I opened my mouth, feeling the heavy stickiness of the gloss on my lips as they parted although I didn’t know what to say. So it was no wonder that in my beleaguered panicked state, what spewed forth from my mouth came straight from the core of truth I carried inside me. “J.R. is your son, Stan.”
Stan was a big guy, tall but not bulky in the way of Dare or even Huff. Still and all though, when his whole body went inert, it was one of such quietude that it was visible on a grand scale. And when that stillness was accompanied by his stunned expression as well as his whispered, “da fuck?” I knew I’d failed in my opening gambit.
I took a deep, quivering breath and plowed on. “When I left you, I didn’t realize I was pregnant. It was only after I’d been in Casper for a while and what I thought was the flu had gotten worse. So I went to the doctor.” I tucked my lips between my teeth in an effort to get a handle on how my mouth wanted to work without my consent. “That’s when I found out. That I was, you know, like, pregnant.”
The only movement he made was to bring his eyes back to mine bearing a look that held absolutely no emotion in them at all. The lack of expression in them scared me more than anything, but even as fearful as I was, I continued.
“Using the money I had from the sale of Mom’s house, I enrolled in beauty school. And I got my cosmetology license two weeks before J.R. was born.”
He still didn’t speak, react in any way, shape or form and I found I couldn’t keep watching him. Not when he wasn’t giving me a clue as to what he was feeling. “I’ve tried to give him a good life, Stan. The very best one I could give. I bought a house, joined the PTA and tried to bring him up to be a good man. Someone you could be proud of.”
“But you didn’t give me the motherfucking chance to, did you?” His bellow was so loud it rattled the window in its frame. I raised my gaze and was taken aback by the absolute fury in his face, the wild, vicious censure that flared in his eyes. “You goddamn, stupid, no good, fucking cunt!” He shot to his feet so fast, the chair tipped over onto its back, thudding as it hit the carpet. “Just who the fuck do you think you are, you fucking bitch! That. Is. My. Motherfucking. Kid.” His thick, long finger stabbed toward the window in the direction of the reception area, punctuating every word he spoke. “Mine, for fuck’s sake! And for you to deny me my own son? Goddamn, Dory!”
I watched in horror as he started around the small table. Stan had never hit me but he’d cornered me on more than a couple of occasions to yell into my face, almost causing me to wet myself in fear at what he might do. But the rage I was witnessing far exceeded anything I’d ever seen before.
Was so freaking scary I sat frozen in my chair.
Instead of coming to my side of the table though, he began to pace the width of the room, the silence only broken by his harsh breaths and my panting ones. “I never would have fucking thought it! You of all people hiding our kid from me!”
I folded my lips in, biting them in order to stay quiet. There was nothing I could think to say that would make the situation better. Besides, I couldn’t hear everything his mouth was uttering over the booming of my heart. But I did notice that Stan had a large hand planted on his flat stomach, pressing and rubbing at it through his t-shirt as he paced. It wasn’t a move I ever remembered him making before.
He stopped at one point to glare at me. The hand not on his mid-section came up and his finger stabbed my way. “You are such a motherfucking cunt!” When I didn’t respond, he went back to his muttering as he wore a rut in the carpet.
I left him to it, kept to myself only hoping that he’d work his anger out soon. That was until he finally fully stopped and turned towards me.
His gaze was so filled with emotions I couldn’t hold his eyes for long. Not with all the remorse that was pounding within me, the recriminations my mind was spewing.
When he finally spoke, his harsh whisper sounded almost broken. “Why, Dory? That’s the fucking part I just don’t get. Why’d you keep my son from me?”
“I ah…” I stuttered, the maelstrom of my thoughts preventing a full sentence from forming. I tucked my shaking hands between my knees and clinched my thighs together tightly. “I wasn’t going to allow him to be raised a Hellion.” I glanced up to determine how my explanation was received.
