Not wanting to stir her up, I nod. “I’ll have a quick shower while you heat it up.”
Leaving her, I head into our bedroom and take a shower. Another long one while I try to work some heat into my tight muscles. It’s been a week since I’ve hit the gym in our garage or gone for a run, and I’m feeling it. And since sex has been mostly stripped from our relationship, my other form of working tension from my body is off the table. I need to get some time in the gym tomorrow.
A call comes through as I step out of the shower. Wrapping a towel around my waist, I grab my phone and answer it after seeing Javier Torres’s name on the screen.
“I take it you’re calling to give me the news I want,” I say, my shoulders tightening even further. Dealing with Torres has become one of my least favourite jobs.
His voice comes on the line, cold as ever. “You’ll have the price agreed on.”
“With no further threats of it being upped?”
“Correct.”
I exhale the breath that dealing with his bullshit has trapped inside me all day. “Don’t fucking pull this shit again, Torres.” My eyes cut to the doorway as Birdie enters the bedroom. “I won’t play this game another time if you do.”
The call ends without another word from him. Throwing the phone on the bed, I make my way into the walk-in robe to find some clothes. “I’ll be out for dinner in a minute,” I say to Birdie.
Locating a T-shirt and sweat pants, I turn to go dress in the bedroom where Birdie’s quietly staring at me. “You good, angel?”
“I’m good, but you’re not.”
Ditching the towel on the bed, I pull my pants on. “I’m tired.”
“It’s more than that, Winter. I’m worried about you.”
I don’t want to discuss Johnson’s death with her. Not when she’s dealing with the wait on these eggs. And not when my mind is as dark as it is. Fuck, I don’t want to talk about anything tonight. I just want to be with her. To have her touch. She knew what I needed last night, and while I don’t expect the same tonight, I need the same understanding that discussing my shit isn’t going to make me feel better. “Can we not do this tonight?”
She flinches at my tone, but being the Birdie she is, she doesn’t fully take it in. She keeps going. “When would you like to do it? I mean, you came home last night in bad shape and you’ve done pretty much the same tonight. You’re not yourself at all—”
“Fuck, that’s being dramatic. I’ve got shit going on, yes, but I—”
“It’s not being dramatic.” She moves closer to me, the fight brewing in her eyes. “Tell me, when was the last time you came home and didn’t kiss me or put your hands on me like you did tonight?”
The only answer I have for her is that I’ve never come home and not touched her. I didn’t even realise that’s what I did tonight. Fuck.
When I don’t answer her, she says, “I don’t want to fight with you over this, and I’m not trying to force you into a big conversation about it, but I’m concerned you’re going through something difficult. And if you’re not sharing your stress with me because you’re trying to keep me stress-free, don’t do that. You should know by now that I worry more when I feel like you’re tiptoeing around me over something.” She pauses. “Your dinner is ready.”
With that, she exits the room, leaving me with a headful of thoughts over whether to tell her what’s happened.
When I married Birdie, I knew what it meant for her. Club life and all that entails. In my fucked-up thinking, I thought I could keep her protected from the danger and from everything but the good part of being an old lady. What I didn’t factor in was that I live with the pressures of being president 24/7, which means Birdie does too, even when I attempt to push them out of our relationship.
I find her in the lounge room, staring at the TV like she’s watching it, but I doubt she is. “Johnson was killed last night,” I say when she looks at me. “Memphis and Thorn were shot the other night, but they’re both okay. I’m trying to figure out who’s responsible.”
Her eyes widen and fill with fear, but she keeps her shit more together than I expected. “Are you thinking this will keep happening? Do you know who is responsible?”
This is why I didn’t want to share the news with her. Birdie always has a million questions for me, and with this, I don’t want to answer her questions. I just want to give her the information I choose and update it when the situation is resolved. However, in this one year of marriage, I’ve learned a fuckload more about how our relationship works best than I ever learned in the ten years we were first together. It turns out I can’t control everything in the way I would prefer, especially not when it comes to my wife and the information I share. I’ve gotta give her more and trust she can cope with it.
“I have my suspicions as to who’s responsible, but they’re yet to be confirmed. And I don’t know the future, Birdie, but I’m taking every precaution I can here.”
She opens her mouth to say something but quickly closes it. After a pause, she stands and comes to me. Gripping my shirt, she says, “You do what you need to do, even if that means you’re not here much. I just want you to focus on the club, okay?”
I wrap my hand around her wrist. “No, not okay. You and our child will always be my main priority.”
“I know that, but this is serious, Winter. I don’t want to be the reason something bad happens if you’re out there thinking about me when you need to be thinking about the club.”
Because I know Birdie so well, I can see the thoughts racing through her mind. Thoughts that aren’t serving her or us in any good ways. “I was trained to fight battles, angel. I can handle everything I need to handle.”
“Okay,” she says after weighing that up. Then, bringing her hand to my neck, she threads her fingers through my hair. “You should go eat and then we should have an early night. You need sleep.”
I bend my face to kiss her. An early night with her in my arms is exactly what I need.
16
Birdie
* * *
If I thought IVF was hard, I didn’t realise what was waiting for me after egg collection. Holy mother of God, these progesterone pessaries can fuck right off with all their leakage. As can the constant holding my breath and waiting for good news. And don’t get me started on the embryo transfer. Or should I say, the full-frontal exposure of my vagina while Winter, the fertility nurse, the specialist and the embryologist all concentrated on said vagina and what was happening down there. I mean, it was really only the specialist who had her face inches away from me, and the embryologist who copped an eyeful, but still, I felt like it was opening night and I was the star.
The transfer was done five days ago and the mindfuck is real. The first two days weren’t so bad; I was on a high knowing my baby was inside me. Well, potentially inside me, but I don’t like to imagine she’s not in there. However, the progesterone quickly ruined my buzz, bringing the blues like I’ve never known. I drag myself to work and commence the daily pity party that I can’t shake. I then go home and keep it running even though I’m trying desperately not to for Winter’s sake. But my hormones have a mind of their own, and oh do they like ruling my world. And if I thought my bloating was bad before my trigger shot, well fuck me, I look about four months pregnant now.