"But maybe he would just resent me for putting my responsibilities on him," I mumbled to my mother, reaching out to stroke my hand down her robe-covered arm.
What were my options here, though?
Hiring an aide I wasn't sure I could afford would ensure that my mother got the care she needed. But it didn't help me with the Jacob situation. Changing my hours would only mean I couldn't be there during my mother's waking hours. Or my son's, for that matter.
"Did you ever feel like the whole world was spinning off its axis, Ma?" I asked, letting out a deep sigh, feeling my shoulders slump forward as I did. "Of course you did," I answered for her.
My mother had been a widow from the ripe old age of twenty-seven when my father had fallen off a roof at a construction job, going into a coma and then dying from his injuries two days later, leaving her with a five-year-old and a one-year-old me. Unlike me when I found myself pregnant, she didn't have her mother to fall back on. She had nobody, in fact. She probably felt like her world was falling apart all the time. I suddenly felt like a really shitty daughter that I never truly considered that before. And now that I did, I couldn't talk to her about it, commiserate with her over it.
God, sometimes it felt like the weight on my shoulders was pushing me slowly but surely into the ground. And no matter how hard I tried, I couldn't shrug it away, I couldn't get my legs out of the dirt.
"Okay!" I said, shaking off my mood, blinking back the tears in my eyes, forcing a cheerful tone. "What do you say to some oatmeal?" I asked, jumping off the bed, helping her out.
She was, thankfully, still mobile, still capable of carrying out her daily tasks even if she sometimes got confused in the middle of them, and needed a gentle reminder of what she was supposed to be doing.
We're taking a shower now, Mom. We need to rinse the soap out of your hair.
I didn't know what the future held for her. The doctors could give us best and worst case scenarios, but no guarantees. So I was trying to make the most of this stage before things started getting worse.
As I was walking her down the stairs, I could see out the front window into the neighbor's driveway where a bike was parked beside a simple black SUV. The SUV was where a bouncy-stepped girl of about twelve was making her way toward, her knee-length plaid skirt and Mary Janes making it clear that while this side of town did have a good public school system, this girl went to private school.
I caught myself standing there staring, waiting, it seemed, for the father to emerge from the house, making his way toward the car as well, all six-foot-something of him with his wide shoulders and somewhat bulky muscles.
He was a good-looking man.
I'd noticed him on our first day, riding in on that bike of his, wearing a leather cut I knew belonged to the local biker club.
It didn't matter that I didn't ever find myself attracted to criminals; there was something about this man with his strong jaw, bald head, and calm, confident gait.
Let's just say, I had been enduring a famine for a long time, and if my life wasn't a complete clusterfuck—and he wasn't my next-door-neighbor—I wouldn't have minded feasting on that man.
But as things were, I forced my gaze away before I could be caught staring, and helped my mom down the stairs into the main living room.
I loved this house.
To be fair, I loved our too-small apartment as well. In my personal opinion, a home was what you made of it. That said, it was nice that everything here worked, that there were stainless steel appliances in the kitchen—and they all worked—and beautiful hardwood floors throughout the first level as well as plush carpets on the second. I actually became one of those people who said no shoes on the second floor because of those carpets. Or, more accurately, my complete disinterest in shampooing those carpets more than absolutely necessary.
The floor plan was identical to all the other houses. The front door led into a small tiled foyer that had a door leading down to an unfinished basement. It also led out into the open floor plan living and dining space with a gas fireplace and a small deck out back. The kitchen was tucked in the front by the porch, and was all subway tile backsplash and fresh white paint on the cabinets. The countertop wasn't my favorite—an almost pink-tinged Corian that I hoped one day to be able to save up to replace to something more my style. Butcher block, maybe, something warm and inviting.
My old furniture, admittedly, looked out of place in all the shiny, bright, newness of the house. Every weekend, I told myself I would work on some DIY project to get everything spruced up. Sand down the dented and dinged dining room table, re-stain it, redo the cushions on the chairs with something other than fabric straight out of the sixties. There were a million things to be done, and never much time to do it.
