Chapter Two

I swore I would never return to Brookside, swore my son wouldn’t grow up with the constant threat of violence hanging over his head, as I had. I swore left and right that I would protect him from that world and clawed my way up and out of it, swearing, swearing I would never come back.

But when my mother called me in the middle of the night, her voice tremulous with fear and rage, how could I refuse her?

“Mama, what happened?” I asked, propping myself up on my elbow, still hazy with sleep.

“Your father was attacked,” she said, and I could hear her struggling to keep the tears at bay.

“What?” I snapped to, immediately awake, and switched on the bedside lamp. “Where is he now?”

“He’s in surgery,” she said, and took in three deep breaths before continuing. “I can’t get ahold of your brother, and I’m all alone here, and I can’t—” There was a crack in her voice, and I was already out of the bed and fishing my ratty old suitcase out of the closet.

“Mama, I’m on my way, ok? I’m coming now. I can be there in six hours.”

I packed quickly, deciding to bring almost all of the clothing I owned, since I had no idea how long I’d be staying in Brookside, how long my father’s recovery would take — if he recovered at all. I paused by the vanity mirror and gazed at my reflection: rested, healthy, the three years I’d spent away from my hometown had done wonders for me. My hair was ink black and lustrous, without the streaks of neon pinks and purples of my misspent youth. My eyes were bright and clear, a limpid blue that was free of bloodshot vines, something I could not have boasted as recently as two years ago. My skin was pale and milky, unblemished by bruises, scrapes, scabs, burns. Sure, I’d put on some weight after Scottie was born, but I thought I wore it well, in my breasts, hips and ass, though I’d long ago given up on the dream of ever fitting into my skinny pre-pregnancy jeans.

I packed all of Scottie’s things as well, toys, clothes and all, and loaded up our well-loved pickup before rousing him from his slumber.

He stared up at me with sleepy blue eyes, his blond hair sticking up in all directions, and reached for me. I hoisted him up into my arms and rocked him gently.

“We’re going to visit grandma and grandpa,” I whispered as I pressed a kiss to the crown of his head. But he was already asleep again by the time I strapped him into the car seat.

I drove through the rest of the night and into the morning, arriving in Brookside at a little after ten. I cut through the familiar streets, past the strip mall where I’d spent most of my free teenage hours, up by the high school where I’d been entirely passed over for homecoming queen, and through the town’s main thoroughfare, directly to St. Agnus Hospital.

With Scottie in my arms, and my purse slung over my shoulder, I pushed my way through the small crowd of nurses and orderlies, to the waiting area of the ICU. I saw my mom’s small, grey head resting on a set of large shoulders, clad in black leather. I stopped dead in my tracks, staring at the back of this familiar head. I knew for certain that I would see Patrick O’Reilly when I was in town, but I hadn’t expected it to be so soon. I found myself wishing I’d taken a moment to glimpse myself in the rearview mirror, maybe bother to put on a little lip gloss. But it was too late, because Scottie began to squirm and make small, baby noises in my arms, and the sound immediately caught his attention.

He turned, jostling my mother as he did so, and they both looked back at me.

“Oh, Claire,” my mom said, rising to her feet and coming immediately over to me, wrapping her arms around me and her grandson at the same time. “I’m so glad you came.”

“Of course I came, Mama,” I said, and pressed a kiss to her cheek. “Any news?”

She shook her head. “He’s not out of surgery yet.”

Patrick rose then, uncoiling to his full, considerable height, and was approaching, a pair of bright emerald eyes darting between me and Scottie. They had the same flaxen hair, like fresh hewn corn, though Patrick’ was short and well kept, and Scottie’s was a mass of curls and tangles.

“Patrick just came to sit with me a while,” my mother said, by way of explanation. I proffered a thin-lipped smile. Patrick wore no discernible expression that I could read, simply locked those cat eyes on me like he was afraid I might disappear at any moment. And I might.

“You look good, Claire,” he said, his voice low and rough from too many cigarettes. “Christ,” he reached out for Scottie and took him into his arms. “He got so big.”

