Cease (Bayonet Scars Book 7) (18 page)

"Um, Mom?" Ian's voice breaks through my thoughts now. It's tentative and loaded with probably about fifty bucks' worth of damage. Their room looked so nice when we first moved in. A few weeks later and it was officially broken in as the bedroom of two rowdy boys. Two rowdy boys who seriously don't understand the concept of "you break it, you buy it." So I take my time washing and drying my hands. They broke something, I already know it. And it's going to cost Jim money one way or another. I'm just hoping it's not another bone. My boys are tough as all get out until they're laid up on the couch, unable to move, and then it's like they're complete invalids. Broken arms I can deal with a lot better than broken legs. If it's a broken leg, I'm going to stay with Sylvia and Rage until it heals.

"I should go." I'm talking to myself aloud now. It might make me crazy, but it's not the first time I've been accused of such, so I go with it. "Good moms run to their kids' aide. They don't hide out in the kitchen, stalling."

"I don't think she's coming," Ryan says. He's shouting it, making damn sure I hear. Neither boy is bothering to come out, and they're not crying, so I know they're not in a lot of pain.

Ian speaks up, defending me like any good son should, saying, "She's not just going to leave us here."

I love that boy. As a nod to his faith in me, I walk to the fridge, pull out a beer, pop the top, and take a swig. I won't actually leave them there, but I'm not going to run to their aide either. They're not little boys anymore, and they don't get into little trouble, so they can learn to wait it out. I continue to enjoy my beer as they place bets on whether or not I'm going to come to their rescue.

"This is a very not-mom thing to do, lady," Ryan shouts. I snicker and shake my head while giving myself a mental pat on the back. Just when I'm feeling more mom-guilt than I can handle, I set down the beer and head for the hallway.

The loud rumble of Jim's bike sounds in the distance, growing nearer every second. I let out a relieved breath. If dad's home, I can be the good cop and cuddle my babies for their stupidity. That's why I hate handling things solo so much. I don't have anyone to pawn the responsibility of the discipline off on.

"Dad's coming! Shit!" Ryan shouts, now sounding panicked. Oh, whatever they did is good. Real good. I want to be mad, but I can't bring myself to.

As of today, Ian and I have officially been in Fort Bragg for one year. And our lives are so completely different than they were before. My boy has a home and a brother. He even has a dad. I still have my moments of doubt, of this sinking fear that all of this will end, but then Jim reminds me of who he is. Not just with the promises he makes, but the things he does. The reminder is there, in every single touch and every sly smile he gives me. It's in the lingering looks, like he wants to tell me something but not quite ready to just yet.

I gave up thinking those looks meant that he wanted to make this thing between us legal months ago. The one time I asked him it was way too early in our relationship. Ryan had just called me "Mom" for the first time, so I was riding that high, and it just came out. It was right after Thanksgiving, and I was so grateful for everything I now have and also so incredible guilty over almost forgetting about Alexandra and Michael. It was just this split second, where I was basting the turkey and I thought,
I have everything I ever wanted
. It was a sharp, painful reminder of what I don't have. My twins. My babies aren't here, so how could I, even for a fucking second, think I have everything? I just stopped what I was doing, left the room, and curled into a ball on our bed, drowning in my own tears. Jim came in and tried to make it better, but he didn't know how and soon came to realize he couldn't. It was a slow realization for him--deep in his heart, he still thinks he can get my babies back. They're not even babies anymore. This past September, they turned three. I wonder about their hair color and their eyes. I wonder how their personalities have developed, and selfishly, I pray to nothing in particular that they remember me. That somehow, those first few weeks with them meant enough that they'd recognize me somehow if they saw me. And it was too much, far too overwhelming. I couldn't handle it and was just looking for something to make me feel better. So when I was able to speak, I just blurted it out. "Do you even want to marry me?" All he said was, "Can't," and then crawled out of bed and disappeared until dinner time when there were too many people around to talk about it. He hasn't brought it up since and neither have I. It was greedy of me to even suggest it. He's already given us so much.

