Cease (Bayonet Scars Book 7) (17 page)

"You had a plan." It's a statement, not a question.

"Yeah, you think I did all this shit for me and the boy? Please. He's the one who told me you'd never agree to live with us if we didn't clean it up."

"You want us to live with you." I blink, not sure what to say. I want to live with him. I want everything with him. I'm also stupid and impulsive, and I do things I regret later, so my judgment is questionable at best.

"I love you, momma. Have since the moment I laid eyes on you. Just had to get rid of the competition first."

"Competition?"

"The boy. For a nine-year-old, he's really fucking smooth."

"I do love that boy," I muse, finally resurrecting my speaking abilities. "Wait. You love me?"

"Don't be stupid," he says. "You're mine now. The club knows it. You know it. Our boys know it."

"I don't know what to say." This is the fairy tale that happens to good girls who have virtue and modesty. The good girls who never whored themselves out or slept with their sister's husband. This is the kind of speech a woman like me doesn't deserve. But he's giving it to me anyway. For some reason, this imperfect, misguided, beautiful man wants me. He knows my darkness, and he still wants me. I can't let that go no matter how much I fear that kind of blind loyalty and commitment.

"Say thank you," he says. Breathing heavily, he pulls me against him and shoves his face in the crook of my neck. I gasp but don't speak. He repeats himself. The least I can do is acquiesce.

"Thank you." My chest is heaving, and my hands shake, but I grip him tight against me. I love him. I love him in a way that's unhealthy. Obsessive. Needy. This man is more than trouble. He's a goddamn tornado waiting to touch down. He could destroy me--if I let him.

CHAPTER 15

September 28, 1997

I hate days like today. They are the absolute worst, but if I'm being honest with myself it's not "days like today" that are the problem. It's today. September 28. Today the twins turn three. I can't believe it's been that long since I brought them into this world. Two years, ten months, and seventeen days since I last held them in my arms. And it's still so fresh. Sometimes when I close my eyes, I swear I can smell them. Even after all this time. I don't think a mother forgets something like that.

The pain seems worse this year. Maybe it's because this time last year I was already completely miserable. The only thing I had to live for was Ian. Now I have Jim and Ryan, and Ian has them, too. And by extension, the entire Forsaken family, which is large and protective. It's a lot of people to be grateful for. And I
am
grateful for them. It's just that nothing and no one can take this pain away. And I don't really think they should. A mother shouldn't be able to turn off the pain of losing her kids. Selfishly, I wonder if the pain is worse when your babies are dead. Like, they're not out living and loving on another woman, thinking that's their mom. Does that make it better? Would it make it better if it weren't my own sister who they cry for?

I don't think anything is better or worse than this, if I'm being honest. Except maybe death itself. And because of that, I keep my babies close and don't talk about them much. Only my guys know that today is their birthday, and I like it that way. We had to explain the babies to Ryan a few months ago, and that was hard in itself. He didn't quite understand why we can't just go and get them. The kid even went so far as to say we could "just take care of it" in a way that left me unsettled to say the least. I didn't even tell Sylvia what today is. She knows about the babies and all, but she's got enough going on with the chemo. It seems wrong, somehow, to tell too many people, like the more people I tell about them, the less they really belong to me. I shared Ian with Jim, and now he's not entirely just mine anymore. And I'm trying to be okay with that, even though the last couple of months have proven to me that when Jim Stone says he is all in, he is all fucking in.

But this--this is too much.

I brought Ian in the bedroom with me for a little bit this morning before Jim took him and Ryan into the kitchen for breakfast. I just had to check in and make sure he's okay. The regular school year started last month, and Ian's only had one freak-out in class, which is a huge improvement over summer school. He hasn't wet the bed in the middle of the night in a few weeks, and he won't let me carry him anymore. Jim got Ian in with Ryan's pediatrician, and she's been great. I think the boys have a little crush on her, and if I'm being honest, I do, too. I've never once felt judged by her, and she's made it a point to work with the school psychologist to get my boy to vocalize his needs more. Still, despite all his progress, I still see the fear in my little boy's eyes. He's waiting for the other shoe to drop. And last week a kid asked him and Ryan why Jim and I aren't married and said they're not really brothers unless we're married. Trying to explain adult relationships to a nine-year-old boy was difficult at best. He still doesn't understand, and I can't bring myself to say anything to Jim.