“Yeah,” I agreed, rubbing Scottie’s back as Patrick cradled him. Seeing Patrick hold Scottie, my heart dropped into the pit of my stomach. And whether it was the exhaustion or the stress from the drive, I couldn’t say, but tears began to well in my eyes. Patrick looked good holding our son. “He looks more and more like you every single day.”

“Poor kid, got my hair,” he said, smiling. “Hey buddy.” He kissed Scottie’s cheek, and Scottie smiled in a vague sort of way that indicated he didn’t exactly know who this strange man, his father, was, but he didn’t altogether mind the attention. Scottie wiped absently at his cheek where his father’s lips had touched him, and it made Patrick laugh.

“How have you been, Pat?” I asked, trying to avert my attention from the flood of emotion I was feeling at seeing him again. It was stupid, I reasoned, just leftover nostalgic nonsense from a past life. It didn’t mean anything.

“Seen better days,” he said, “what with all this shit with old Ed. I’m sorry, by the way.”

I arched a shoulder in a shrug. “I knew this life had consequences, and so did he.”

“Yeah.”

“It’s why we left,” I said, looking him directly in the eye. I wasn’t exactly the kind of girl to pull any punches. “Because I didn’t need my son to see his father kill himself.”

“First of all, he’s our son, not just your son. And secondly, I would never kill myself, but plenty of people would line up to do it for me.”

“And that is precisely my point.” Scottie began to fuss, and Patrick set him down on the linoleum floor so that he could run into my mother’s open arms. I watched her rock him gently from side to side, humming the same little nameless tune she hummed to me when I was small.

“I don’t want to argue about this, Claire,” he said, rather more sternly than I thought was strictly necessary. “You made your choice — I have no intention of trying to change your mind.”

“Well. Good.”

“But,” He said, pointing one long finger at me, “I do think it’s been too long between visits, too long between phone calls, or even a goddamned e-mail with a new picture.” His voice was raised, agitated. “I’m his father, whether you like it or not.”

“Don’t yell at me, Patrick, not right now.” He took in a deep breath, as though he were going to pick a fight, but something he saw in me stopped him, and all the air went out of him. He dropped his hand so it smacked against his leg.

“You’re right,” he said. “I’m sorry.” He pulled me into his arms then, and I stiffened at his touch. But when I laid my cheek against his chest, all the fight went out of me and I relaxed into him, breathing in his familiar scent: sweat and sage, cigarettes and leather. I hadn’t left him for lack of love, not even close.

He rested his chin on the top of my head, and hugged me like he didn’t care if we stayed like that all day long. “Come on,” he finally said, “Angie’s got Scottie. Let’s go get a cup of shitty hospital coffee.”

How easy it was to be back in his company. Too easy. In fact, it put me on alert, how natural it felt to walk in step beside him, with his loping gate that belied an old injury to his left knee. He’d fallen off his bike once, went skidding across an intersection, and his slight limp was all that remained of that incident. I’d been there, in the same hospital, when he’d come out of surgery, bleary and good-humored. He had taken my hand, and the heart monitor had picked up its pace when he touched me. “That machine,” he’d slurred, “is telling you how much I love you.” He’d been 18 then, three years before he’d patched into the Steel Claw, five before I’d gotten pregnant with Scottie, six before I’d left him, and Brookside, in the dust.

He guided me to a table in the hospital cafeteria, his hand on the small of my back, and I took a seat while he went to fetch us two Styrofoam cups full of the inky black swill they had the nerve to call coffee. We both drank it anyway, casting furtive smiles at one another over the rising steam.

“So,” he said, breaking the silence, “What have you been doing with yourself lately?”

“Nothing glamorous,” I replied, shrugging. “I work at a diner. I’m trying to finish up nursing school, but I can only really take one class at a time, so it’s taking me a while. I don’t like to leave Scottie on his own too much, and with work…” another shrug. I felt like I had to justify my entire life to this man, since he’d offered me one on a silver platter and I’d left it behind.