Stan was scowling but I interpreted his look as one of deep confusion. He shook his head, his braid whipping at the movement before he dropped his ass to the edge of the bed, the ever present hand still clamped to his stomach. “What the fuck does that even mean?”
I licked my lips, taking courage that he was asking me instead of demanding or calling me names. “I couldn’t allow J.R. to be a part of the club. Not after what I’d gone through. Not after the shit I’ve seen.” I wished, prayed even, that I had better words, a more detailed rationalization but I didn’t.
Stan brought his elbows to his knees curling into himself, the heels of his hands to his eyes. “God-fucking-damn you, Dory!”
It took more than a few heartbeats, more than a few seconds for my brain to realize that Stan was crying softly as he rocked himself on my mattress. But it took only micro-portions of time for me to rush to him, falling to my knees as I inveigled myself between his thighs, bringing his face into my neck to wrap him in my arms.
In all our time together, I had never seen Stan cry.
Not freaking once.
“I’m sorry,” I murmured, rubbing his back as I held him. “I’m so sorry, honey.”
*.*.*.*.*
God! It was too much.
Too much to take in, for him to handle, to assimilate in one go.
The fact that Dory was dressed as she was had been more than enough to send him into another realm but to hear that J.R. was his? That she’d hidden both herself and his son from him?
Goddamn!
Motherfucker, shit for a fuck and son of a fucking bitch!
How could she?
How could one person do that to another, much less the woman he’d held in his heart for so fucking long?
To withhold the beauty of a son from the boy’s own father, one who would’ve gladly stepped up and taken on the responsibility? Even if they’d have to arrange weekends and summers, Bishop would’ve gladly, willingly, have given any-fucking-thing to have watched J.R. grow into the young man that had so impressed him just the night before.
Christ!
He couldn’t think! Between the pain in his stomach and the aching of his heart, he couldn’t pull out one fully completed thought in order to anchor himself. He needed to move, to try and walk off the pain but just that small action had found him gritting his teeth to prevent his screams. It hadn’t prevented his words, though.
God no. The words that accused, that berated Dory for her underhanded, sneaky ways.
Jesus Q. Christ! It was a motherfucking ten! The pain was amped as high as it could go and he had nothing with him that would help, nothing that would take the edge off. He couldn’t even motherfucking calm himself in order to get a handle on the edges of the goddamn hurt that was branding him, cutting him up from the inside out.
And before he succumbed to it, allowed himself to be buried beneath the avalanche of agony, Bishop asked her. Gave her the one question that was front and center in his head. One that summed up his very existence in that moment and needed an answer right the fuck then! “Why?”
It was only a one word inquiry, but covered so much.
Why was his goddamn body turning against him?
Why was he going to fucking die before he was even forty?
Why had she left?
Why’d she had his son and not even fucking told him?
Why didn’t, fucking couldn’t she love him anymore?
His legs had finally given out and with that, he’d been unable to rein in his emotions. To keep everything in check in front of her. But he could hide himself. Could just cover his face in order to deny her from seeing his pain.
Bishop felt her as she knelt between his knees, drawin
g his covered face into her neck even as he became aware of the wetness beneath his hands.
Was he motherfucking crying?
He never cried, never allowed his emotions full rein as if somehow knowing that their release would be his undoing. But he learned just how much they could overflow in that moment. How his feelings could gush from the deepest recesses of his very soul, leaking out through his eyes and in the deep hitches of breaths he tried to keep to himself.
And the fact that it was his Dory, still the most beloved of anyone he’d ever met, who had caused it? Then who held him as he did so?
Fucking, fucking hell!
And it was right at that moment when he’d finally, fucking finally gotten a grip on his emotions that the demon-bitch from hell decided to reappear with a spasm so sharp and deep that he couldn’t breathe, couldn’t even think. It was worse than anything he’d ever experienced before and Bishop found he was leaning most of his weight into Dory, relying on her to support him as the knives of pain stabbed into his gut harder and deeper than any previous episode.
