Carry You Home (Carry Your Heart #2)

by K. Ryan

  I earned that.

  It was that last dark thought that sent me digging in the pantry for the bottle of Jack I'd bought on impulse just a day before. I may have learned the hard way that booze and women didn't solve shit and didn't make that shit go away any faster, but because the blame rested solely on my shoulders here, I figured there was nothing wrong with torturing myself just a little more.

  Before I could stop myself, my feet carried me back to the nursery and as I pushed open the door, I took another swig from the bottle for added liquid courage. I sunk down right across from the mural, half-finished and abandoned just like all my hopes and dreams. I shook my head at the irony and leaned my head back against the wall. This room was once filled with so much hope for our future, for our family...both of which, now, would never be.

  She would've been such a good mom. She was still going to be a good mom, I thought bitterly. I'd just never get to see it. I'd never get to see any of it. Instead, I'd sentenced myself to a lifetime of unhappiness and emptiness.

  My phone buzzed in my pocket and I scrambled to flip it open, irrational hope flooding me that maybe it was...nope. Just the club.

  Church in 10.

  I snapped my phone shut and slammed it down into the carpet. The clubhouse was the last place I wanted to be right now.

  Church would go down just like every other time and the end result would always be the same. My life, my safety, and my freedom all at risk once again. Everything I'd ever done for the sake of the club ran through my mind—every bullet, every run, every crime, every day in prison. Always taking. Always wanting me to give more.

  At this point, I didn't know what else there was to take.

  Except the rest of my miserable life.

  Hadn't I already given them enough? Every time they called, I was there. Anything they needed, I did it. And for what? So I could sit my sorry ass in prison for two years, so I could put my life on the line every single day, so I could lose the only real family I'd ever had all in the name of brotherhood.

  Sure, they'd all paid their condolences when we lost the baby and promised to help us anyway they could, but the only time Marcus, Tiny, Casey, or anyone else had ever paid me a visit when I was inside was when they needed something. Whether it was inside information about a fellow inmate or to consult about new club business, they never showed up for visitation hours unless I could be of use somehow.

  That's all I was. An instrument for their purposes and their plans. I had no real identity outside of the club. No other way to make money to support myself and my would-be family. And that was exactly the way they liked it. They needed me to be dependent on the club and all the while, they just poisoned my life with false promises of wealth, partying, and freedom.

  I didn't care about any of that anymore. At the end of the day, the common denominator in all my problems was still me, but I'd shoved aside the other factor in the equation—the club. If the club had had their way, I'd still be in prison, but not just for something small-time like running guns. Nope. I would've wasted away sitting in a cell for murdering Becca and they all would've been completely fine with that if it meant their asses were safe.

  I'd followed the club's orders blindly all my life up until that moment and in this moment, the fracture splintered deeper.

  Somewhere along with the way, my priorities had shifted. Isabelle had always been an asset, but the club had become my weakness.

  They didn't really care that I'd lost not just two years of my life, but the love of my life too. In fact, if circumstances had been different and Isabelle had made a deal with the ATF, they would've been chomping at the bit to get rid of her, just like Becca. And they would've expected me to pull the trigger, just like Eli, as part of my duty to protecting the club. They would've happily handed me the gun and helped me bury the body, too, if it meant they all stayed out of prison a little longer.

  At the rate I was going, I'd be lucky if I made it to 30 before I ended up with a bullet in the head or another prison sentence.

  Things would never change. I'd always be expected to stay on my leash, even if I ever did get that president patch. I didn't have it in me to want that anymore. The things I did want now? Those things were long gone and they were gone because of me and my involvement with the club. I'd lost myself in the club long ago and I didn't recognize this empty, broken person I'd become.

  Then I heard Isabelle's voice:

  "You're smart. You're resourceful. You could figure it out and I'd support you every step of the way."

  I didn't know what other options I had two years ago because then, I was just another convicted criminal with a prison sentence hanging over my head. I was still just another ex-con trying to piece his life back together, but I had options now.

  I might not have Isabelle or the family I thought we'd have together, but I didn't have to end up in prison again either. I didn't have to feed that endless cycle and fill my role as just another cog in the wheel. I didn't have to blindly follow orders. I didn't have to constantly put myself at risk, not if I'd get nothing but loss in return.

  There had to be another currency besides bullets, guns, and violence.

  My phone continued buzzing on the carpet next to me, but I ignored it.

  And as my eyes memorized that half-finished mural, some hope finally began to take root. All my life I'd thought I was living on my own terms, but that couldn't have been further from the truth. Maybe there was still time to turn things around, maybe I could somehow earn back all the pieces of myself I'd lost, and maybe someday, Isabelle would come home to see it.

  Part Two

  Six Years Later

  "Where thou art—that—is Home."

  —Emily Dickinson

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  No Direction Home

  Isabelle

  "Oh, come on," I muttered and rubbed my temples as I flipped through the next page.

  Seriously.

  How was someone this smart this freaking unorganized? My dad had years, and I mean years, worth of documents, all of it really important right about now, just crammed in file folders. Some of the folders were labeled, some just randomly shoved in equally random folders in no particular order. He couldn't have at least put them in chronological order? Even a little bit?