“Well, whatever you’re doing, it agrees with you.” He grinned at me then, and I rolled my eyes at his lame attempt at flirtation.

“Well, thanks,” I said. “You look good, too.” And he did, though he needed a shave. I reached out and grazed his stubble with my fingertips, and he caught my hand in his. Something in his demeanor shifted, and he locked his eyes on me with an overwhelming intensity.

“Come back,” he said. I froze for a moment, but ultimately jerked my hand away.

“What?”

“You heard me. Come back. I want you close, and my son.” He leaned forward, placing his elbows on the table and reached out for me again. I pulled away.

“You want me close, or you want me back?” I asked, canting my head to the side, a gesture that sent a few locks of black hair into my line of vision. I swept them aside, my gaze never wavering. He was silent. “Or, is there someone else, now?”

“No one serious,” he said. “Come back.”

“I can’t.”

“You can. You can, and you should.” He took a sip from his cup, his knee bouncing rapidly up and down. I watched him fidget, and I could tell he was feinding for a cigarette. “That boy needs a father. And, frankly, a mother who is around a little more often than it sounds like you are.”

“I’m around plenty. We get by just fine, thank you.” And we did. Mostly.

“You don’t need to be away as much as you are. You don’t need to work at a diner — what do you do with the money I send you every month?”

“I put it in a college fund for Scottie.”

“That’s goddamned stupid, Claire,” he said with a shake of his head. “Why won’t you let me take care of you?”

“Because I don’t want your blood money, Patrick.” Now I was the one who was raising my voice. “I left because I don’t want to be a part of the drugs and the guns and the fighting and the violence. I left because I don’t want Scottie to be exposed to that shit. I want a better life for him than the ones we had growing up.”

“We were born into this world, Claire,” he said, his voice free of vitriol but full of a sort of sad resignation. “And, like it or not, so was he. The Claws? That’s his legacy, too.”

“Fuck the Claws,” I said, rising to my feet. “The Claws are why my father is in the ICU, why my brother has done hard time. The Claws nearly got you killed once, too, in case you don’t remember, and for what? You have legitimate businesses, but that’s not enough for you, is it? Or do you just prefer the thrill of working outside the confines of the law?”

“Claire —”

“No. I don’t care what it is. All I know is that I want no part of it.” He leaned back, a move that dared me to leave before he was finished talking to me. And he wasn’t used to people not towing the line. But I wasn’t his any longer, so I turned on my heel and left him with two tepid cups of bad coffee on the table in front of him.

~ * ~

When afternoon turned into evening, I told my mother that I needed to take Scottie home to sleep, and she agreed, pressing her house keys into my hands even as she resumed her seat in the hospital waiting room.

It was strange to return to my childhood home: I put Scottie down in my old twin bed, and he drifted off without a fuss. Keeping the door cracked so that I might hear any squeal of objection from my son, I began to unpack my sizable bag into the chest of drawers in the guest room.

The room had been redone since I’d last visited and was nicely appointed with a queen sized brass bed and new forest green velvet drapes that would block all of the sunlight out when drawn. The accompanying bathroom had also been redone, in fine white marble with brass fixtures, a jacuzzi tub and separate steam shower. I decided to take a bath to scrub away the scent of death and peroxide that seemed to permeate my skin from hours spent in a hospital, and turned on the faucet, relaxing immediately upon hearing the sound of running water.

I stripped off the ratty tee shirt and faded jeans I’d worn since I’d driven down, and examined my body in the mirror: Shapely, yes, with full, round breasts and wide hips, but I was perturbed to see that I’d softened somewhat around the middle. Still, I was not altogether displeased with my reflection, and gazed at myself from the side as well, noting how my ass, though sizable, was perky and smooth.

I drew my hair up into a high, messy bun and shed my bra and panties, moaning audibly as I lowered myself into the water. I delighted in the pleasant, tingling sensation of the too-hot bath and leaned back against the ceramic of the tub, dipping lower so only my neck and face were exposed.

