Page 3 of Patch's Bride
“I could come with you,” she says. “I know just what to do to help you destress.”
I catch her meaning. Her offer is more than just hooking up. I can tell by the intense look in her eyes that her offer is threadedwith a fantasy of becoming my old lady. She doesn’t usually go for prospects, but doctors are a whole other ballgame. She sees me as her ticket to a better life. Unfortunately, she’s not the first and probably won’t be the last. Several nurses tried the same when I was interning at the hospital. I can see the logic, but that doesn’t mean I have to like or accept it.
“I’m a busy man,” I tell her in no uncertain terms. “I have a practice and I’m prospecting for the Legion. I don’t have room for anything more. You should set your sights on another man, someone who can give you the time and attention you deserve.”
She runs one finger down the front of my vest. “You could make room. I’m worth it.” She leans in, bringing her face to mine.
I back up just a tad, because allowing her to kiss me would send the wrong message. “Not tonight, Roxy,” I say firmly.
Offended, she turns on her heel and stomps away, climbing into the lap of the first single brother she meets. She throws me a triumphant look over her shoulder as if to say,see, I’m wanted, if not by you, by a real, fully patched brother.
I literally don’t care, so I swivel back around in my seat and finish my beer.
Larry leans on the counter and whispers, “You handled that like a fuckin’ pro. That woman is nothing but bad news.”
“Yeah, I know. She talks trash and tries to run off all the women who come here before they can become old ladies.”
“Not only that, but she also tries her darndest to split brothers and agitates them into fighting over her. Thankfully, most of them see right through her bullshit. She’s bad news and you’d do well to stay away from her.”
Something about the tone of his voice tells me there is more to this story than anyone suspects. But I decide to let it go for now. We shoot the shit for a bit, like prospects are prone to do. I put an hour or so between my last beer and me heading home, mostly because I want to make sure I’m sober enough to drive.
When I finally step outside, I stand next to my bike and look up at the stars. I’m surprised by the sight of a shooting star. My mom always said if you make a wish on a shooting star then your wish will come true. I could wish for a lot of things but find myself wishing for all my patients to get better. I want them all to live productive, happy lives. I feel like a bit of candy ass for not wishing for my patch or a hot wife to fall into my lap, but shove those thoughts right back out of my mind.
I head home, turning the situation with my mother over in my mind. I wish there was some way I could get her to understand that I’m too busy to date right now. I just need another year or so to get my life in order before I settle down.
Instead of going to my house, I park behind my medical office because the tiny apartment above it is closer than my place. I’m tired and don’t trust myself riding the extra thirty minutes it takes to get to my place. So, I take refuge in the small space I once called home when I first opened my practice.
Not bothering with lights, I pull off my cut and drop it on a chair, kick off my boots, and crash into the full-size bed. Even though I’m still wearing my clothes, I drift off fast. My last thought before I fall asleep is of that wish I made.
Chapter 2
Beth
The house feels different without my mom. I know it’s probably just my grief, but it feels cold and lonely without her. Her rosary is still hanging on the key rack by the kitchen doorway, the one that says, ‘Home Sweet Home’. I feel frozen and unable to move forward with my life. Walking over to her rosary, I gently lift it off the hook. Wrapping it around my hand, I tuck the cross under the beads and close my fist around it. I can’t help but wonder how many thousands of times she used this rosary in her lifetime. To say my mother was pious would be an understatement.
The part I can’t get past is how she was here one moment and gone the next. She was so strong and resilient. I thought she’d be the one to beat cancer and be there for all my special moments in life. I feel the beads pressing into my palm as I realize she won’t be there to see me get married, graduate from college, or have children. The best I can hope for is that she’s watching from above as I struggle through life without her.
It’s been three months, and it hurts just as much as it did the day she passed. I miss her so much. Sometimes, I catch myself wanting to show her something I found online. I take my phone out before I remember she’s gone. And then I find myself grieving her death all over again. Father Michael says it’s all part of the grief process and things will get better. I know he would never lie, but I can’t imagine how that would be possible.
My stepfather is grieving in his own way, I suppose. He’s been drinking more, staying out a lot, and isolating in his studywhen he is home. He wants to know where I am and what I’m doing every minute of the day now. Maybe because my mother is not here to look out for me, he feels like he has to step up. He also hugs me a lot more. When I come home, when I leave to shop for groceries, sometimes just because. It feels weird because there have been times when he didn’t want to let me go. My brain tries to rationalize it as him being extra clingy because I’m all he’s got left. He’s always been cold, even controlling and belligerent at times, so this hugging business is totally new behavior for him. He’s never been the affectionate type. I have the strangest feeling that something is seriously wrong with him. I just have no idea what it is. Maybe my mother’s death broke him too.
People in the community think he’s golden. He wears nice suits, has a respectable job, and attends church regularly. According to all outward appearances, he’s a man of God. Even Father Michael calls him a good man. Of course, none of them have seen his dark side. My mother and I saw it. We lived it for the last eight long years.
We suffered his dirty looks, sharp tongue, and various insults. He shamed us for things that were beyond our control and occasionally hit the walls with his fist, leaving holes in the walls and terror in our hearts. My mom always insisted he would never attack us, but I have lived in fear of the day she wasn’t here to soothe his anger away. She knew how to manage him. I don’t have her talent for finding the right words to appease him so it’s a good thing her death took all the fight out of him.
Painful memories rise in my mind. My stepfather ruled our house like it was his little fiefdom. He rolled right over us, teaching us to be quiet and not talk back. My mother kowtowed to him. She worried about what people would think if they knewwhat we lived with. She was afraid of not being believed because of his sterling reputation in this town. She was terrified that if she exposed him, she would lose everything, including money to pay for the facility where my half-sister lives.
Now, she’s gone and it’s just him and me here living in this big, lonely house together. We still go to church and put up all the pretenses we ever did to the outside world. Inside our home, he hasn’t said ten words to me in the last three months other than to ask where I’m going and when I’ll be back.
This evening, he’s been locked away in his study for hours. I can hear him talking on the phone in a hushed tone. It worries me. That’s why I approach his study and quietly press my ear to the door. At first, I can’t make out what he’s saying. Then he raises his voice slightly.
“…failed project, bad timing, not my fault…”
There is a pause. Then lower, “…I’ll have it. I’ll make it right. Don’t bring her into this. She’s mine, now that her mother is gone.”
My pulse quickens, spiraling into a panic. I swallow thickly and strain to hear if he’s discussing me or my sister.
After another pause his tone grows darker. “Are you sure about that? Giving her to you will wipe out my entire debt? Oh yes, she’s beautiful, a younger version of her mother. Only nineteen and innocent as the day is long. Beth’s more than a fair trade for what I owe.”
