Subject: Re. Please
I could never hate you.
K
From: [email protected]
Subject: Re. Please
Thank you for answering my call last night.
Rach
From: [email protected]
Subject: Re. Please
I should have called you sooner.
K
From: [email protected]
Subject: Re. Please
Why didn’t you?
R
From: [email protected]
Subject: Re. Please
Because I was hurt.
Because I was grieving.
Because I had shit to do and a head to put on straight.
I should be used to you pulling away, but it hit me on the raw.
K
From: [email protected]
Subject: Re. Please
I wish things were different.
I hate that you’re ‘used to my pulling away.’
I wish for so many things for us, King.
R
From: [email protected]
Subject: Re. Please
If it came down to it, I’d take the reality over wishes that might never be.
K
From: [email protected]
Subject: Re. Please
You don’t mean that.
R.
From: [email protected]
Subject: Re. Please
I do.
K
TWENTY-NINE
REX
A rerun of a Dr. Phil episode had inspired last night’s ‘intervention.’
Lying flat out in bed, my head tilted down as I flipped through the channels in my hotel room, I’d started watching shows that’d never normally interest me.
Answering Rachel’s call yesterday evening had probably been an idea that stemmed from being bored with what I was watching, but reflecting upon that conversation until I fell asleep made me realize I owed Dr. Phil my gratitude.
She’d suggested the daily calls. Not me.
She’d agreed to a daily Q&A.
It was a step forward rather than back.
For years, I’d let her dance farther and farther away from me because I knew just how fragile she was, because I knew work was her therapy and that if I pushed shit, she’d walk away.
If I hadn’t told Drew a week ago that pussies were used to being pounded, I’d have called myself one for how I’d let her get away with this half-life relationship we had.
Well, no more.
Dad’s death was making me reconsider things. He’d lived his final chapter, but I was halfway through my goddamn story and I didn’t want to spend the rest of my fucking days filled with regrets.
It wasn’t like Rachel was even living her best fucking life.
That was the worst of it.
She was as miserable as I was, and we were getting nowhere.
That step forward for us was badly needed, and even though the weight of grief was still heavy on my shoulders, when I got up the next morning and took a shower, I felt brighter than I had since I left West Orange.
I was going to speak with my daughter today, and later on, my woman.
Because Rachel was that.
I’d told her that if this didn’t work out, we’d move on, but fuck, there was no moving on without her.
She was it for me.
My fucking everything.
I just needed her to realize that we were each other’s goddamn everything.
As I washed up, I flicked through the clothes I’d bought yesterday. I felt like an asswipe but I wanted to make the best impression with my kid and figured that her limited view yesterday could be an advantage today.
Out of respect for the Disciples, I wasn’t going to wear my cut, and that’d be the first time in years that I was without the battered leather vest. That meant I could look semi-respectable when we met up.
Once I was done in the shower, I pulled out the razor I’d bought yesterday too. Before I could get started, my cell rang in the other room.
I’d allowed notifications from her so I knew from the ringtone alone who was calling.
Sucking in a breath, giving myself a quick pep talk that consisted of me telling myself not to fuck this up, I rushed to grab it then hit the answer button and put it on speaker.
“Rex?”
Her voice sounded like I felt—brighter.
I smiled because I wanted every day to start this way—her voice in my ear—and I murmured, “Hey Rach.”
“I figured you’d be getting up soon so I thought I’d—”
A chuckle escaped me. “Rach, are you nervous?”
She hissed. “Don’t you dare laugh.”
Smirking, I unplugged the phone from the charger then retreated to the bathroom. “You forget I’m not scared of you.”
“No one’s scared of me,” she dismissed.
“You’d be surprised,” I drawled.
“Like who?”
“Most of the MC.”
“You’re crazy.”
“I’m not,” I informed her as I squirted shaving cream into my palm. “If they didn’t grow up knowing you, they’re all scared of you. You’re as cold as ice with them, remember?”
She didn’t answer that. “What are you doing?”
“Why?”
“I can hear a weird noise.”
“I’m shaving.”
“I hope our daughter realizes she’s one of the privileged few who’s worthy of her father shaving.”
I knew she was teasing, but the words spilling from her lips did shit to my insides.
Our daughter.
Her father.
Such simple goddamn labels, but nothing was simple for us. She’d said it herself last night—we were born complicated.
I sheepishly grinned into the mirror and said, “I’d shave for you.”
“Since when? I get stubble burn every time we kiss.”
“Mostly because we only do quickies. If I planned it, you wouldn’t.”
A soft sigh came down the line. “I wouldn’t?”
“No.”
She hummed. “Interesting.”
My lips twitched again though it was, technically, a testy subject. After all, sex wasn’t something we did regularly. Even if it meant my balls were perennially blue.