Page 8 of Anchor

Disgust shows, and my body trembles, knowing how much I’ve fucked up but not realizing just as much until he holds his hand out. Seeing a gold band, I frown, but true fear hits me when he states, “Heaven says happy first wedding anniversary and that she wants a divorce.”

My heart pounds as I slowly take the ring from him with my trembling hand and make eye contact with him.

“She ran outta the club yesterday in tears,” he admits.

I shake my head and beg, “Please, please, no.”

He sniffs hard and continues, “She saw exactly what you were doing last night, on your anniversary at that, and she’s done with you. Oh, and she also crashed her car into the gate when I told the prospect to keep it shut.”

With that said, he turns and leaves me reeling with his confession, and I look at the ring in my hand.

“Yes baby, fuck me harder….”

Ginger’s moans echo, and my eyes tear up as I stumble into my room, looking around with fear and pain, my wife’s wedding band squeezed tight in my palm. The weight of the pain I feel drowns me as I realize I’ve done exactly what I worried I’d do after patching in the club—and on the first fucking day—all because my wife wanted to stay home with our son.

Like father like son….

2

Heaven – Nineteen Years Old

I try to breathe through the panic hitting my chest as I watch my son sleep in his crib, my husband on my mind.

I understand the club surprised him with his patch, but it’s our anniversary, our first wedding anniversary—an anniversary he forgot….

My tears fall, and I quickly wipe them away, not taking my eyes off Micha, the most important little boy in my life.

After Travis and I married, we were living on a high, but a few months into my first year of college, I found out I was pregnant. God, was I scared, but Travis tried to hold me up, even after my mother slapped me for being “stupid.”

Travis was my rock despite the growing distance since he started prospecting.

Mom didn’t want this life for me. She wanted me to have a career and not rely on men like she does every single day,especially when she went through two boyfriends that year. It's only a miracle that I even finished high school after I met Travis.

At my graduation, she told me she was moving, and I needed to help pack our stuff. That was also the same day I told her Travis and I were getting married and buying a small house, because he didn’t want club life to touch me.

I worked my butt off, not allowing him to pay for the whole thing, and our mortgage is quite high, something we only got because his dad co-signed.

It's safe to say she wasn’t happy about that, and to this day, she still hasn’t met her grandson.

Gently, I rub my hand over my son’s head as he sucks his pacifier, sleeping peacefully, and I walk away, ensuring his night light is on, then carefully close his door and walk down the hallway and look around the living area.

This is our home, something we’ve worked hard to have.

From the dark gray couch to the light gray paint on the walls, it’s ours, and even though it took us a few months to make it, we did.

My eyes go to the photo from our wedding day hanging above the fireplace. My dress isn’t fancy, just a white knee-length skater dress, but my smile is wide, and so is Travis’s, who is wearing a black button-down shirt and jeans, his arms wrapped around me from behind.

Other than giving birth, something he nearly missed because of the club, our wedding was the happiest day of my life.

A horrible feeling settles in my gut, and I know we can’t leave it how we did.

This man has become my world, the reason why I breathe, and I know that’s stupid, especially when I’ve seen what my mother has turned into because of relationships she can’t hang onto, but he has.

I need him, and I can’t let our argument fester until tomorrow. Honestly, he needs to understand where I was coming from.

It’s our anniversary, for Christ’s sake.

Taking a deep breath, I quickly grab my phone and call our neighbor, whose fourteen-year-old daughter wants to earn money, to see if she can watch Micha for half an hour.

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