A motherfucking twenty on the pain scale.
“Stan?” he heard her call but her voice was faint, hard to hear over the screaming of his stomach, on the need to release. “Are you all right, honey?”
He couldn’t answer, his jaws clenched tight against permitting the contents his stomach from escaping. Roughly shoving her away, Bishop tried to stand but his legs wouldn’t hold his weight so he rolled to his side, pushing himself on the slippery comforter until he reached the end of the bed. But even then, he couldn’t find his center but began to crawl the few feet in order to get to the bathroom, his back teeth aching with the effort not to vomit on the carpet.
He was stopped when she shoved the cardboard ice-bucket between his shaking arms. “Use this, honey. Stop moving, Stan and use this.”
He did as instructed, ceasing all movement which seemed to give his body the green light and he aimed his mouth at what had been provided. In waves he allowed his stomach to release, realizing that he was letting precious energy escape with every heave, every spasm. But he was no longer in control of what was happening, of what was doing within his body.
“Oh god, Stan. That’s blood. You’re throwing up blood, honey,” she whispered, her mouth so close to his ear that he felt wisps of his hair move as she spoke.
Bishop didn’t care, he only wanted the pain to stop.
“I’m calling 9-1-1,” she announced, but he never felt the heat of her body move away. Just the soothing press of a cold washcloth was sensed even as he heard her speak to someone else. After a bit, after he’d eased himself down to press his cheek into the floor, did he realize she was talking to him. “The EMT’s are on their way, Stan. We’ll get you fixed up in no time.”
Bishop struggled to remain conscious in spite of what his body was going through.
He needed to tell her. Needed to get it out while he still could. Before they came to take him, to do their tests and treatments. Before they slid the zipper up on the body bag.
“Th-the reason I wanted to talk?” Was that his voice, the weak one that didn’t want to go above a whisper no matter how hard he tried?
“Shh, honey,” she crooned, smoothing the bits of escaped hair off his sweating forehead.
“I’m dying, babe.” He swallowed hard as the next wave of nausea hit. He felt her stiffen and wished he had the strength to look at her one last time. “I love you, Dory. Always have and always will.” For some reason, it seemed vitally important that he let her know that bit of info, especially before he was carted off to a hospital that would give him the drugs and allow him to just goddamn die in peace.
Not on some crummy, motherfucking motel room floor!
“Left everything to you, babe. Goddamn all of it.” His lips felt cold and he hoped she could make out what he was saying over the tremors that held him in their grasp. “Make sure J.R. gets it when he’s ready.”
While he didn’t remember much about his ride in the ambulance or of being in the emergency room, one fact remained with Bishop throughout the whole of that time. And that was of Dory’s voice, of what she admitted as she’d finally hunched her body into him, tucking her knees behind his and snaking an arm over his waist in a close approximation of how they’d used to sleep together.
“Love you, too.” Her response was given on a hitching whisper. “I’ve never stopped, honey.”
Which was all the comfort he needed at that moment.
Chapter Eleven
In my mind and heart, I hadn’t had a choice but to follow the ambulance that had taken Stan away. Since I’d caused it, it was only fair that I follow albeit after collecting J.R. from the Manning’s place and giving him some kind of garbled, nonsensical explanation.
Which exactly matched what I was feeling, that was reflected not only in my words but in how my body moved. In fits and starts, jerky and unnatural.
Stan was dying.
Had admitted out loud that he’d needed to see me in order to say good-bye. To wish me a final farewell before he had to leave.
To let me know he still loved me.
No!
I wouldn’t accept it!
Couldn’t even begin to process the thought of a life without knowing Stan was there, was around.
Terror. That was what was racing through both my mind and body. Sheer, unadulterated, heart-pounding terror at the thought of him dying.
He couldn’t leave me!
“Mom, are you okay?” J.R. leaned, angling his shoulders until I shifted my streaming eyes to his, feeling the heat of his hand against mine that held a white-knuckled grip on the steering wheel. “You can’t cry and drive at the same time.”