And now Jacob was trying his best to make it so I never got any free time.
"I don't know what to do with that boy," I told my mom as I put the kettle on for her oatmeal. She'd become pickier as the dementia got more advanced, eating only a handful of things in a rotation. Breakfasts were apple and cinnamon oatmeal or scrambled eggs with dill mixed in. The doctors told me that so long as she was eating, not to worry too much about the lack of balance. And I snuck in extra healthy stuff whenever I could. A little cauliflower in her rice, a bit of protein powder in her milkshake.
"I mean, what are my options here? Even if I hired someone, which we know I can't afford, he is a big kid. No babysitter is going to be able to control him if he tries to leave. And then there's the fact that he would hate me for even suggesting a babysitter at his age. But I can't exactly let him just go off to hang out with his uncle in the streets all night. We moved here to avoid all that crap."
God, I was exhausted.
The soul kind of tired.
Though, yeah, I hadn't caught more than snatches of sleep in a week. It was like having a newborn all over again. But I was fourteen years older with a lower tolerance for tiredness. And in desperate, desperate need of eight hours and a margarita the size of my head.
Instead, I caught about three and a half hours after eating oatmeal, waking up groggy to guzzle a gallon of coffee, then sat and waited for the bus to drop off my kid who was about to get the lecture of his lifetime.
Except, of course, the bus came and went.
And no Jacob.
Three unanswered texts and ten missed calls later, I checked on my mom, making sure she was safe, then rushed out of the house.
"Everything alright?" a sexy, deep voice called as I nearly fell down the steps in my hurry.
"Oh fine, fine," I called as I righted myself, turning back, waving a hand at him. "Just on my way to murder my son," I added, giving him a tired smile.
"Eva," he called, the sound of my name a little too hot on his lips, making me turn back. "If there's anything I can do—"
"Oh, ah, actually. Just... if you see an older lady trying to leave my house, can you please usher her back inside? Or if you hear a loud noise... could you check in my house? I'm sorry. I know this is asking a lot."
"Your mom?" Colson asked, brows drawing together.
"Yeah. She has dementia. I try not to leave her alone, but I have a sneaking suspicion that my son is screwing around over on Third Street. I need to drag his ass back here."
"I'll sit right here and keep an eye. Go get your kid."
"I really, really appreci—"
"Go," he demanded, giving me a nod.
"Thank you," I told him, ducking into my car, peeling off.
Maybe I should have felt fear as I parked on the street where my brother and his friends were hanging out. And by 'hanging out,' I meant dealing drugs. These guys were notoriously ruthless, distrusting of everyone, intolerant of any interference from outsiders.
And if this was just about me, I would have been peeing myself worried about what I was doing as I reached into my backseat for the bat I had been keeping there for years and then slammed my door, making my way toward the crowd.
But this was about my kid.
And things like fear just didn't really exist when it came to rescuing them from a fate you knew they weren't prepared for.
Jacob might have been misguided, but he wasn't a kid meant for the streets. He was too kind, too sweet, too soft for that kind of life. They would eat him up and spit him out.
I'd be damned if I let that happen.
"The fuck is this?" one of the guys gathered there asked, jerking his chin toward me and my determined gait, my bat swinging with me as I walked.
There was a group of ten or twelve guys there. All different ages. All different races. Third Street didn't discriminate, they would take everyone who was willing down a bad path that would likely have them in a cell or an early grave.
"Christ," Miguel hissed, breaching through the crowd, shaking his head. "Get out of here with that. What the fuck are you doing?"
"What's best for my kid. Unlike you. What the hell is the matter with you?" I snapped.
"That boy needs a father figure."
"That boy has a father figure. And what he needs is a future. Which you can't give him. Now where the fuck is my son?"
