I stare at this woman, shaking my head in disbelief. How could she ever think she’s out of my league?
She fucking owns me.
“Trick, over the past year, we’ve gotten to the root of your commitment and communication errors where Clark is concerned. I know she wouldn’t be here right now if you weren’t ready to let her in, so why don’t you explain?”
Fuck, here we go.
I take a deep breath as I turn back to my wife and I grab hold of her hand, allowing the tingles and warmth to flow through me, and without looking at her, I say, “I was seven when it happened…”
I blink and startle awake as my door opens before I lock my blurry eyes on my mama, and I grin and realize why she’s in here.
“I’m seven today, Mama!” I say excitedly despite the sleep lacing my voice, and she sniffles confusing me.
“I know, sweet boy, and today you get to go to heaven with me,” she says as she walks over to me with two glasses of milk, and I frown.
“But heaven means I’ll be dead, Mama, I don’t want to be dead.” I say, frowning as I sit up, not understanding what is wrong with her.
"I know, sweet boy," she whispers, sitting on my bed. "But Daddy was naughty. He had an affair, and this is his penance for breaking my heart—losing his wife and his legacy." She drinks half of her drink and mutters, "Crap, I need you to drink all of yours first…"
My eyes widen in shock, and I go to move away from her as she grabs the other glass, but she clamps down on my wrist before dragging me to her.
“Mama no!” I cry out, but she scolds, “Stay still, sweet boy, be good!” before she shoves the glass to my mouth and pours.
I cough and splutter, trying to move my head away, milk instantly drenching me, but she’s determined. I end up drinking some without meaning to when I cry out.
She moves the glass away from me, and I cough and try to catch my breath as she mutters, “Dammit, you spilled half of it, you’ll have to have mine, and I’ll make some more,” before suddenly her hand clamps on my wet arm and she’s forces more milk down my throat.
“Mama, stop!” I gurgle and cough as I try to push her away but everything goes blurry, my body weakening before I hear, “What the fuck are you doing, Patricia?!” before Mama is dragged away from me, kicking and screaming, “No, no, you have to be punished, we have to die!”
“It was only as I got older, using my skills with technology, that I found the footage from back then, and I saw that a club bunny had thrown herself at dad, who didn’t see it coming. As her lips touched his, Mom walked in at the wrong moment and put two and two together and made twenty. She didn’t confront him and nearly killed herself and me out of revenge for something that he didn’t even do,” I murmur, the past flashing before me, thedoctors all rallying around me to get my stomach pumped while she continued to scream we needed to die.
“Mom spent six months in the psychiatric ward after she had a breakdown when Dad told her he’s never even looked at another woman before. I was in the ICU, and when she returned, they were instantly loved up while I had to try and still live with what she did to me like it didn’t happen because Dad didn’t and still doesn’t want her to relapse. It’s also the reason why I never pushed for my mother to have our daughter when you refused,” I murmur.
Clark squeezes my hand tightly, and I blink and lock eyes with my wife’s, beautiful dark green ones, tears streaming down her face, and I swallow hard as I cup her cheek.
She grips my wrist tightly as a sob leaves her. I pull her into my arms and hold her tightly while she cries for the little boy who lost his spark all because his mom couldn’t deal with the fact that she thought his dad cheated, and I fucking pray that she fights for me, for us, just like I’m learning to fight for her.
Chapter 12
Clark
I bite my bottom lip as I lean against the breakfast bar, my arms crossed over my chest, and my sole focus – my husband instead of emptying the dishwasher.
Today has been overwhelming. My thoughts keep drifting back to Trick—no, Miles—and his therapy session last night and the emotional weight has lingered since then.
We haven’t spoken since we left the therapy office. After his revelations, his therapist said he wanted to call it a day, noticing Miles was struggling with what he had told me, and asked me to return with my husband next week. We picked Willow up from Drew and spent the evening with her, making homemade pizza without a word to each other.
I was allowing him to come to terms with that part of his childhood is out in the open with me, while he’s letting me digest everything, and it is hard, it really is.
I understand more. I’m angry at his mom to the point I’m holding myself back from charging the clubhouse. I guess I’m also angry at myself for not opening my eyes to how distant we were after we married and I’m angry at him for shouldering this burden since he was a kid. He has allowed his dad to convince him that what happened was normal because that is what he’d done when he brought his wife back home. He’s normalized the fact that his wife tried to kill his son out of petty jealousy. Even if he did cheat, killing your child doesn’t warrant revenge. Hooking up with someone else and leaving his ass does, but not murder.
I tilt my head as Miles frowns at his laptop, but instead of marveling at his strong jaw, my eyes go to his ribs.
Clark
Turns out it wasn’t just his wedding finger he had tattooed with my name, and with how the black ink has faded he has had it for years. I’m going to take a guess and say he had it done two days after our wedding.
“I can feel you staring, buttercup,” he murmurs without looking up at me, and I swallow hard.