I think I gave back a nod but I wasn’t sure. All I knew is that I needed to get to Stan, to make logic out of my ex-husband’s words.
Not the ones that I’d more than deserved.
But the others.
About how he loved me and yet was dying.
I scrubbed my sleeve over my face and tried to let up on the accelerator. “I’m fine,” I found myself mumbling, but even I knew I lied.
In the many hours that had passed after Stan had been brought in, I still hadn’t received any news, only distracting my kid by pressing money into his palm and directing him towards the cafeteria or the numerous vending machines that stood at attention along one wall of the waiting room.
But my heart was elsewhere, on the destruction I’d witnessed in a man who had already gone through so much by the time I’d met him at not quite sixteen. Or maybe it was in the distraction of trying to figure out the code for his cell phone. The hospital had given me Stan’s personal belongings in a thick carrier bag, complete with handles even though they wouldn’t give me any information as to his condition since I was no longer family or on his list of emergency contacts.
Although I had been the one to provide his proof of insurance card, seeing how I had his wallet.
The display showed four stars which told me that his secret code was only four digits. I’d already tried his date of birth, both by month-day and then by year. But I kept trying, knowing that as the V.P. of the Hellion’s, I needed to get Stan’s status to Stephen.
‘Trey’, I reminded myself, but it was hard to remember the boys of my youth by their manly biker names. When I’d left, with all the indignation that only the truly young can maintain and in all the righteous arrogance of my early experiences, they were all just…boys.
Because I didn’t know them as men those hard-ass aliases didn’t want to stick in my brain.
In a moment of self-pity, of regret I typed in 2-0-0-0, which was the year I’d left, taking my broken heart and all my shattered dreams with me. I stared at the screen in surprise as it finally changed to a picture of our special place, the most southern-most portion of Flathead Lake. From the angle of the picture, Stan had managed to capture only the charm of it, just showing the serenity of its gleaming water.
Scrolling through his l
ist of contacts, I finally found the one marked ‘Trey’ and pressed the receiver icon before hitting the green button. “Stephen?”
“Ain’t been called that in years,” a black velvet voice replied.
“It’s Dory,” I breathed, unsure how to communicate with the boy who now held the reins of one of the most important motorcycle clubs in the state. “I wanted to let you know Stan’s in the hospital. He had some kind of a seizure and…”
“Which one, babe?”
“Saint Pat’s.” I wasn’t upset that he’d cut me off, knowing that I was in a rambling, mouthy kind of mood even though I had finally stopped crying.
“Okay, I need for you to go to the reception desk. You’re in Emergency, yeah?”
“Yes, I am.”
“Then go to the nurse at reception and ask them to call Stella Jackson. You got that? Stella Jackson,” he demanded, his voice full of the power I knew he wielded with his presidency and nothing like the teenager I’d known before. “If the bitch gets up in your grille, just tell her Trey told you to summon her. I’ll be there in fifteen.”
“Okay,” I agreed. I remembered Stella. “I gave them Stan’s insurance card, but they said you were his emergency contact. They can’t give out any info to anyone else.”
“Ask for Stella. I’ll see you in fifteen,” he growled before disconnecting the line.
Juggling the carrier bag in one hand with Stan’s cell phone in the other, I stepped around the snake of connected chairs until I was, once again in front of the skinny receptionist.
“I already told you, I can’t give you any information because you aren’t family,” the younger girl sneered in a resigned tone as if I was put on earth in order to try her patience.
I could feel my eyes narrow and my blood begin to boil at her attitude. True, I’d tried every trick in the book to gain status of Stan’s condition, but now that I had inside knowledge, I was willing to go more than a round or two with the supercilious bitch. “I was told that you need to call Stella Jackson and inform her of Stan Bastian’s status.”
Checkmate With Bishop: A Hellions MC Novel Page 10