There was a dial on the side of the tub, and when I turned it on, the jets around the side began to run, making the bathtub into a bubbling cauldron. I smiled and leaned forward, letting one of the jets shoot water against the small of my back. I shifted, dropping a few lavender bath beads into the water and inhaled deeply, trying my best to put concerns about my father out of my mind.

Instead, my brain turned to thoughts of Patrick, how good he looked, how his limp gave him a sort of swagger. I had been in the habit of forcing him out of my mind, despite the fact that I saw him in my son’s hair and in the gentle slope of his small nose. But now…

I allowed my knees to part, inviting one of the jets to shoot toward my pelvis. Scooting down slightly, the pressure of the water gently massaged my sex, and I was reminded of precisely how long it had been since I’d had a man between my thighs. I slide a hand up over the slope of one breast, past a nipple hardened by the sudden attention to the more sensitive areas of my body, and along the valley of my abdomen. Finally, my finger came to rest on the pith of my clitoris, and I thought of Patrick.

Patrick.

I had been nineteen when I married him, our lust for one another insatiable, even after we found out that I was pregnant. As I rubbed myself into wet arousal, I remembered a particularly hot event from our torrid history. We had been young, too young to drink, but we were at a bar where a punk band was playing. Clad in a torn tee shirt a denim mini skirt, I recalled how Patrick had come up behind me at the bar and slid his hand between my legs.

“Patrick,” I had begun to protest, half turning. But he pressed a kiss to my temple and turned me back toward the bar.

“Look at them,” he growled into my ear. “They’re all looking at the band. No one is looking at you.” He pushed my panties aside and slid a finger into me, thrusting gently to the knuckle. “But they should be.”

I thought of that night as my breathing began to quicken; I thought of how I was always wet for him, always ready for him to take me; I thought of how I’d wanted him to fuck me in the bar that night, not caring whether or not anyone had seen. I moved my hand faster and faster under the water, until I could feel my orgasm begin to build in the pit of my stomach. Patrick, my Patrick —

But then I heard the front door open and close, and snapped out of my reverie. I was flushed, from the water and from my fantasy, but I drained the tub and toweled off all the same, donning a terrycloth robe so that I could head down the stairs.

In the living room was my mother, and Patrick.

“Hey,” I said, tugging the robe more tightly around me, “How’d you get in — mom gave me the keys.”

“Yeah, I kept my spare set,” Patrick replied, grinning a lopsided little grin.

“And I’m glad he did, too,” mom said, plucking her clip-on earrings off her ears. “I wasn’t sure whether or not you’d still be awake.”

“Any news on Dad?” I asked, falling into a lean against the doorway. Mom just shook her head, and I noticed for the first time how much she’d aged since I saw her last. She was still beautiful — I had her dark hair, her blue eyes — but there were fine lines around those eyes, and streaks of white in that once onyx-black hair.

“I just came home to take a shower and change my clothes,” she insisted, heading toward the staircase. “I’m turning right back around again.”

“You should get a few hours rest, Angie,” Patrick said. “The doctor agrees with me.”

“I don’t want him to be alone in there,” she said, pausing on the bottom stair but not turning back to look at us. “He shouldn’t be alone.”

“He’s not alone. Fitz and the prospect are with him. And I’ve sent some of the other guys to track down Ryan.” My brother, missing in action, as always. I saw my mom bob her head once in a nod as she began to head up the stairs, and I was hoping it was a nod of concession. But that woman was as stubborn as an ox, so she would likely just change and take a cab back to the hospital if she had to.

“Thanks for bringing her home,” I said, not looking Patrick in the eye.

“Let’s get a drink,” he said by way of a reply.

“Pat…”

“Come on.” He reached out and tucked an errant lock of hair behind my ear, canting his head to the side as he forced me to make eye contact with him.

“Scottie’s asleep, and my mom wants to go back to the hospital.”

“One drink, I promise. I want to show you something.”