Page 67 of Straight to Me

He only mentioned his dad a few times when we spoke about his childhood. I didn’t want to press it, but he said he had no-one. I can’t help but wonder where his dad was during that time.

He looks down at me spying the date on his arm, letting the water run over the top of his head, the soap running to the floor.

“VP?”

“Yeah, babe.”

I run the tip of my finger over his tattoo. When I look up, his eyes meet mine, sadness and grief fill them. “Your dad, was he around after your mum died?”

Without saying a word, VP runs his hands over the top of his hair then moves around me and steps out of the shower, grabbing a towel off the rail. He dries himself as I wash my hair, turning off the water and picking up a towel for myself when I’m finished.

I dry my body as VP says, “My dad was, complicated.” I’m unsure whether he wants to tell me, if the memories are too much for him.

“We don’t have to talk about it, not if you don’t want to.”

Back to his bedroom, I open my rucksack, taking out clean underwear. I dry the last damp parts of my body and sit on the edge of the bed, watching VP as he drops his towel and walks to his chest of drawers. He pauses, his hand on the handle. I can hear his heavy breathing as his head drops to his chest.

“My dad used to beat me.” VP doesn’t move. I go straight to him, still wrapped in my towel, but I pause before touching him as he continues, “He didn’t take mum’s death well. Used me to take out his frustration when he’d get home. I had to keep the house clean, cook dinner for him or face a beating. That kind of shit.”

“I’m so sorry that happened to you.” It makes sense why his house is always so clean. No mess or clothes left lying around. Ever. “Do you still speak to your dad?”

He turns round, leaning back against the furniture and says, “He died a year after mum. Killed himself. I found him, dead at the table. Don’t cry for me, Mads. It’s history.”

I wipe the tear that runs down my cheek. It may be history, but it would have been a big ordeal for him. It’s starting to make sense why he feels as though he always needs control. The trauma he’s faced is clearly still affecting him.

A click of realisation creeps into my mind. His not sleeping well, the anger he’s shown in the past.

I place my hands around his waist. “It’s still sad. Did you ever talk to anyone about what happened when you were a child?”

VP’s eyes flick to mine briefly, a hint of sadness washing over them. “No. Like I said before, I didn’t have family or friends who I could talk to.”

“Not even in Australia?”

He lets out a sigh then places his hands either side of my face. “Australia was a new beginning. Things got easier when I started hanging out with Jack, but if I’m honest, I buried myself so deep in the club that I didn’t have time to think about it. Not until I got back here.”

His eyes scan over the walls that hold the memories of his childhood. It can’t be helping him, to live in the same house that his father died in.

I lean into him and kiss his lips, my hands tightening around his waist. His fingers scrunch in my hair.

After a moment, he rests his forehead on mine. “Come on, let’s go.” He smiles at me as I step back, wiping another lone tear off my face.

“How do you do it?” I ask as he turns to open the drawer.

“Do what?”

“Stay so strong?”

He closes the drawer and turns to face me. “I don’t know… I work out every day which helps, and the club, that keeps my mind busy. And now I have you to keep me busy,” he smiles, but sees my straight face waiting for a sensible answer.

He shrugs stepping into his boxers. “Guess over the years I’ve built up some resilience to everything life’s thrown at me. I spent most of my childhood not knowing what was going to happen next. If somethingisgoing to happen, I like to know it’s because I decided it.”

We dress in almost silence. The image of him being vulnerable and hurting won’t leave my mind. Assuming that there’s more hurt I’m still yet to know about, I can’t help but want to love him, to hold him. To give him what will make him happy.

Chapter Nineteen

As we pull into the yard, there are a lot more bikes here than the last time. It’s overwhelming how they dominate the car park. Unlike the others, VP rides to a garage door opposite the fire exit we left from last time. He pulls in, cutting the engine, and leaves his helmet on the handlebars. I do the same.

Taking my hand in his, VP walks us to the main black door that says Rippers MC. There’s a slight booming noise as we approach, the music inside suggests it’s busy. “Don’t worry, we won’t be here long,” he says, noticing the tension in my hand. It isn’t being here that worries me, it’s seeing his terrifying president, Rocco.

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