The back door creaks open behind me, followed by heavy boots against the laminate flooring. One deep breath after another and I'm halfway to looking like a normal person. I don't want Jim seeing me like this. We're doing good. There's no reason to bring us down with my baggage.

"What's wrong, momma?" His voice comes from a few feet behind me. He hasn't even seen my face yet, and he already knows. He has this uncanny sense about him. He always knows, and I always think I can fool him. Instead of saying a word, I just point in the direction of the boys' bedroom. Crappy mom point two--throwing the kids under the bus to save myself.

"What did they do?" Each word he speaks is punctuated with his annoyance, but he doesn't stomp toward their room like I expect. Instead, he wraps his arms around me from behind and pulls me against his chest. "I'll take care of them in a minute, but first I want to know what's wrong."

"You know what's wrong," I say. My eyes fall closed, and I sink into my man. Jim's chest is firm, even more built than when I met him a year ago. He doesn't drink as much or do as many drugs as he used to. We have an agreement. He can do whatever he wants as long as he can keep his shit together, and if he gets too out of hand, I let him know. So far we've only had two situations arise, and even though he was a real bastard the first time we went through it, he found out the hard way that we wouldn't be having an issue like that again. And we haven't. The second time he partied too hard and I had to rein him in, he didn't give me any shit. Because that's who we are as a couple.

It's a long while before he says anything, because that's how he is. With everybody else, Jim shoots his mouth off before thinking, but with me he's careful and considerate. At least he is now.

"It's okay to be sad, momma." He gives me a squeeze, and his hands travel down from just beneath my breasts to my belly. It'll never be flat after three kids, but it's not as chunky as it used to be. There's still stretch marks and scars from the twins' birth--marks that Jim's studied and traced. With one hand, he palms my belly. I hate the gesture even though I know it's coming from a good place.

"Carried those babies for almost nine full months. You know them in a way nobody else ever will, and the way Mancuso stole them from you? That shit is fucked. I can't make that right the way I want to, but I can promise you that I'm never going to stop trying, and that means if you gotta cry or be sad, you just fucking do it."

Tears fall down my cheeks no matter how hard I squeeze my eyes shut to try to stop them. Jim hates the tears. He doesn't exactly recoil, but I know that he doesn't know what to do with me when I'm crying. The man with all the answers always goes radio silent.

"We good?"

I nod my head in response and take a deep breath as the tears dry up.

"Now, what did the boys do to piss you off?"

"Oh fuck," I shout and push off from Jim and rush across the room. I forgot about the boys. I forgot about my children, and they could be missing a leg or bleeding out or . . . oh my God . . . they could be dead.

"Babe, you want my dick, all you have to do is say so." Jim chases after me and shouts in confusion when I go down the hall in the opposite direction he expects.

I burst through the boys' closed bedroom door and stop in my tracks. Jim's moving so close behind, he slams into my back and has to grab hold of me so I don't fall over.

"Well, it's about time," Ryan says with a sigh.

Ian's brown eyes stare at me, loaded with judgment and disappointment. He shakes his head and says, "I expected better of you."

The furniture is all in place, and neither boy appears to be bleeding. Clearly, both of their mouths work just fine.

"You," Jim says, pointing a finger at Ian. "Start talking."

"We were watching
E.T.
, and it was all Ian's idea," Ryan says. He shifts in place uncomfortably and pulls away from Ian a little before righting himself. They're standing awful close. Shoulder to shoulder close. Neither seems very happy about it, but they're purposefully not moving.

"And?" Jim's voice is hard and brokers no argument from either boy. I take a step forward to allow Jim into the room and watch as he approaches the kids. Ryan's eyes dart from mine to his dad's and back again. His big gray orbs scream "help me," but I just shrug my shoulders and act like there's nothing I can do. Ian, on the other hand, is staring Jim straight in the eyes. The kid doesn't even look remorseful or like he's in the least bit of trouble. Christ, maybe all those karate classes aren't so good for him after all. He used to at least be fearful of our disapproval.