  I needed a bottle of Tylenol to go along with this monstrosity.

  Cooper lifted his giant head off my foot and glanced at me side-eyed, as if to remind me I only had about another hour or so to chip away at the mess in my dad's office until he woke up.

  "I know, Coop," I sighed and reached down to scratch between his ears. "Just bear with me, alright?"

  The only real man in my life, aside from my dad, swept his tongue over my open palm and resumed his quasi-protective position at my feet.

  With another sigh, I glanced at the clock and squeezed my eyes shut. We'd fallen into this daily routine too quickly: meds, nap, some TV, maybe a walk if he was up to it, more meds, another nap, some more TV, a little bit of eating here and there, and finally, lights out for the night. And in between the many naps he took throughout the day, I sat here in his office, mostly to get all our ducks in a row before the inevitable, but also just to keep myself busy.

  I couldn't exactly let him watch me prepare for his death when he was awake, so I opted to get my work done while he was sleeping.

  After a long road of rehabs and relapses, my dad's body finally gave out on him. While he'd fought it with everything he had left, the damage was already done. When you have stage four liver cancer with an undetermined expiration date, you're not exactly an ideal candidate for a transplant. And now, as his illness advanced every day, his doctor was just trying to keep him comfortable via a hospice nurse who visited us once a day.

  In a way, waiting for this parent to succumb to illness was a little bit easier than the first. With my mom, I'd always held onto the hope that something would sweep in and save the day, like some experimental, miracle treatment that would kick the cancer right
in the ass. Even at the end, I'd had to believe there was a chance, especially when my mom outlived her initial expiration date.

  My dad was a different story. There was no hope now. There would be no miracle treatment or eleventh-hour liver transplant. It was almost easier to accept that it was going to happen no matter what.

  Maybe, when I was younger, optimism wasn't just wishful thinking. When I was 20, when my mom first got sick, I hadn't yet suffered any major tragedies in my life. The idea that anything bad or even potentially fatal could happen to one of my parents, or to me for that matter, was completely out of the realm of possibility. Tragedies only happened to other people in my 20-year-old mind. Not to my family. Not to me.

  Now my 30-year-old self knew better.

  So, after getting the phone call that his illness had moved to the end stages, I dropped everything and practically sprinted from my brownstone in Chelsea to the airport. My dad, of course, fought me every step of the way, insisting I stay in New York where my work and my life was. Since he had no interest in even meeting with any doctors in New York and because he wanted to, and I quote, "die in my own home", my hands were tied. There was no way I wasn't coming back to North Carolina.

  Then there was just that little issue of the ghosts, one in particular, still lingering here in town. And now that I actually was here in Claremont, there were only so many places I could hide in a town this small. Eventually, we would cross paths. All I could really do was avoid it for as long as humanly possible and hope that ghost just kept his distance.

  I'd spent the last six years trying to convince myself that the life I'd had here was nothing but a distant memory. Now the memories, the pain, and the bitterness I'd fought so persistently to erase nagged at me like a scab that just wouldn't heal. Of course, it didn't exactly help matters that the one day a year I dreaded more than anything was just two weeks away.

  So when the doorbell rang, I jumped in my seat. Cooper leapt up at the same moment, but wisely obeyed my loud shush. My heart was racing at the possibility that my thoughts had somehow made the inevitable materialize at my dad's doorstep. No, he wouldn't be that stupid. I'd already been in town for a week and there'd been nothing but silence between us, just like the entire six years before. Why would he bother now?

  Despite my better judgment, I trudged over to the front door and opened it only to find Skyler Sawyer on the stoop with a covered casserole dish in her hands.

  Even though I hadn't really seen the woman the entire time I'd lived in New York, she still looked like she hadn't aged a day. Whatever her secret to eternal youth was—a cream, a serum, a certain kind of lease on life—it just didn't make sense given the environment she surrounded herself in. How could all the worry, the stress, and the danger not age you?

  Now, Skyler stood in my dad's doorway with those same black-lined eyes I'd used to know so well fixed on me. Her dark eyes softened the moment I opened the door and...I didn't know what I'd been expecting. Just a little hint of bitterness maybe? Some standoffishness? False concern? After all, I never called. I never saw her on the rare occasions I actually visited Claremont. She had every right to feel slighted, but if she did, she didn't show it.

  "Hey honey," she called out to me softly with a sad smile on her face. "It's good to see you."

  "Hi," I murmured, suddenly overcome with the reality that I hadn't really seen this woman in six years.

  Skyler's eyes fell to my black lab, who sat at my feet. Cooper stared right back at her, watching her every move, but perceptive enough to know she wasn't anything he needed to be worried about. As far as I was concerned, she wasn't wearing enough leather to be considered a potential threat.

  "That's some guard dog you got there," Skyler laughed uneasily. "Wow. He's huge."

  I swallowed back the lump in my throat, gestured for Cooper to go upstairs, and nodded to the dish in her hand.

  She just shrugged. "I wanted to come over sooner, but I didn't want to impose. I figured you'd need some time to settle in and didn't need me rushing over here like a bat outta hell."

