This will be the new normal, where I won’t always have her, and it’ll be hard, but in the long run, this is for the best.
“Are you sure about this, Clark? Have you thought this through?” Drew asks, and my eyes tear up, but I quickly blink, not needing to worry my five-year-old.
I admit, “I’ve thought of nothing else since his girlfriend showed at work with an ultrasound. Drew, I have to do this for me, I want a happily ever after, I want love, and Trick doesn’t love me.”
Her eyes tear up, and she nods.
“Okay, little dancer, Auntie Drew will take you to Daddy, and I will see you tomorrow, okay?” I say to Willow, and she nods before squeezing my waist, then grabs Drew's hand.
“Love you, Mama,” Willow says, and I choke back a sob before replying, “Love you too, little dancer,” before I turn and walk away. I head back to my car quickly before I change my mind, ready to spend the night crying in my empty apartment, feeling alone.
I'm making the right decision, I know I am—but if it’s right, why does it feel so wrong?
Chapter 8
Trick – Twenty-Seven Years Old
I curl my lip as I eye my wife’s delicate signature on the bottom of the divorce papers that Cage’s old lady handed to me in church yesterday. I look at the black and white fucking ultrasound photo and clench my fist.
Fucking fury is churning deep in my gut, nah, fuck that, not fury, I’m about to go fucking scorched earth.
She didn’t question me. She didn’t even confront me and I get it—she doesn’t see our marriage as real. I’ve spent six years pushing her away, making sure she doesn’t see it as real. I felt like I raped my friend. I still feel like I did and it scared the shit out of me when I realized I was in love with her, that I fucking claimed her when I was ten years old. Through therapy this past year, I’ve learned I can’t run from the love I feel toward my wife but she’s running now, and it hurts. My old friend would havecalled me out, confronted me. But she didn’t. Instead, she quit, believing I’d allow it.
I shake my head as I tear the divorce papers up and throw the pieces of paper in the trash and run my hand through my hair with frustration as I eye the custody papers next. If it is even possible, my anger doubles to the point I’m trembling.
I’ve barely fucking slept, I’m tired, and I’m ready to break shit.
One night a fucking week. That’s what my wife wants me to have with our daughter. Again, I get it—I fucking do. I never stayed at home. But I’m a constant in our child’s life otherwise. The fact that she believes I would sign this shit and agree to being a part-time dad. Fuck—not even part-time custody, but the divorce papers…
I think my wife needs to come back to reality, and by next week, she’ll be out of that fucking apartment and back at home where she belongs.
It didn’t take me long to find the temporary address that she rented under her maiden name, half an hour out of town. I knew I could have stormed the place last night, but I also knew I had to take a breather before I threw her over my fucking shoulder and pushed her further away.
I left Willow with Drew at her and Cage’s home, fully aware of the stipulations of the half-assed custody agreement, and went for a ride, and I haven’t left my office since I got back.
Belle picked Willow up for the school run for me this morning after Crash called her. Now I need to try and get my head together so I can get my wife back.
Why in the fuck did it take me a year to try and get my fucking head together? If I’d stopped running and fucking communicated with her, then maybe she wouldn’t believe I knocked someone up.
“I’ve asked around, and no one is speaking up about claiming to be knocked up with your kid,” Cage says as he takes a seaton the other side of my desk, and I look up to see his face hard, knowing I didn’t knock anyone up.
Knuckles slumps down next to him with the same expression while Crash stands in front of the closed door, so no one comes in, his face cold, his arms crossed over his chest.
“It was probably the same person who spiked my drink that could have killed me and nearly killed my wife,” I snap and I shove my hand through my hair, my eyes on the custody agreement.
I can't control my anger. It's overwhelming.
I thought I had time to convince Clark to try with me, but I guess I thought fucking wrong.
“We need proof,” Cage states, “The older generation still has a fucking say in who stays and in who goes, so without proof, we’re fucked.”
“Not if I kill the fucking bitch first,” I growl, and Cage winces, seeing how far gone I really am.
She’s trying to ruin my life, hoping to get my patch and the fucking brothers won’t take my word for it without proof that Lavender is the one causing all the shit.
“We need to change our by-laws,” Knuckles grunts, “We all know Lavender is the one who is claiming to be pregnant, and I’ve looked at that scan photo, it isn’t hers, it’s Mary’s from the diner who has now gone on maternity leave. The bitch is playing with fire because she knows Clark never bothered with learning her legal name, and clearly she’s seen it isn’t Clark’s safety as to why you’ve stayed married to her, and she’s taking action.”
“She’s been playing with fire for years,” Crash growls, “I’ve lost count on the amount of fucking times I’ve found her in Trick's bed masturbating, even while he’s on a run, it’s fucking disgusting.”