Jim's good to me. And I'm grateful. Just like I'm grateful for everything I have in my life. If I look back at where I was even six months ago, I can see how much better everything is. It used to be months would go by with me feeling like this all the time. Like dying. Like maybe if my little boy had somebody else to live for him, then I wouldn't have to do it anymore. He does, actually. So I could be done, if I really wanted to be. But Jim has no legal rights to Ian, so even though he'd be better off without me, I know the system. I know what they do to kids with special needs like my boy. They'd contact his biological father since he's on the birth certificate. Best case scenario, that asshole doesn't show up and my kid ends up in foster care. With his issues? Nobody would adopt him. Worst case scenario, that piece of shit who knocked me up at sixteen when he was nearly thirty takes my kid in. I know nothing about that fucker, and I don't want to know anything about him either.

There were days in the not-so-distant past where I wasn't sure I could take another breath, because breathing was too painful. I never wanted Ian to suffer, but for a long time, suffering was only thing I gave him. The realization that I'm the only one he has was literally the only thing that kept me alive for the better part of the last few years. And now? I have two boys. And on normal days, I let myself believe that they're both mine. I love Ryan just as much as I love Ian. They both need me, just in different ways. Still, today I feel like loving this little boy will only lead me to a broken heart. And I can't lose another child.

Okay, that's it. This pity party needs to end. Maybe if I just turn enough to my side, I might be able to smother myself with my own pillow. I'm even on my own nerves at this point. I just don't know how to feel it any less dramatically. I don't know how to let myself grieve my babies without being all end-of-the-world and doom-and-gloom about it. It consumes me, but the pain is a welcome reminder that I haven't forgotten them and that I don't love them any less than I did the day they were born. That I don't miss them any less than the day I lost them.

"You better be eating your food," Jim hollers from behind the closed bedroom door, his voice carrying as he walks down the hall. He made me bacon and eggs for breakfast. That was hours ago, though, and I still haven't touched them. Ryan snuck in to give me a rare kiss a little while ago and managed to walk out with a fist full of bacon. It was the only thing that made me laugh all day. Ian normally tries to cheer me up when I'm sad, but he knows what today is, and he couldn't bring himself to try. Up until about a year ago, he used to tell me that he misses his baby sister and brother. He used to say he wanted to teach Michael how to ride a bike and that he wishes he could hold Alexandra one more time.

"Answer me, babe."

I try to respond, but nothing comes out. Today is the first time Jim's ever seen me like this--near catatonic. Part of me hopes this is going to be the first and last time. But then, I also hope it isn't. I hate feeling crazy, but I can't ever feel like I don't care about my babies anymore.

The door creaks open, and Jim stares at me through the small crack between the door and frame. His eyes are sad, but the smile on his lips tries to hide it. He closes the door a moment later and shouts at the boys to get ready to leave. I don't know where they're going, and he doesn't bother to tell me. After breakfast, he announced that they'd be playing video games in the living room. And later, he let me know they'd be in the backyard working on their fighting skills. Grady had come by to help Jim with giving the boys tips. This is their thing--it's important to Jim that he teach our boys how to defend themselves. Judging by the moves I've seen previously, Jim had already taught Ryan a few things, so I suspect this is more for Ian than anything. I'd say it's a kind gesture, but it's not. This is just who Jim is when he's not drinking himself stupid and snorting shit that makes him act like somebody he's not. The thought makes me burst into tears again.

