Page 27 of Roxy's Independence
She knew.
She told us.
She all but begged us to do something, but we were at a loss since none of us knew what the situation was—Kinsley never told us.
Joci experienced it firsthand and was afraid for her own life several times throughout her abusive, controlling marriage where he played on her guilt and used it against her. Whereas we didn’t notice that it was the same for Kinsley as it had been for Joci, she did. Dammit, she did and we, in a roundabout way, brushed it off thinking we had time to help Kinsley find a way to deal with it.
What a fucking joke.
Who did that bastard think he was?
He used her love for him against her. Made her choose which heartstring was the strongest. The more I mull it over, I don’t think she was choosing him over Easton. In her way, she was protecting her boy by stopping at the motel to try and flatten Macon’s ruffled feathers. She didn’t want Easton to wear the brunt of his anger, she was forcing him to point the finger where it deserved to be.
On her.
On him.
They were the adults who made mistakes, jumped the gun and ended things in a fit of anger, yet still, Easton’s the one who paid the ultimate price. I don’t think Kin realized her ex was as far gone as he was. As a woman, I get it, we’re the ones who know our men the best. She spent years with him, and knewhim intimately. But you can’t reason with a man who’s seen and experienced the things he has while serving his country.
The things Selah unearthed about his troop and the things they were ordered to do would have even the strongest-willed mind deconstruct. He watched villages burn—kids scream as they tried to find ways to save themselves. I thought those times were beyond us, that we were more advanced as a civilization.
His group was like the old-time Guerillas. They were sent to charge in and do the most damage regardless of whether bystanders were caught in the crosshairs. I don’t even think those operations were sanctioned—they couldn’t have been.
They were brutal.
So many people,innocentpeople, lost their lives. Their only sin being that they lived on the wrong side of the globe. So yeah, when you witness and are part of destruction such as that, something inside of you flips. This is only the tip of the iceberg. It explains why throughout history, soldiers’ suicide rates are high. How are they expected to come back and try to be normal? Post traumatic stress disorder is a bitch and hard to treat. How can you when a mind is fractured and warped?
“Fuck,” I hiss as I sit up in bed. “Get your shit together, Roxy. You can’t have all of these thoughts floating through your head when Easton gets up. He needs to be greeted by a smiling face, not a tear-stained one. Stop your mental rambling, lady, and pull your big girl panties up. You can’t change the past; all you can do is make the future better.”
I stand up and go over to the playpen to check on Easton. He’s still asleep, but is beginning to stir restlessly. I want to wash my face before his eyes open so I rush to our attached bathroom andtake care of that. When I look up into the mirror, I notice my face is still red, raw, swollen, and blotchy, but hopefully, clear enough to fool a baby.
When baby babbling hits my ears, I rush to the kitchen and make his bottle. I stopped at the infirmary to grab a can of formula that we have stocked there since Kinsley was still breast feeding. He has a few bags stored, but I didn’t want to take that stock so I left it in the freezer at hers and Python’s house. He’s going to have to be weaned unless Selah or one of the other moms want to donate some breast milk. I’ll bring that up to Python later, now’s not the time. He needs to grieve and process before he’s hit with something like that.
When the baby noises turn into cries, I pick up the pace and run to the bedroom. “Hey there, little man. Are you ready for your butt to be changed and get some food into your belly?”
His eyes light up, even at his age, I can’t help but wonder if he understands my questions. I shake that thought off because half these kids running around the clubhouse are smarter than they should be. Especially the ones with gifts. They’re wise beyond what they should be and it freaks me out to think about how they’re brilliant and more worldly than I am.
The second I remove the tabs from Easton’s diaper and start to move it out from underneath him, I get shot in the face by a stream of urine. “Alright, little man, I didn’t want a golden shower this morning. Think you can keep that to yourself until I get a fresh diaper on you?” He giggles, and it’s such a sweet sound that I instantly forgive him. “You’re going to have the ladies eating out of the palm of your hand, aren’t you?”
Quickly, I put a fresh one underneath him, wipe him down, put some powder on so he smells fresh, and dress him. As I passthrough the living room heading toward the kitchen to get his bottle from the warmer, the front door swings open and Weston comes in with his feet dragging. He appears to be emotionally and physically drained.
“Hi,” I whisper. “How are you? How’s Python?”
“As well as he can be considering the circumstances. Wrecker and Dragon had to voodoo him, so he’s calmer and more at ease today,” he tells me.
“Is that a good thing?” I ask. “Isn’t it better for him to go through the motions of grief?”
“I don’t know, Foxy. We had years of that and still needed Wrecker to intervene and switch our places so we could feel the other one’s emotions.”
“True,” I say. “This one’s hungry. I’m gonna feed him while you tell me what you guys figured out.”
“We haven’t figured out shit,” he announces after I grab the bottle from the kitchen and settle down in the chair opposite him with Easton.
The second the nipple is near his mouth, he lifts his head, leans forward, latches on and sucks it into his greedy mouth. Weston and I both chuckle, then stop. It’s hard to know if it’s okay to laugh or not when something as tragic as what happened to Kinsley did.
“We’re waiting on the coroner and crime scene investigator’s reports so we know how to proceed. We can’t do anything until those are released,” Weston says, his voice gruff. “From what little we were told, he left a note and confirmed that our suspicions were dead on. It was a murder/suicide. From whatlittle was read to us and what little they were willing to share, it was one of those cases that if he couldn’t have her, nobody could. Including her son.”
“What’s Python going to do?” I ask, sadness enveloping me. “He’s going to need help.”
