by a simple course of antibiotics. No, my girl had cancer. Doctor Sable told us that of all the cancers to have, this one had the highest cure rates. That most kids who were diagnosed and treated early, like Marlee were, go into remission and go on to live long and healthy lives.
Marlee’s treatment began that very same week. She was referred to an oncologist who specialized in children, specifically this kind of cancer. Two weeks of immunosuppressant’s, six weeks of chemotherapy, one bone marrow transplant, and not once did my girl fail to smile every time I walked into the room. Her spirit wasn’t broken when her hair began to fall out. She didn’t cry when she was poked and prodded, or woken up every few hours to take another dose of her meds. Marlee was, in essence, the same beautiful girl she was before her diagnosis if not for the fact her body had wasted away to almost nothing, her skin was pale, her hair was gone, and her body covered in bruises.
Another surprise that came to light around the same time Marlee fell ill was Gwen’s complete an utter refusal to accept her daughter’s condition. She went about her daily business like everything was fine, barely acknowledging Marlee was sick. Gwen didn’t attend doctor’s appointments. She didn’t come to the hospital when Marlee’s next round of chemo was due. Nor did she stay overnight with her
daughter when she was too sick to go home. That was all me, and I wouldn’t have missed a second of the tie I spent with my girl.
Hoss was there every step of the way, too. He forced me to eat when I was running on empty. He demanded I fuck off and shower, telling me he’d stay with Marlee while I was gone. More often than not, Hoss spent the nights we were confined to the hospital with us, sleeping on a way too small to be comfortable plastic chair in the corner of Marlee’s room.
Just as he is now, standing beside me offering me his quiet strength, Hoss was my rock in those dark days, and I couldn’t have been more grateful for him.
Quietly, Hoss brings me back to the present.
“Where’s the clustercunt?” He asks, his voice full of scorn for the woman I’ve had the severe misfortune of calling my wife for the last nearly eleven years.
“Don’t know. Don’t care. But I know it’s time,” I grate out. I don’t need to say more. Hoss and I have been planning what would happen to Gwen when the time is right for months.
A month after Marlee started receiving treatment, I found out that Gwen had been sleeping around. Now, don’t get me wrong, I didn’t give the first fuck who she was spreading her legs for. My problem was that she was doing it while her daughter lay deathly ill in a fucking hospital bed,
battling goddamned motherfucking cancer.
It didn’t take long to trace my wife’s affairs if that’s what you want to call them all the way back to the week before we got married. Businessmen. Lawyers. Doctors. She wasn’t picky, as long as they had money in the bank and were willing to spend it on her, Gwen was golden. If I’m remembering correctly, the tally of men she’s left in her wake stands at around twenty.
Like I said, I don’t care. Gwen and I were never really a couple. We didn’t fuck. We didn’t talk about our days. We barely co-existed in the same house without tearing strips off each other. We were together for Marlee. To give her some sense of normalcy in an otherwise fucked up world.
Nine months after Marlee was first diagnosed with Leukemia, Doctor Sable delivered the news that she was in remission. Not cured. Not home free. But at least the cancer that had been eating away at her was no longer evident in her test results or scans. I was over the moon. It felt like a ten-ton weight had been lifted off my shoulders on hearing the news. The same can’t be said for Gwen, though.
Strangely, my bitch of a wife seemed almost disappointed at the knowledge her daughter would be okay. She stopped coming home most nights, didn’t interact with Marlee or I unles
s it was absolutely necessary, she pretty much became a non-existent fixture in our lives. But we were okay with that. Marlee had long since given up on having the kind of mother most of her friends had. She was
secure in the knowledge that her daddy loved her, and that was enough for her.
Time went on, years passed, and it was just me and Marlee. I taught her how to ride a bike, throw the perfect spiral, tear down an engine, and how to defend herself against all those little shithead boys she went to school with. We were inseparable, and I wouldn’t have had it any other way. I loved my daughter with all of my broken, battered heart, and she loved me.
And then the unthinkable happened.
Marlee was a few months out from her eleventh birthday when she woke me up crying one morning. She was pale, her eyes were sunken, and she was shaking all over. I pulled her into my arms and settled her under the covers before asking her what was wrong, but we were out of them just, if not more quickly the moment the words left her lips. “I think I’m sick again, daddy,” she said.
Sarge: Book 8 in the Vengeance MC series Page 22
