Cease (Bayonet Scars Book 7) (8 page)

"You have until I finish my ice cream to tell me what happened," I say and take another bite. I'm mostly done now. Ryan eyes my bowl nervously as he shifts in his seat. After a few more minutes, he turns toward me.

"I'm not in trouble?"

"Nope. Whatever it is, you get a free pass this time." Whatever it is, I hope it's not so bad that I've made some kind of epic mistake by giving him a pass. Not that I can really do much of anything since he's not my kid, but I can stop doing the extras. I don't have to give him the approval he so desperately desires. I hate to take away something he needs, but it's literally the only leverage I have. Like all kids, he wants to be told he's good and worth being loved.

"Ian started crying. I wanted him to stop, but he wouldn't."

"Why was he crying?" A lump forms in my throat, making it hard for me to speak, but I manage. I should be used to it by now--the intense gut reaction that happens when my boy is hurting--but I'm not. And I'm starting to think I never will.

"I don't know. I didn't do anything."

Turning to my son, I reach out and place a hand on his arm gently. Ian's eyes lift to mine before they slide over to Sylvia. She gives him a soft smile. Most of the tension seems to leave his body at the small gesture.

"What happened, baby?"

"Jenny touched my face."

"And you started crying?"

Ian nods his head but doesn't look my way. Instead, his eyes fall on Ryan, who's looking right back at him.

"What happened next?" Sylvia's eyes are on me as I ask the question. Her gaze seems to have softened some. The more time I spend around Sylvia, the less I see her harsh lines and disapproval, and the more I see a woman hardened by life. She looks tired and rundown. She's old enough to be my mother, but when I look at her, I have to wonder if I look as haggard. Most days, I'm grateful for even a moment's relief. A single breath where I don't worry about my son or if I'm going to lose my job and be out on my ass again. An hour where I'm not terrified of all the good that we're getting because we've had so much bad that I can't quite believe the good will last. What I would give to not live in fear every single day . . .

"Answer her," Sylvia says, eyeing Ryan. I have to shake away my thoughts so I can refocus. It's getting late, and I have yet to get any answers.

"Jenny made him cry, so I told her not to do that."

"And?" As I wait for the rest of the story--because there must be more to it--I fix the boys each a bowl of ice cream and hold them ransom until they get to the damn point already. It's not the big things that exhaust me as a mom. It's the little moments like this where I can't just ask a question and get a straight answer. Everything is a production with kids.

"I pushed her," Ryan says. He's barely noted the bowls in my hands. Instead, his eyes are on mine. There's a kind of desperate need in his gaze that makes me want to reach out and hug him. And I probably would if his grandmother weren't right here. But she is. Ryan is her boy, not mine. I can barely take care of my own son, let alone someone else's. Not to mention everything I've lost that I don't dare mention.

I hate the idea of a kid Ryan's size pushing a girl, but I nod my head to urge him to keep going. He's talking to me, and that's a sign of trust that I value.

"Ian got mad at me for pushing her. I was only trying to help. He was being stupid."

I stifle a yawn and hand the bowls to the boys. I'm too tired for any more of a play by play. Especially with Sylvia sitting here, watching me deal with this. So I run through all the shit I'm obligated to know as an adult in charge, like asking if Jenny is smaller than they are, and asking Ryan if he understands why pushing other people--especially people smaller than him--is wrong. They yawn and get grouchy as they try to respond. A few times I have to snap my fingers to get Ian's attention. The poor kid is half-asleep since it's already a solid hour after his bedtime. That's new, the bedtime thing. He used to have one a long time ago, but it kind of fell off with all the moving and chaos we were living in every day. Now that we have some sense of normalcy, I'm pretty rigid about bedtime, but this was a strange day.

I've already put my ass on the line for Ryan once today, but I'm about to do it again, whether his grandmother is watching or not.

"You don't like it when your dad is mean to you, do you?"

To my surprise, Sylvia doesn't react. Ryan's sideways glance at her is telling. He doesn't want to get in trouble, but her non-reaction seems to ease him a little, and he shakes his head.

