I do.
At first, truth is, it was about Kayla. But over the past few months, it’s become about Jimmy, too. The kid’s a tough customer. He understands a hell of a lot more than Kayla thinks. Hurts more, too. The other kids at Gracy Elementary ain’t easy on him. He’s from the wrong side of town, and he don’t suffer fools. Not a recipe for an easy time of it.
He was mine, I’d transfer him to Petty’s Mill where Dizzy’s youngest goes.
He was mine, he’d have a good enough right hook he wouldn’t need to worry about other kids, no how.
He was mine, I wouldn’t let his mama run me off. I’d show her I was serious. Let her know I can take care of her and him.
Shit.
I’m dog tired, I miss my girl, and now I got to sober up cause I have shit to do. I pound the rest of my beer, slam Pops’ back a good one, and I make for the door.
And it really ain’t my fuckin’ week, cause before I can bail to get some fresh air out the back and do some thinkin’, there’s Harper. Sittin’ on a sofa, vodka on the rocks in one hand, her phone in the other. She’s starin’ me down. Smirkin’.
She pats the empty seat next to her.
I consider walkin’ past, but I ain’t never been one to hold a grudge. Kayla’s gonna be mine, Harper ain’t goin’ nowhere, so the sooner we have this out, the better.
Don’t mean I need to make it easy.
I sit, silent ’til she sighs, all aggravated, setting her drink down with a clink.
“You really gonna make me apologize?” She rolls her eyes.
I shrug. I know how stubborn she is, but I’m a patient man.
She huffs. Drums her shiny nails on the arm of the couch. “You remember that summer you and Heavy rehabbed that Bobber?”
Hell, yeah, I remember. It was my first bike, even if I had to share with Heavy and neither of us was legal drivin’ age. It fell apart by Halloween, but that summer…it was the best.
“Great bike.”
Harper rolls her eyes. “Remember how I came home with that flamingo pink Cabriolet?”
I snort. That car was ugly as shit. “Yeah, you blew all those tips you made at Johnny Burger, and you looked like you was drivin’ somethin’ Barbie shat out.”
Harper purses her lips, but I see a smile in there. First in many, many months. Since long before we split.
“I’ve never made good choices when I’m jealous, Charge.”
“Jealous?” I don’t get it. I don’t get her. Not really. “You put me out, Harper.”
She nods. Sighs. Then she uncrosses her long legs, stands so graceful she could be a dancer, and drops her phone into her purse.
“You’re welcome,” she says and winks over her shoulder as she struts away like she owns the joint.
CHAPTER 18
KAYLA
It’s over.
On Sunday morning, Charge texted me. Busy. Hit you up soon.
By Sunday evening, I figured soon wasn’t, well, gonna be anytime soon.
Sue says it’s called the slow fade. Like ghosting, but the guy doesn’t totally disappear. He just backs away like you’re a rabid raccoon.
I could call him. Have it out.
But it’s all I can do to keep my face okay for Jimmy. It doesn’t help that Pops has picked this day to clean his lawn out. Three young guys without patches on their cuts, prospects Charge calls them, are there all day, hauling away the old car on cinder blocks and some of the other junk out back.
The noise is grating, and all the action means I have to keep Jimmy inside. Which does not go over well in a studio apartment.
It doesn’t help that Jimmy’s getting antsy about where Charge has been. I told him he’s been away at work, but I think that excuse is wearing thin.
I decide to call Charge tomorrow, after work, before I pick Jimmy up from daycare. Dump Charge. Or get dumped. Then, I’m going to have to have the world’s shortest breakdown in the sweet SUV that I’m going to have to return. There’s not any of this that doesn’t totally suck.
The worst is that I miss him.
I miss his beard.
I miss him drawling Peaches, blue eyes twinkling, looking at me like sin on a stick when we’re hanging out on the pier, me knowing exactly what he’s thinking, and him knowing that I know. I miss him taking Jimmy to check my tire pressure or fill up my gas tank or top off my windshield wiper fluid. How Jimmy’s shoulders straighten and he walks like a man, imitating Charge’s swagger.