"Son," Jim says, focusing on Ian. He bends down to meet his eyes and waits. The boys exchange a few looks before Ian steps away from Ryan. Despite the distance between their bodies, their lower arms are still firmly attached. Jim reaches out, taking each of their arms in a hand and tries to pull them apart. Both Ian and Ryan wince in discomfort.

"Are you fucking kidding me?" Jim says, trying to separate their arms again. Still, they don't budge.

"Babe, your kids Super Glue'd their arms together," I say, now eyeing the small tube lying on the floor near Ryan's feet.

Jim snorts and shakes his head before falling to his ass. His shoulders shake as he strains for breath. His face turns red, and the sounds of his fucking cackling can probably be heard all the way to the beach. I bite my lip, doing my best to keep a straight face. Neither boy knows what to do with their dad, and honestly neither do I.

"Today?" he says, eyeing Ian. "You choose today of all days?"

Our boy just shrugs in answer.

"No, seriously. Your grandparents are going to be pissed."

"Why would they care? They're not the ones who have to deal with this mess," I say as I step forward and examine their glued-together skin.

"Actually, they are," Jim says with a smirk. "We're going on a ride. Get these two assholes packed up for a sleepover."

"But we can't," I say in desperate realization that their arms are glued together from the wrist to the elbow. Jesus fuck. Sylvia finished her last round of chemo a few weeks back, and she's still not feeling great. I know she loves having the kids around, but that doesn't mean she can handle dealing with this disaster. And Rage, well, he's likely to leave my kids attached like this for us to deal with upon our return from wherever Jim thinks we're going.

"Yeah, Dad. Looks like I get Mom tonight," Ryan says in a smug as fuck tone. He then turns his attention to me, and with big gray eyes, he says, "It kind of hurts."

"I'm sure it does, you little con artist. Pack your own bags. We're dropping you off at Grandma's in twenty." And with that, I walk out of the room and back to the kitchen where I finish my beer and then grab another from the fridge. I love my kids, but Jesus fuck, I could use a night off.

CHAPTER 17

Dropping the boys off at Rage and Sylvia's wasn't fun. Neither was driving them there. First, it took them over half an hour to pack. Ian started whining at some point, and Jim tried to help, but I shut that down real quick. If my boys are stupid enough to Super Glue their arms together, then they can figure out how to work together long enough to pack an overnight bag. Then getting them into the van was another feat, but not nearly as difficult as getting them out was. Still, there was a certain kind of sweetness in seeing the look on Rage's face and hearing his disgruntled promise to get the glue situation taken care of. Sylvia was napping when we got there. Now, as we quietly make out way out of the cabin and toward Jim's bike, I'm grateful that she's still sleeping. She needs her rest, and I can only hope that Rage figures out how to solve that glue issue without having to drag her into it.

"So, where are we going and how long have you been planning this?" I've waited long enough to ask the questions, knowing that Jim only answers when he's good and ready.

"Can't tell you," he says. He climbs on his bike first and puts up the kickstand. I climb on right after him. He revs the engine and drives us through the tall pines toward the road. But just when we're about to turn that direction, Jim stalls the bike.

Shouting over the engine, he says, "Babe, look at that."

I follow the line of his outstretched finger and eye the sight before me. It's gorgeous. Rage and Sylvia's little cabin is surrounded by a nest of pine trees that shields the cabin from the noise from the road. Jim turns the opposite direction and rides through the narrow tree line to the plot behind the cabin. We've never been over here, had no reason to be, but I'm strangely excited about exploring the land. I'm not exactly sure how far back Rage and Sylvia's property goes, but I know the cabin is well insulated.

Just beyond the trees, a large field awaits us. On the right side, the tree line extends as far as my eyes can see. The rest is wide open save for an old red barn that sits off to the left side. Jim pauses the Harley before we ride over an old, worn bridge. I hold my breath and hang on tight with my eyes scrunched closed. I've never been a fan of bridges, especially not old rickety ones that I doubt have been cared for in the last twenty years. It's one of those structures that probably wasn't ever in very good shape, and now we're taking a several-hundred-pound machine across it like it's nothing.