Page 8 of Dizzy

Not now.

I groan.

“One minute, okay? Stay right there.” I hold up a finger as I stand, jerkin’ my pants to my waist. “I gotta take this. It could be an emergency. But you stay right there. I’ll be right back. You’re gonna stay right there for me, aren’t you, baby?”

I’m aware I’m begging, but I’m past pride. The hazy look is gone from my girl’s eyes, and she’s straightening up. She won’t meet my eye.

Goddamn. “Just one minute. I’ll be right back.”

The phone keeps singin’, so I tap to answer as I cram my dick back in my jeans and step into the hall. I need to change that ringtone. Sharon put it on my phone for our anniversary. Seven or eight years ago.

“Sharon? What’s up?”

My heart was already pounding, and now it’s stuck in my throat. Ever since we split, whenever she calls, my first thought is,Are the boys okay?

Ain’t gonna lie. They’re wild. Carson in particular is accident-prone. We got three broken bones between the two of them at this point, and four concussions.

“Dwayne!”

There’s an unholy ruckus at the end of the line. TV blaring. Dogs barking. Carson’s hollering. He don’t sound hurt.

“Yeah. What’s up?”

“You need to take the boys tonight.”

“All right.” I force myself to swallow what I really want to say, and I head further down the hall. “When?”

The judge gave me every other weekend and a few hours on Wednesday nights. When we went to court, Sharon pulled some shit about how I’m never around and painted me as a degenerate ‘cause I’m in an MC. She tried to get full custody, which is a joke ‘cause she’s always asking me to take the boys early or keep ‘em late. I don’t mind. I’ll take ‘em whenever. They’re my kids. I miss ‘em.

Still. I was the one who had to assure the judge I was gonna put the boys first before he gave me four fuckin’ days a month.

“Carson, handle it yourself! I’m on the phone with your father!” she shouts. “Can you pick them up from Steve’s after school?”

Steve’s the dude she was fuckin’ when we split. He was her boss at the real estate agency then, but he’s her bitch now.

“I can get ‘em from school. No problem.”

“No. I’m picking them up. Just come get them from Steve’s. Four or five. I need you to get them by six, though. I have reservations. It’s a business thing.”

Sharon’s got a lot of “business” things after hours these days. Steve better keep an eye out.

“Okay. I’ll pick ‘em up from school.”

“No. That’s already on my schedule. Just get them from the house.”

Sharon don’t like me showing up at the school, lookin’ like I do. A few years back, when she got her real estate license, she started takin’ issue with my tattoos and my clothes. When we were in high school, my long hair revved her engines. Made her cry when I had to cut it for basic.

People change. Sharon’s become a person I don’t even recognize. I deal with her like I deal with a shitty customer. They want to act the boss, but that don’t mean they know shit about engines. I make it quick, and I move on with my day.

What is it they say? If you argue with a dumbass, you’re the dumbass.

It’s getting louder in the background. Parker’s shoutin’ at his brother now about some video game controller. Jesus. Pain spears my temples. I need an ibuprofen.

“And can you just keep them through the weekend? I’ll get them Sunday. Or you could drop them here. Yeah, that’s easier. Let’s do that.”

“Fine.”

“Don’t forget Carson’s inhaler.”

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