  Since my voice still wasn't working properly, I just nodded and made way for her in the doorway, gesturing for her to come inside.

  "Well," Skyler soldiered on as we walked through the hallway and headed for the kitchen. "I'd ask how you're doing, but I think I already know the answer to that question."

  I wished that wasn't so true and I still couldn't, for the life of me, figure out the right thing to say to her after all this time.

  "I was hoping you'd call," Skyler sent me a kind smile as she set the casserole dish on the counter. "But I get why you didn't. Lexie's hoping to hear from you, too."

  Just hearing her name had me wincing from the impact. Lexie's friendship was just another casualty of my past and just another thing I hadn't been able to hang on to in all my vain efforts to really move on with my life. I'd needed to cut myself loose completely when I left for New York and that, as much as it stung, also meant breaking ties with the people I'd really come to love like family.

  Finally, I found my voice. "I figured that and I'm sorry I didn't. I guess I've just had a lot going on since I've been back, you know?"

  Skyler nodded sadly and turned just for a second to put the dish in the refrigerator for me. When she turned to face me again, that somber, regretful expression still hadn't dimmed on her face. I guess I hadn't realized just how much I'd missed her until she was finally standing right in front of me again.

  "How's he doing?"

  I just shrugged. "He's dying, so there's that. But for the most part, he's still pretty alert. Everything just moves a little slower now."

  Skyler blew out a deep breath and pressed another pained smile on her face. "I'm so sorry, Isabelle. I know you're probably sick of hearing that, but I really do mean it. If there's anything you need, anything I can do or the club can do, you know you can ask, right? That's all you have to do and we'll be there for you."

  I bristled at the mention of the club and she picked up on that immediately, her eyes clouding ever so slightly as a frown creased her forehead. The club was the last thing I wanted to talk about. They weren't my family and they weren't my friends. Other than Skyler, Lexie, and Dom, they never really had been in the first place. And judging by the sad awareness in Skyler's dark eyes, she knew it too.

  "I know it's not my place to ask," she paused for a moment and I didn't know why she even bothered because I knew what question was coming next. "Have you seen him since you've been back?"

  It wasn't lost on me that even just the mere mention of him, let alone the fact she couldn't even bring herself to say his name, shifted a wave of darkness and tension in the air. From the little I'd let my dad tell me, Skyler, understandably and predictably, hadn't handled her son's decision with any decorum or grace. Instead, she'd chosen to fight him tooth and nail until it was really final, until it was actually done, and I guess the final blowout hadn't been pretty. All the rest of the club had seemed to handle it with various stages of disgust, disappointment, and acceptance. Skyler, on the other hand, raged a war and then wrote off her only living family member for what, in her mind, was the ultimate betrayal.

  On some level, and given everything I knew about the woman, I couldn't really blame her for feeling that way.

  Finally, I managed to shake my head. I couldn't say his name either.

  "No," I told her quietly. "I haven't."

  "It's probably for the best you two just keep your distance," she nodded tightly. "Trust me, it's easier that way."

  I inhaled sharply and started chewing on my bottom lip because I just didn't know what else to do.

  Skyler blew out another deep sigh and leaned back against the counter. "Sorry. I shouldn't even be...it just never really gets any easier. No matter how hard I try to really wrap my head around his reasons, I just can't. I mean, if he'd followed you to New York to try to work things out, I might've been able to understand. But he didn't. I just can't understand why he didn't."

/>   There was a part of me, a deep, ugly, and bitter part, that thought the exact same thing more times than I was willing to admit. But I wasn't going to go there now, especially not in front of Skyler.

  "Sorry," she told me again and winced, like just the thought of him hurt. I knew the feeling. "I'll stop talking about him. It's stupid. Once I start, I can't stop, you know?"

  I didn't know because I never talked about him, but I gave Skyler what she wanted and nodded.

  She shot me a kind, reassuring smile and then squeezed my shoulder. "You know, honey, I know you and I both wish the circumstances were different, but I'm glad you're finally home."

  I flinched at that particular word. Home wasn't something I had associated with Claremont in a long time. My studio at the gallery was home. My brownstone in New York was home. My dad was home. Cooper was home. I'd be hard-pressed to find much in town here that I could truly affiliate with that particular noun.

  "Well," Skyler clapped her hands together as she pushed off the counter. "I should get going. I didn't come over here to commiserate or make all this harder on you. I just wanted to—"

  "I know, Sky," I reassured her and surprised us both by stepping closer until my arms closed around her shoulders just long enough to appease her. "Thank you for stopping by. I really appreciate it."

  I let myself have this one moment as the woman I'd once loved like a mother held me tight. The feel of her arms, comforting me, embracing me, loving me, it all felt so familiar, but the problem was that it took me back to a place I couldn't go and even if I could, I didn't want to. It wasn't Skyler's fault, at least not directly, but letting her back in my life would be letting myself fall back into old habits.

  It was just as well that she left quietly and with only a promise to bring back more casseroles if I wanted them. We didn't need to pretend we were something to each other that we just weren't anymore.