Blackie doesn’t know but every now and then I visit her myself. I tell her how he’s doing and assure her I’m doing my part, that I’m loving him for the both of us. It’s strange and yet completely normal for us.
“I don’t know why I didn’t think you’d go see her,” I say finally.
For a long time, she was his person. When the world knocked him down, when he needed an escape from his club, he went to her. I’m sure there are times when he confides in her about me. It’s not like he has a slew of people he can talk to. My father might be an important person in his life and his only confident but he’s still my father. There are things he can’t tell him, and I respect that.
“Does it bother you?”
“No,” I say softly. “I admire you for keeping her memory alive, for keeping what you shared in your heart.”
In a way, it also brings me comfort. If something should happen to me, I know he’d treat me with the same respect. He won’t forget me. He’ll always honor me and our love in some way. That’s a beautiful thing. Now, that I’m pregnant, it’s a gift. I may live a long life, but I may lose my mind. There’s a certain sense of peace knowing he’ll always make sure my child knows me as a mother who loves her child and not the face of someone who is mentally ill.
Blackie sees himself as an addict and a criminal before he sees his heart. As if he can read my mind, he replies and reiterates my thoughts.
“Yeah, well you shouldn’t. Ain’t nothing admirable about getting sloshed at your dead wife’s grave and passing out after swearing you’d honor her life by cherishing yours. Nothing admirable about promising your new bride you’d get straight only to continuously break her heart. I dishonored the both of you.”
My automated response is usually it’s okay or I forgive you, but he’s heard both so many times. Just as many times as I’ve heard his apologies. Words won’t fix our situation and I think its time we both realize that, so I change the subject.
It’s not avoidance, it’s admitting you’ve lost control of one situation. It’s acknowledging what you do have the power to fix and I think that’s something you learn, something you do when you love someone who can’t help themselves.
“I called Dr. Spiegel,” I say softly.
He opens his eyes and stares at the ceiling as he replies.
“She agree with you?”
“She didn’t disagree,” I counter. “She thinks I’ve come along way on the Lithium and that I’ll be able to control my mood swings throughout the first trimester. She wants to see me twice a week and after I clear thirteen weeks, we’ll revisit the situation. If my mental stability is lacking, I’ve agreed to consider taking a lower dosage.”
He turns his head and our eyes lock.
“You know before that bullet hit me, I wished I had taken the sonogram off the counter…I just wanted to look at it once more…” His voice goes hoarse and his words fade as he looks away. “Usually its you. When I’m in those type of situations, it’s you I wish to see one more time. Your face.” He shakes his head as if he’s trying to figure out what he’s saying himself. “I don’t even know what I’m looking at. I mean, it’s all black and white and there was that kidney bean shaped thing—what’d he call it?”
“The sac,” I supply, feeling a smile tickle my lips.
“I love that sac,” he whispers, turning to me. “I don’t want there to be anything wrong with our baby either, Lace. I need you to know that. I need you to know I’m feeling everything you are. The love and the fucking fear. I get it. I swear to you I get it.”
“I know that.”
“But you gotta know I love you too and just like I don’t want anything happening to the baby, I don’t want anything to happen to you.”
“Nothing’s going to happen.”
I pause for a beat, realizing my words aren’t an automated response. I don’t know how it happened or what changed but I truly believe in my heart of hearts we’re all going to be okay. Me, the baby and Blackie. Maybe it’s this moment. Maybe it’s knowing we’ve survived yet another obstacle. I mean, look at him… hours ago he was lying on the kitchen table with Celeste as his surgeon. If that’s not living proof that Leather and Lace can beat the odds, what is? So what if the cops are looking for him—they’ll never get him. No one and nothing can come between this.
“The three of us are going to be fine.”
“The three of us,” he repeats as his eyes threaten to shut. “I like the sound of that.”
Succumbing to his exhaustion, he closes his eyes and brings our joined hands to his chest. I lift my head off the mattress and lean over him, pressing a kiss to his lips.
“Nothing can touch us,” I whisper softly.
I’m sure of it.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Blackie
The searing pain in my shoulder forces my eyes open. As a man who has been knocked down, beat up and shot more times than I care to count, I shouldn’t fucking flinch at shit like this anymore, but experience doesn’t deter the fire spreading from my scapula to my bicep. Groaning, I turn to my right and spot Lacey curled next to me. I stare at her for a minute, recalling the pained expression on her face when she walked in and saw Celeste removing the bullet and the forgiveness that later replaced it when she crawled into bed with me.
The pain shoots down to my fingers crippling me and I quickly tear my eyes away from Lacey. Drawing in a deep breath, I count backward from ten and focus on the ceiling fan spinning above me. The memory of the paramedic hanging from the center flashes before my eyes, haunting me and before I can help it, I relive every fucking miserable event that’s happened in the last few weeks.
The sound of the paramedic’s plea to die laces with the cries of Yankovich’s children and finally both melodies meld with the Spanish undertones of Javier and his men, creating a symphony of tragedy. If death and destruction had a soundtrack, I’m sure this is what it would sound like. Desperate to escape the ghosts of Satan’s past and the chorus raging in my head, I bite back the pain and carefully swing my legs over the side of the bed. The throbbing pain forces me to remain seated and my fingers flex against the edge of the mattress as the tragic song playing in my head reaches a crescendo.
Suddenly, I’m not in this death ridden cabin. I’m in the paper factory, facing off against the Sinaloa Cartel. My gun fires twice, taking out two of Javier’s players. Then, from the corner of my eye, I see him lift two guns. He points one at me and the other at Jack. Inebriated from the alcohol I consumed and the pills I snorted, I get off to a slow start, but I still jump in front of Jack. One bullet ricochets off the wall, and the other pierces me. I go down and my gun slips from my fingers.
No one picks it up.
Not me.
Not Jack.
No one.
The ringing phone on the nightstand drags me away from the horror replaying in my head and I reach for it. Accepting the call, I lift the phone to my ear and drag myself off the bed.
“Hello?” I whisper as I make my way out of the room.