Page 16 of The Prez

“Does it matter?” he mutters under his breath. “I’ll gotomorrow to get my clothes and what not. I want to be here with Little Raf tonight. What’s his usual routine?”

I scrunch my eyebrows. “Routine for what?”

Omari gapes at me. “What do you mean ‘for what?’ His bedtime. Bath time, feeding schedule. You do have him on a schedule, right?” When I don’t answer, he sneers. “Rafael, he needs a schedule. Babies don’t always abide by them, but it’ll be easier to have something concrete. Have you started him on solid foods yet?” Again, I don’t answer. “Have you done anything?”

“I fucking took him in when he had no one,” I snarl, taking a step in his direction. “So yeah, I fucking did something.”

“That’s the bare fucking minimum, Rafael,” Omari says, shaking his head. “If you don’t want to do anything for Little Raf, fine. Just make sure you leave enough money so I can get him what he needs and stay out of my way.”

He stomps off, walking into Rafael’s room, leaving me to stand in the middle of the floor like a fucking comepinga.

Seething, I stomp into my room and get dressed, almost ripping a button off my shirt with how roughly I’m handling it. I shuck the jeans I slid on and pull on a pair of slacks, almost feeling like myself, but still riled up from my confrontation with Omari.

I don’t like that he’s right. Since Rafael has been here, all I could do was make sure he ate between his bouts of crying. He’s cried all day, every day since I brought him home. I’m barely hanging on, so I haven’t had time to do much of anything.

After getting dressed and grabbing my helmet from my dresser and jacket from my treadmill, I head to my closet to grab cash from my safe. I punch in the combination like the safe offended me and pull out a stack of bills, not bothering to count it. After ensuring the safe is locked, I go intothe living room, drop the money on the coffee table, and leave.

Once outside, I try to draw in lungfuls of clean, crisp air to calm myself, but it’s not working. I’m too keyed up. I need to get away from this house, from that baby, from that fucking nanny.

I slide on my jacket and thrust my helmet over my head and march to my chopper. After throwing my leg over it, I kick up the stand and start her up, the rumble under my ass doing more to calm me down than the fresh air. Most would tell me to wear the proper attire to ride, but I’ve been riding with dress clothes on for decades. If I lay my bike down, I’d rather do it as I am.

Twenty minutes later, I’m pulling up to the tattoo parlor Reaper owns called Dark Haven. It was one of the first acquisitions for Devil’s Mayhem, Reaper wanting to join the MC after he finished his apprenticeship. He’s been tattooing for close to twenty years and he’s the best.

Walking through the door, I glance around until I find him. He’s got some college girl in his chair, whimpering as he finishes a tattoo of a fucking butterfly on her wrist. I hate the fucking pansy ass tattoos and the soft motherfuckers that get them.

Marching over to his station, I start to unbutton my shirt, glaring at the scared girl in the chair hard enough to set her on fire.

“Excuse me,” she mumbles, looking up at Reaper for back up. He does nothing but swipe a paper towel over her finished tattoo. “We’re in a session.”

“Not no more, you’re not,” I say. “Get the fuck out.”

Reaper laughs as the girl scrambles out of the chair. “Go over to Laura, sweetheart. She’ll wrap you up and give you instructions.” Laura is Reaper’s wife, a fellow tattooer and body piercer.

Laura steps around the corner and waves to me, knowing I’m in a mood, so not giving me shit. She places her hand around the scared girl’s back and guides her into another room.

“Let me clean up and I’ll get started. What do you want?” Reaper asks as he gathers trash.

I pull my shirt off and hang it on the hook by his station. Reaper got it just for me years ago since I refuse to fold my shirts when I need a tattoo. I complained so much that the third time I came in, there was a hook there for me.

“Elena,” I tell him and give him a date.

Reaper nods and, after he wipes down the chair and I lie down on it, sets everything up. I look down at my torso, trying to find a free space for my dead. Just below mama’s name and date of death is a blank patch of skin and my heart clenches in the way that it has off and on since Elena died. They’re together now.

After he’s all set up, Reaper quickly sketches something out and shows it to me. I nod and he places the stencil on my skin and gets started. As soon as the needle hits my skin, the knot in my chest unfurls and I feel like a fucking person again.

“Wanna talk?” Reaper asks, gliding the needle over my skin smoothly. “You haven’t been level since Christian died.”

I open my mouth to tell him to butt the fuck out and leave me alone, but what comes out is, “There’s a fucking baby in my house that makes it impossible to sleep. I’m irritated all the fucking time because of his constant crying and fucking neediness.”

Reaper dips his needle into the ink before bringing it back to my skin, embedding Elena’s name into my flesh forever.. “Our kid is grown, but I can relate. You remember when I was prospecting and Laura just had Jan.” I nod. He stops and looks at me, a faint smile on his lips. Reaper, likeme, doesn’t smile and is not generally happy. Except when he talks about his old lady and daughter. “But watching Jan grow up, becoming a happy and smart woman … probably one of the best things I ever did besides making Laura mine.”

My gut churns. If I were a better man, I would try to be that for Little Raf—Baby Rafael. His name is Rafael.

Fuck, why did that stupid nickname stick to me already? That’s not his fucking name.

I should be better for Baby Rafael, but I can’t. I failed Elena, letting her push me away when I was barely an adult and I didn’t try to bridge that gap in all the subsequent years. How the fuck am I going to look my nephew in the face ten, fifteen years from now and tell him I can’t tell him about his mother, because I don’t know shit about her? I can tell him everything until she was ten, but after that, nothing. What kind of shitty uncle will he think I am then? It’s better if I just keep him at arm’s length now so he just thinks I’m an asshole when he gets older rather than a fucking failure.

Omari won’t be around forever, but for the next year, he can be what Baby Rafael needs. He seems solid enough, and Baby Rafael likes him. I can stay out of his way so the baby has someone, a father figure of sorts, that he can count on.

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