"You need to—"
"I swear to God, Miguel," I snapped, raising the bat, resting it on my shoulder. "I don't give a shit if we used to watch cartoons together and sneak sweets from the kitchen together. I will crack open your skull right now if you don't tell me where my goddamn son is."
"Watch how you talk to me, Eva," Miguel snapped, voice low, lethal, a sound I'd never heard from him before, but one I knew meant business as he stepped away from the crowd, moving toward me.
"Where is Jacob?" I asked, fingers gripping the bat tighter as I tried to ignore the pounding of my heart.
"This is not the place," Miguel warned, aware of the eyes of his friends on the scene I was making. He probably thought I was embarrassing him. And, quite frankly, he should be embarrassed. Who in their right mind dragged a kid into this kind of lifestyle? One that was related to them, no less.
"It's fine. It's fine," Jacob's voice called through the crowd, making a surge of relief move through me. He was there. He was safe. "Uncle Miguel, I'll just go home. It's fine," he said, pushing through the sea of bodies, moving to position himself half between me and his uncle.
"Yeah, you know, you should go home. Got homework and shit," Miguel said, trying to save face with his friends.
"I'll text you later," Jacob told him, giving him a small smile.
Oh, like hell he would. That phone was mine now.
"Eva," Miguel hissed as I turned to walk away. "Do shit like this again, we're goin to have a problem."
"Wake up, Miguel," I told him in a matching whisper. "We already have a problem. Stay the fuck away from my son."
"Working mom. No man. How the fuck you going to stop him from coming to see me?"
That was the question of the day, wasn't it?
I had no answers.
But I planned to figure it out.
"Stay out of our lives, Miguel," I warned him, turning and following my son back to the car, tossing my bat into the back before getting into my seat, reaching for my belt.
"Mom..."
"Don't even," I warned him, hearing a quiver in my voice as I often did when I got too angry. Tears were usually not too far behind.
"I didn't mean—"
"To put me in a dangerous situation?" I snapped, backing out of my spot, wanting to get out of this part of town as quickly as possible. "You've already made it clear you don't care about your own safety, bud, but you made me risk myself coming here to get you. And if you don't feel a little bit of guilt about that, then I have really failed you as a parent. You know what those men are capable of? You know how many of them probably beat those working girls? Who force themselves on them? And you make me come into their territory with a bat?"
"You didn't have to follow me," Jacob insisted, sinking into his seat, sulking because he did feel guilty, because he hadn't thought things through. "And Uncle Miguel never would have let them hurt you."
"Uncle Miguel would have hurt me himself," I shot back.
"No, he wouldn't have."
"Oh, kid," I sighed, shaking my head. "I don't know what to do with you anymore," I admitted. "I'm trying to give you a good life. And you keep going back to that old shit."
"I have a right to see my family. Uncle Miguel says I need a man in my life."
"You have a father," I reminded him, getting a snort in response.
Jacob's dad—my high school boyfriend—was a touchy subject, had been for years. And I knew better than to double-down on the subject if I wanted to make any progress with Jacob.
"Look, we're going home. You are going to go do your homework and get some sleep. You look like crap. We can talk about this later," I told him as I pulled down our street. "Wait. Not so fast," I said, grabbing his arm when he tried to rush out of the car. "Phone," I demanded. "Phone," I repeated when he hesitated.
I got a growling noise, but he handed it over before slamming the door and rushing inside.
I followed behind, trying to calm my skittering nerves.
"Get out!" Jacob's voice was hollering as I made it to the front door, making me rush inside to find Colson standing in the foyer, and my son trying to puff up to look bigger.
Colson, to his credit, was trying not to smile at the sight of my gangly kid trying to intimidate his massive self.
"Jacob, it's fine. I asked him to keep an ear for Grams. Go on up to your room."
After a hard look, he rushed off to do just that. "Is she okay? Did something happen?"
"Everything's fine. Your mom seemed to wake up and got a little confused, came outside looking for someone named Laurie."
"My aunt. I'm so sorry."