Eventually I stop crying and give up on trying to sleep, so I go for just staring up at the ceiling and trying to make patterns out of the popcorn texture. I don't know how long I lie there for. I just know that the boys leave and come back and then leave again for dinner at Chief's house with his family. Before they left, the boys brought me snack cakes, and Jim forced me to sit up enough to drink water. I didn't want it, but he held my nose closed until I had to draw a breath and inadvertently sucked in some water. Bastard. It hurt going down, and I mentally cussed him out for nearly an hour. At some point, I managed to reason with myself. Jim was doing it to help me, not hurt me, and so I took back all those curses I put on his dick. Even knowing that he's taking care of me, I still can't bring myself to not hate him and everything in this world except those four kids that mean more to me than my own life.

When they return after dinner, Jim pulls me up and forces me to drink water again. I lie loose in his arms, letting him support my weight, and I fight swallowing until he says the only thing that can get through to me. "You're scaring our boys, Ian especially. I've tried to keep him out of here so he doesn't have to see you like this, but it's not easy. Elle asked where you were tonight, and when Ryan shot his mouth off, telling the entire table why, Ian ran from the table. It took me thirty minutes to get him to come out of the bathroom, and when he did, he'd scratched the shit out of his arms and neck. You need to pull your shit together, because I'm doing all I can here, but it's not enough. He needs you."

When the sting of his honesty subsides, I take a sip of water, and it feels so good to my parched throat that I gulp down the rest of the glass greedily. When I'm done, Jim places the glass on the bedside table. We stay like that for a few minutes before I force myself up from the bed. Jim gives me space as I change and wash my face and even brush my hair. I have my hand on the doorknob before he speaks again.

"Those kids, they're not dirty little secrets. You don't have two kids--you have four. Three boys and one girl. Next year, we buy a cake and celebrate their birthday even if they're not here with us. On Christmas, we hang their stockings, buy them presents--even if those presents go to the shelter after--and we make damn sure this year doesn't repeat itself. Our sons deserve to know those babies exist. They have every right to share in their mother's pain. You don't shut us out. Next time you need a time out, just say so, and we'll head out. But not on days when Ian and Ryan need you. Got that?"

My eyes fall closed, but no tears fall. I'm literally out of juice, so I just nod my agreement. Jim comes up behind me, wrapping me in a hug, and kisses the top of my head.

"Sorry you're hurting, babe. You need something, we'll get you to a doctor. But I can't do this alone. Ian needs his mom."

"I know," I say and leave the room to go pretend to be happy with my boys.

CHAPTER 16

March 1998

"Mom!"

The scream that comes from the boy's room is deafening. The knife in my hand stills while I wait to see if this is one of those situations I really do need to go in there for. Ryan's ten now--he just had his birthday last week. In an effort to avoid getting in trouble as often as he does, he informed me that I only need to show up if I've been called three times in a row. Apparently, if I show up after the first time Ian calls for me, the boy doesn't even get a swing in. According to Ryan, that's not fair. But this is Ryan's screams, not Ian's. It didn't used to be like this. It used to be Ian crying and screaming for help, but ever since I gave in and let Jim teach the boys how to fight, Ian's been coming out on top more often. I'd be lying if I said it didn't make me proud. A few months ago, Ian started karate at the local rec center. Ryan lasted three classes before their sensei said he was too unruly to teach, but Ian's absolutely flourished in the classes. He started with his white belt, progressed to blue pretty quickly, and is on the verge of getting his purple belt. He's been working super hard for it, but it's not been easy. It's worth it, though. Marital arts is giving my kid a sense of power and control that seems to be healing him.

"Mom! Help! Mom!" Ryan's screaming again. With a sigh, I set down the knife and eye the pile of tomatoes I have yet to chop. I'm not sure how Rage convinced me to make the salsa for this weekend's upcoming barbecue, but he did. I like making salsa, don't get me wrong. But making salsa for four is a hell of a lot different than making salsa for over fifty people, half of which have stupidly large appetites.