Page 67 of Won't Let Go
Peeking at me out of the corner of his eye, Hunter sighs long and hard before replying. “Tati.”
Ah. Yes. “She’s a sweet girl.”
Looking down at his feet, shoulders hunched forward, Hunter bobs his head. “Yeah. Yeah, she is.”
“Have you talked to her much?”
He shakes his head. “No.”
“Why not?”
“She’s older than me and…” Hunter grumbles something under his breath, which I can’t make out. As if summoned by his admission alone, the young girl Bink has taken in, after being trafficked, walks up the street, with a little blonde girl hitched on her hip. I lift a hand in greeting.
“Hey, Tati. Hi, Leech.”
Playing it cool, Hunter refuses to acknowledge their presence as they wave back. Once they disappear into the clubhouse, Hunter releases a breath, and his shoulders relax.
I keep the commentary to myself.
Young love is not something I need to meddle in. I’ve got enough stuff on my plate, and he’s perfectly capable of wooing a girl if he wants, even if said girl is older than him. But… Who amI to judge? My husband is ten years younger than I am, and he has been more than capable of wooing me.
A long stretch of silence settles between us before Hunter gets off the swing and turns to me. He hitches his thumb at the clubhouse. “I’m gonna go. Unless you need me.”
I wave him off. “No. Go. Have fun. Just don’t leave the compound.”
“I won’t, Mom.”
Standing to hug my son, I wrap my arms around his middle, and he returns the gesture with a firm squeeze. “I love you.”
“Love you, too.”
Stuffing my hands in my pockets, I watch him walk with purpose to the clubhouse, his muscles flexing beneath the cotton of his t-shirt. It’s crazy, isn’t it, how fast they grow up? It feels like just yesterday that Hunter was losing his teeth and putting them under his pillow for the tooth fairy. Now he’s a teenager with a crush.
Feeling lighter than I have in months, I walk around the compound in my checkered Vans, a graphic t-shirt, and shorts, which leads me into the attached estate and Bink’s front porch, where I find myself knocking. As the prez’s old lady, she’s the person everyone looks to for guidance. She’s also been a friend for years. What happened yesterday at Kit and Gunz’s house is on me—for not coping, for not working through shit. I know wounds take time to heal, but I’ve been putting that off, ignoring the symptoms and pretending they don’t exist for over a year now. I’ve avoided people and hurt those I love, especially Josh and Hunter. While I can’t fix what happened to me, I can’t be a better mother, wife, or sister if I don’t take charge of my healing—whatever the hell that looks like.
Bink answers the door with a kind smile and her hair tied up in a messy bun on the top of her head. Without a word, she steps back and waves for me to enter.
With an awkward, closed-mouth smile, I nod my thanks and step indoors. The house smells of cologne and cinnamon as Bink gets us glasses of water, and we gather at her kitchen table, where Pretzel, her dog, lounges at her feet.
“You’re a sister now,” she says with a grin, sipping her water. “It’s official.”
“It is.”
“I heard White Boy took his brand.”
I nod. Yes. Yes, he did, by the fire pit behind the clubhouse. He sat on a chair, legs spread, dick out, and took it on his inner thigh. I was with him the entire time, along with his brothers. A single hiss escaped his lips, and his neck turned into thick cords as he grit his teeth and took the pain. It was a red, weepy mess this morning when we woke up together, but he assures me he’s got it handled.
Not sure what to say, given how awkward I’ve made everything as of late, I take a gulp of water, steel my shoulders, and pour my heart out on the table. I tell Bink everything. Given her status in the club, she deserves to know the truth. As a friend and sister, she needs to know. I run through the rapes, Josh, Hunter, my nightmares, my attempted suicide, and the shop shootout. We’re both hugging and sobbing like babies by the end.
When the front door opens, and in struts Big, he takes one look at us, shakes his head, blows out a breath in what looks like relief, then turns around and walks right back out.
Pulling away from Bink, I look her in the eye, and with snot running down our faces, we bust up laughing.
“Oh. He’s gonna tell White Boy,” she crows, grabbing her stomach.
“Your old man is a tattletale,” I cackle. Not that I care what he tells Josh.
“He totally is.” Bink dabs her eyes with the corner of her shirt.