"I said it's not a problem, Eva," he said, moving to the side to let me into my home.
Where I found my mother in the living room, a little girl on the floor in front of her, my mother's hands in her hair.
"I, ah, did your daughter want her hair braided?" I asked as my mother's fingers—usually so clumsy these days—deftly twisted the girl's hair into a braid.
"If she doesn't, she can take them out later," Colson said, shrugging it off.
"No, really, that's not fair to her..."
"It's fine. Jelly likes older people. She has a, ah, aunt who works with the elderly. Sometimes Jelly goes and volunteers on game nights and such. If you ever need a hand, I can give you Gus's number. She's a bit of a wild card, but she is good with her patients."
"I doubt I can afford her," I admitted, shrugging. "But I will definitely keep that in mind. Can I get you some coffee? I'm having mine with a shot of Kahlua, and you are not going to judge me for it," I told him, brushing past him to move into the kitchen, getting a breath of his spicy cologne as I went.
Damnit.
He had no right to look and smell so good.
Meanwhile, I was still wearing my oversized hoodie and leggings with a hole in the knee and I couldn't have smelled that great since I hadn't seen the inside of my shower since the morning before.
"That bad, huh?" he asked, following me into the kitchen, leaning back against the wall as I made a fresh pot of coffee.
"Well, it is never a good day when you have to go into the bad part of town and threaten gang members with a bat to get your underage son back," I told him, turning as the coffee started to brew, leaning back against the counter.
"Definitely not going to judge you for the shot," he said, shaking his head. "Everything go alright?"
"This time, yeah. I don't want to think about the next time." Not with the disdainful way my own brother looked at me. "I have to find a way to make sure there is no next time," I added, turning to grab two mugs as the machine beeped. "How do you take yours?"
"Milk is fine, if you have it."
Putting milk in both mugs, I held his out toward him.
"Where's your shot?"
"I have to work tonight. The Kahlua might make me momentarily feel better, b
ut will sap what little is left of my energy."
"What's the appeal of Third Street for him? His friends join up?"
"One of them, yeah. But not a close friend. I honestly don't know. I can't fathom what would make someone want to deal drugs or pimp sex workers. I guess the money. Money is always a good motivator."
"And, at his age, thinking he's a little badass," Colson added, shaking his head.
"As if there is anything intimidating about all one-hundred-and-ten pounds of arms and legs," I said, snorting. "I have to get a hold of this now, though. Pretty soon he will be big and strong and I won't have as much say anymore."
"Does he have anyone else in his life he might listen to? His father?"
"He's in the picture, but he's not, y'know?" I asked. "He would try, I'm sure. But Jacob wouldn't exactly be receptive. If anything, honestly, that might just make the whole thing worse. Were you this big of a pain in the ass when you were Jacob's age?" I asked, giving him a weak smile.
"My aunt—she's who raised us—would probably say so. But not really. I tried to do the right thing."
And yet he grew up to be an outlaw biker?
Something didn't quite add up there.
My gaze moved out into the living room, seeing his daughter turning her head to the side so my mother would work on the next section of hair.
"Your little girl seems sweet."
"Jelena's a good kid. Gets pissed at me for being over-protective. And for not letting her wear makeup outside of the house. But, for the most part, doesn't give me too much of a hassle.
"Well, I imagine having you as a disciplinarian is pretty intimidating. Definitely more than me."
"You kidding? I think a pissed off mom is ten times scarier than an angry dad."
"If only that were true," I said, toasting my cup to the ceiling where I could hear Jacob's music turn on. He knew better than to pile on to my already bad mood, so he didn't blast it, but I had to roll my eyes at the pissed off lyrics.
Oh, to be so young and angsty.
Those were the days.
"He'll come around. I doubt he's a bad kid, Eva. He probably just has some stupid-ass idea in his head. And is young and stubborn enough to fight you over it. You'll win out in the end."
Colson (The Henchmen MC Book 20) Page 3
