Page 4 of Misery and Ecstasy

Stupid shit too, like the kind of stuff a dumb teenage boy would say.

He teases me about my unruly hair. My wavy-brown locks are something I’ve grown to love and appreciate in my adult life, thank you very much. He comments on my necklaces because according to him, I have so many that he’s never seen me wear the same one twice. He called my earrings cute once, too. But it wasn’t in a complimentary way. It was sarcastic, because there’s nothing cute about them.

I mean, I like them, but they’re just simple 00-gauge black plugs.

So I usually just throw shit right back his way. Like about him being a degenerate criminal. Or about his car—he drives a ’77 Firebird Trans-Am. I tell him I’m perfectly capable of driving myself, and I’d feel more comfortable in a vehicle that wasn’t older than I am.

But in secret, I love his car.

And no matter how I feel about him in myhead, my body lights up a little each time I’m in his presence, damn it.

Of all the guys in the world I could feel any kind of attraction to, why does it have to be him?

I begin to breathe a little easier, watching as the men continue past my house and out of view. It’s enough that they require me to come when they call, but it’s not just me they’re affecting. My patients take a hit each time I have to cancel on them. I do my best to stand up to the club, to tell them I can make it when I have a break in my schedule, but it’s not always that easy.

As much as I wish I could go back and do everything in my power to keep myself from getting entangled with the MC, I'm glad I’ve been able to help the girls.

But I certainly don’t miss having them as full-time patients any longer.

I don’t think I’ll ever understand the dynamic between the men and women of the Royal Bastards MC, no matter how many times someone tries to explain it to me.

Hopefully, I’ll never have a reason to.

CHAPTER THREE

DRAVEN

Mom passed two days ago, and I’ve been going through the motions. But to be honest, I’m not sure I know which way is up.

Her idea of a final send-off couldn’t have been more different than mine.

The church was absolutely packed. Every pew from one end to the other was filled with members of her congregation, her friends, and others in the community. She deserved every honor bestowed upon her as those who loved her most gave their final goodbyes. She was the epitome of a saint, and she deserved a better son than I’d been.

Being back there was hard. I hadn’t stepped foot inside that church—or any church—since Dad passed away, despite my mother’s pleas to join her. I just couldn’t bring myself to do it. It was bad enough that the vision of him in his coffin on the altar haunted me day and night. I didn’t need another weekly reminder of it in person, too. It was the only wish of hers I refused to grant after he died.

The Bastards surrounded her lengthy funeral procession, safely leading everyone to the cemetery before carrying her to her final resting place. It’s what we do for each other. For family. As much as Mom disagreed with my lifestyle, she welcomed my second family into her life as her own.

I fought tirelessly to hold myself together through every second that slowly ticked by today. To nod my head and give a thin smile to those who approached me, offering their condolences. There were many who barely looked at me, afraid or ashamed of what I’ve become over the years but who nodded their respects from across the room.

With the burial over, only a couple more hours stand between me and silence. Solitude. But for now, here I sit, on the back patio of the lodge we rented for Mom’s luncheon, chain smoking and pounding beers. Trying to come off as unapproachable as possible so people will leave me alone, finish their conversations, then get the hell out of here.

As I take another drag of my cigarette, my ears tune in to a familiar voice in the crowd. His tone sounds slightly different than it does over the phone, but the pathetic arrogance in it is exactly the same as it always is.

“Thank you so much for coming. I know it would have meant a lot to Mom.”

My head snaps to the left, and I catch him in my sights for the first time in over five years.

Mitchell.

I haven’t heard one word from him since I told him I had to sell the farm. I’ve left countless messages, every one of which went unanswered. Now here he is, waltzing through the door at the end of the day like the golden child he’s pretended to be for years. Accepting condolences for the death of a mother he walked out on the moment he got the chance.

My fist tightens around the beer in my hand, crushing the aluminum and causing the cold, amber liquid to overflow from the mouth of the can.

He wasn’t there for her.

He wasn’t by her side every day.

Reading to her.

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