"And he's a lot bigger than you, isn't he? He's bigger just like you're bigger than Jenny. I want you to think about how that makes her feel the next time you decide to be mean to someone. I don't think Jenny was trying to upset Ian, and as much as I like the fact that you defended him, I don't like that you pushed her."

"I'm sorry," he says. His big gray eyes shine up at me. My heart warms, and for the first time since we started this conversation, I don't feel the slightest bit awkward about disciplining someone else's kid.

"Okay, time for bed." I instruct Ian to take Ryan and get some pajamas on and to go crawl into bed.

Sylvia and I sit in silence at the kitchen table while the boys get ready to go to sleep. Ian tells Ryan he has to brush his teeth, but the kid doesn't have a toothbrush here. I turn away when Ian hands his over and Ryan starts brushing. I think I'm supposed to tell them they shouldn't share or something, but I'd rather they both have clean teeth when they go to bed, so I don't say anything. Thinking about where Ian and I were last year, hell even four months ago, I find myself stunned to silence. I didn't have the luxury of worrying about clean teeth before. I was just lucky he was eating, or he was aware enough that I could talk to him. His night tremors are almost a thing of the past now, and my boy eats like a miniature horse. I was able to get him into the doctor, and he's finally back to normal weight for his height and age. I stood there--in front of the doctor, her nurse, and my boy--and I fucking bawled. I felt such incredible relief and gratitude that he was healthy, I couldn't control my reaction. I didn't even apologize for it, either.

"You're good for them," Sylvia says.

I blink at her, not knowing what to say. Diverting my eyes, I see the boys are already passed out in bed. Unfazed by my response, she just smiles all-knowingly, and I have to admit it's creepy as fuck. Until now, I felt like the woman barely noticed me, but now, as I sit at this table with her, it feels like she's paid a hell of a lot better attention than I thought.

"My son likes you, but he's an idiot. I don't know that he deserves you, but I know damn well that my grandson does. I've never been good about giving Ryan gentle. I guess I wasn't gentle with Jim, either. I let his dad convince me that boys need to be commanded, not coddled."

"I think you can do both," I say quietly.

"I think you can, too. In fact, I'm counting on it. I'm not going to be here forever."

"I'm not . . . trying to be Ryan's mother, but I also can't just watch Jim bully him like that."

"And that's why you're good for them. Not many men stand up to my son, let alone women. Jim needs a woman he respects, and he respects you. I wasn't sure why at first. But I've been watching you, Ruby Buckley. You've done a lot with very little, and I respect that. So does Jim. I'm not here because you're good for Jim. Or Ryan. Even though you are. I'm here because I know that if you give him the chance, he'll be good for you, too. I see you with your boy. You hover--obsess--over him. You're giving Ian what I should have given Jim and never have been able to give Ryan."

"Why are you telling me this?" It's not what I want to say. I want to ask her why she thinks I'm good for Jim or something equally as flattering. I want to know what she sees that I don't.

"Cancer. They're taking my tits."

"I'm sorry." It's not enough, but it's all I have. I've never really been around somebody with cancer before, so I don't know what to say or how to be supportive. Fuck. I suck at this shit.

"I'm not here for sympathy. You know what's happening tonight. Why aren't you at the clubhouse?"

"After this afternoon? Hell no."

"He wanted you there. It's a big day for him." Sylvia leans back and turns toward the boys. A smile finds its way to her lips before it falls. "Ryan was three months old when CPS dropped him off at our house. Jim had to grow up quick, just like I'm sure you did. My grandbaby's never had a mom--until now."

I wipe my sweaty palms on my jeans and focus on the small but inane act with more attention than is necessary.

"Go. I'll watch the boys."

"I shouldn't," I say. I want to. God, I want to. Part of the reason I was so grouchy about having to pick the boys up early is that I wasn't able to help prep the clubhouse for Jim's party. The club's old president just retired to their mother charter in Nevada. Rage went from VP to President last week, and now they've made Jim their new VP. This night was important to him. He talked about it for over a week. And I know he wanted me to be there. But he was high today. And mean. He wasn't just an asshole. Jim was something I've never seen him as before, and it scared me. I want the guy I was getting to know, who treated me like a person, back. I want the guy who I thought was my friend, not the man who showed up today.