All the missing, though, is mixed-up with the hurt and the anger and the disappointment. About the women at the picnic. His nasty ex. His past. The fact that he’s doing the slow fade on my little boy.
But I have to keep my game face on, pack lunches, drop Jimmy off at the babysitter, and then work eight hours in the dark, creepy cavern of junk that is the General Goods Warehouse.
All Monday long at work, I play the conversation in my head.
Charge, it’s cool. I need to break it off anyway. No big deal. We can still be friends.
Charge, I can’t keep seeing you. It’s not you; it’s my folks. They’ll use any excuse to take my kid from me.
And variations thereof.
By the time I clock out and clear loss management, my stomach is a knot. When I dig my phone out of my purse, my hands are shaking so bad, I don’t enter my passcode right the first time.
And then it’s every mother’s worst nightmare.
Ten missed calls and five voicemails.
From Gracy Elementary. And Victoria. And my dad.
Oh, God. Oh, God. Oh, God.
I pray as hard as I can while I go to voicemail, running toward my car as I listen.
“Ms. Tunstall. This is Mrs. Devany. The assistant principal from Gracy Elementary. Everything’s fine—”
I can breathe again. I slow to a trot.
“—but we need you to come and get Jimmy. There was an…incident. With Jimmy and another boy. A physical altercation. It’s not our policy to suspend students Jimmy’s age, but you are going to have to come get him until we can process this and take steps to deal with this situation in a restorative way.”
Mrs. Devany left her number. That was at nine-thirty in the morning.
Did Jimmy get into a fight the second he stepped off the bus?
My heart’s beating a mile a minute, and I half-listen to the next message, also from Mrs. Devany. Also asking me to call and come get Jimmy.
There’s one more voicemail from Mrs. Devany. She says she’s calling the next person on Jimmy’s contact list. Victoria Tunstall.
Oh shit, oh shit, oh shit.
Why did Mrs. Devany not call my work number? The school has used it before. The nurse called when Jimmy had a fever and another time to let me know he got a good scrape falling off the jungle gym.
The fourth voicemail is Victoria. Telling me the school called her. She’s getting Jimmy. I need to call her as soon as possible.
And then there are three missed calls from Victoria.
The last voicemail is from my dad. Thick with sarcasm.
“I don’t know if you’re at work, Kayla, or out galivanting with that biker, but when you’re ready to take care of your responsibilities, call me. Not Victoria. We need to discuss what we’re going to do going forward. Do not come to the house. We have Jimmy. He’s fine, if you care. Call before seven. If you call after his bedtime, we will not be answering.”
Click.
The air is sucked from my lungs like a vacuum.
My body’s half in the car, and I’m frozen. What do I do?
I try to think, but I can’t. I can only remember.
Coming home from grocery shopping with my dad. Part of me had known something weird was up. Dad didn’t do the grocery shopping, and it was an odd day for it. A Tuesday. But he’d bullied me into the car. Said I had to start pulling my weight again.
When we came home, Aunt Felicia’s car had been in the drive. Victoria was standing on the front porch with my aunt and another matronly lookin
g woman in a teal pantsuit. My packed bags were at their feet. No Jimmy.
I’d bust past them, run to the nursery, looked in every room. His things were there, but he was gone.
And then all my breath was gone too, like a cannonball had slammed into my gut, and I was a cartoon character because for some strange reason, I was still standing. Not blown into pieces.
I should have been blown into bits.
Dad had dragged me by the arm, sat me on the sofa. The woman in the pantsuit, his personal friend Denise Edgerton from the Department of Child Services, explained Jimmy was at a friend of Victoria’s. I was not able to meet his needs. There were concerns that my negligence would pose a danger to his safety. There could be a case file opened, an investigation, maybe even court, but wouldn’t it be better to handle it within the family?
I’d go stay with Aunt Felicia. Get better.
Victoria and my dad would take care of Jimmy.
It was temporary.
I said I wanted my baby.
Dad asked if I wanted to bring the police into the matter.
I remembered the hospital room, the officer in her polyester blue uniform, gun and taser and nightstick, and the pity and judgment in her eyes. Poor, stupid girl. What a bad situation she got herself into.
I went with Aunt Felicia.
And then the next day, when I asked to come see Jimmy, they told me it wasn’t a good time. He needed to adjust to the new normal.
After that. My breasts aching with milk. Light hurting my eyes. How it took the energy of a thousand men to sit up, swing my legs off the bed, and walk to the bathroom. All my thoughts fuzzy, one biting the tail of the next until I was paralyzed into inaction.
One day, waking up to Sue dragging me out of bed by my ankle.
“Damn it, Kayla. They stole your baby. Fuckin’ baby thieves. You got to get it together so we can go rescue Jimmy from growing up listening to Air Supply and drinking unflavored seltzer. That shit ends with us, Kayla-cakes. Get up!”
I blink. It’s not then. It’s now. I’m sitting with the car door open, my phone on my lap, key in the ignition.
I was sixteen when they took him. Powerless. But I had a friend, and as it turned out, a lot more stubborn in me than I’d have guessed.
I still do.
I take a deep breath. Swipe the memories out like I’m mopping up after a flood.
I call Sue. I always call Sue.
It goes to voicemail.
My hands start to shake. I don’t know what to do. I can’t go to my dad’s alone. He knows people. And I’m holding on by the tiniest thread. I want to speed off to Gracy’s Corner, break down their door, take my baby back.
And it’s so strong, I can smell it. A lake of fire bubbling under the surface of the fear and inadequacy, rage so hot I have to turn my head from it.
That’s what is underneath.
I could beat them until they give me my baby back. I could kill them. I could.
It’s in me. It was put there at that party, behind that pool, and it is so big, if I look, if I let it…it will burn me alive.
I force myself to picture Jimmy’s face. His old man eyes. His stiff chin.
Nope. Not going to happen.
I am not losing it now.
I need back up. I need help.
Charge.
If I call, he’ll come running.
I know this, bone deep, and like the hate, it still surprises the hell out of me.
I do have back up.
The messed-up picnic, the hard words, the slow fade. Still, he will pick up the phone. There is no doubt in my mind.
I don’t know what smacks me harder. The rage which feels years late? The fact that I have someone big and bad with a dozen big and bad friends in my corner?
Or the trust. That I can, after everything. That I do, despite it all.
I drag a deep breath in, and I say, “Call Charge.”
“Calling Charge,” the robot-lady Bluetooth replies.
He picks up on the first ring.
“Peaches.”
His voice is rough, guarded, sorry, and relieved. And I have missed it so, so much. It breaks me. A full-throated sob wrenches from deep in my chest.
“Th-they took J-J-Jimmy!”
He hisses a breath, then he’s all business. “Where are you?”
“G-General Goods.”
“I’m at the clubhouse. I’ll be there in twenty. Hold tight. What happened?”
“Jimmy got into a fight at school. They couldn’t get ahold of me so they called Victoria. Now my dad says don’t come get him. He says ‘we need to discuss what we’re going to do going forward.’ Charge, I’m not letting them—this is not happening.”
“Bet your ass it’s not. Now, baby, you okay if I hang up? I’m gonna call—I’m gonna get us some help. I’ll be there soon, baby. Don’t worry. Calm down. Ain’t no one takin’ your boy.”
No one’s taking my boy.
I force my hands to grip the steering wheel. To stop shaking. That’s right. No one is going to take my boy.
“Peaches? I gotta hear you’re okay.”
“I’m good.”
“Okay.”
I spend the next twenty minutes breathing deep, in and out, fingers wrapped tight around the steering wheel, my knuckles bulging as I hold my shit together.
Only to lose it again when Charge rolls up on his bike, his hair loose and shoved down the back of his cut. He pulls it out after he dismounts, and before he finishes, I’m on him, and he wraps me up in his thick arms, and I smoosh my face into his hard chest, let the smell of leather with a hint of gasoline hit me like a drug.
It’s okay. He’s here. I’m not alone.