"Go," she says, more urgently this time. "You're more than a mother. Go be a woman for a change."

I don't hesitate or think twice about my decision. I just . . . go.

The clubhouse is only a few blocks over, so the walk isn't long. If anything, the cool summer air is refreshing. You'd think it'd bring me to my senses, but it doesn't. The salty tones from the ocean and the crispness from the evening's rain wakes me up in a way I'm not sure I've been in months, if not years. I doubt Sylvia Stone shows up to play babysitter for just anyone, and I'm even more doubtful that she lets herself be vulnerable in front of people she doesn't trust. If she trusts me enough with her confessions, then I should trust her enough to let myself believe that maybe life is getting better, that maybe Jim isn't just the bastard he was being this afternoon. Maybe, if I can be a good mother now even if I wasn't then, then perhaps it's possible for Jim to be a good man, too.

Inside the gates of the clubhouse, there are three metal barrels filled with God-only-knows what and set ablaze. The outside lights shine bright. The lot is free of people, but a large crowd roars and swells beyond the tall, chain-link fence. I've never seen people back there before, much less so many. Fort Bragg sits directly on the coast, with much of its shoreline high above the Pacific. The clubhouse sits a few hundred feet from the edge, on land that once belonged to the US government but was long-ago parceled off for pennies on the dollar. Jim once told me there was only one reason Forsaken ever crossed that fence line and it's for something he hopes he never has to witness. It's stupid, considering the excited roars from the crowd, but still, I pause before I push my way through the gate in the chain-link. I've been in town for months, but even with my tentative friendship with Jim, and working for the club, I still feel like an outsider. I'm not a member or family or even somebody's woman. And Jim's made damn sure nobody touches me, so I'm not a lost girl, either. I'm just . . .me. And here I am, at this party that's a big deal for Forsaken. But I push on because, despite feeling out of place, I can't bring myself to turn back now.

You're good for them.

The cheering is loud at the edge of the crowd, but in the middle of it, it's deafening.

Forsaken from different charters hold up cans of beer in victory, shouting at the men in the center of the ring. Men and women in plain clothes crowd around the brothers, their excitement no less apparent.

An older Forsaken from Nevada leans into the man next to him, who I automatically recognize as Rage, Jim's father. "Ten bucks says your new VP hits the ground before he can get another punch in."

Rage snorts his reply and puffs his chest out. I peer up at him with narrowed eyes. He takes note of me immediately but doesn't soften in my presence. With his eyes locked on mine and words meant more for me than the man he's addressing, Rage says, "If he can't handle fresh meat, then he hasn't earned the right to wear the patch." I find myself harboring a not-so-deep-seated hatred for Jim's father. No wonder Jim doesn't know how to show Ryan much softness--he sure as hell didn't get any from his own father. Sylvia's confession rings in my head as my mouth runs away with me.

"If your VP can't hack it, maybe his president can't either," I say and push my way through the crowd before Rage can show me how he got his nickname. I know he's a mean old bastard, and I've seen enough of him to know better than to ever mouth off to him again.

"Hey, Psycho," a familiar voice shouts from nearby. My head shoots up as I make it to the edge of the ring to find Butch eyeing me with a knowing smile. "Your girl's here."

The two men in the center of the ring turn in my direction, making me gasp. Standing just a few feet away from me is Grady, the newest patched member. One of his arms hangs limply by his side, and his lip is busted open. He wobbles in place but manages to right himself before falling over. Grady looks like shit, but it's Jim's appearance that makes my blood run cold. One of his eyes is swollen shut. His nose is bloody, and he stands awkwardly, favoring one leg. I move toward him without even thinking. These men have been fighting. They're jacked up on adrenaline and masculine pride. Jim's standing depends on him winning this fight, and Grady's young, but he's got a lot to prove to his brothers. He's also built like a damn semi and is a decade younger than Jim.