Charge whispers in my ear, smoothing my back. “It’ll be okay, baby. You don’t have to worry none now. It’s okay.”
“I don’t know how this happened.”
He tilts my chin up. Frowns at my tear-streaked face.
“Cause you so sweet. People don’t know.”
“Don’t know what?”
“You got backbone. And back-up.” He smiles at me, that killer smile, and as always, I wonder at how beautiful a man can be. “Ready to get Jimmy?”
I nod, and he guides me to the passenger seat, hands me up. “Buckle up, Mama,” he says.
Getting going triggers my nerves. Was this the right move?
“Charge? I—I—I don’t want Jimmy to be scared.”
“I get that, baby. I got a plan.”
“What’s the plan?”
“Have a reasonable conversation between reasonable men.”
“You’re a reasonable man?”
“Ever known me not to be?”
And no. No, I have not.
Charge stops a minute, hand on the emergency breaks, and he turns to me, speaks hard words, but softly.
“Baby, you need to decide if you trust me. You don’t…I already made some calls. I’ll make some more, do what I can for you. I’ll back off. But you got to know I ain’t never gonna hurt our boy. Ain’t gonna let him get hurt, neither.”
I used to think trust felt like taking a leap with your eyes closed. But I think now that’s probably wishing.
Trust doesn’t feel like leaping. It’s like sinking back, knowing in your soul that what’s beneath you is solid.
Charge is solid.
“I trust you.” I unclench my fisted hands and reach up. Tuck Charge’s hair behind his ear so I can see all of his beautiful face, now hard and tight with worry for me and Jimmy. “I knew you’d pick up. I knew.”
“Okay, then. Let’s go get our boy. After we can go to Finnigan’s for ice cream.”
“Charge, he got sent home from school for fighting.”
“Right.” Charge grins at me then rests his big hand on my knee. “We’ll let him get the sundae with sprinkles.”
✽✽✽
By the time we reach the gates at Gracy’s Corner, my stomach is a riot of nerves again. How are we getting through the gate? What ar
e we going to do when my dad refuses to hand Jimmy over? What if he calls the cops? With Charge’s rap sheet, they all must know him. Petty’s Mill is a small town.
Dread and panic tear up my insides.
“Hey, Charge, my man. What up?” The guard at the gate is all smiles.
“Not much, Lucian.”
“Surprised you back. Pickin’ up some stuff?”
“Somethin’ like that.” Charge gives him a nod of thanks as he raises the gate and waves him through.
I’d forgotten Charge lived here.
“How long did you live here with…her?”
“Her? That’s another thing we’re gonna talk about when we got this shit straight.” He flashes me a look that promises later. “Lived here six, seven years.”
“We were neighbors then.”
“Ayup. Shoulda come borrow a cup of sugar.”
I snort, but thinking about something else is calming me down. That calm flies out the window when we pull up at Dad and Victoria’s.
There’s a car out front. Not the Buick. An old Civic with cat paw bumper stickers.
My hands are shaking; a band is squeezing my chest. But somehow I have to make my legs move. Talk my way out of this with sandpaper in my mouth and that new anger licking up inside me.
Charge isn’t having the problems I am. He gets out with his usual grace, saunters around, opens my door. Takes my hand. Without hesitating, he bounds up the front steps, and ignoring the doorbell, bangs on the front door three times.
Then he steps back.
“You trust me,” he murmurs as there’s a shuffling behind the door. I do. Do I trust myself?
My dad only takes a minute to answer and step out to the porch. Behind him is a woman I’d recognize anywhere. She’s wearing a pink blazer and pleated slacks now, but her expression hasn’t changed in five years. Narrow eyes, pursed lips. Dad’s personal friend, Denise Edgerton from the Department of Child Services.
Instantly, I’m fifteen-years-old again.
Charge squeezes my hand.
“I told you not to come to the house.” My dad’s face is beet red. His hair’s thinning on top so it looks like his whole head is sunburned.
I open my mouth to speak, words I can’t even put in the right order, not sure if I want to beg or curse, but Charge beats me to it.
Charge: A Steel Bones Motorcycle Club Romance Page 19
