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“Fuck, Birdie, I know you’re upset with me. I don’t wanna leave it like this.”
I open the door. “You don’t have time to finish our conversation, so you should just go.”
“Our conversation was finished, but—”
“No, it wasn’t. God, why do you have to be so dismissive about some of the things that are important to me?”
He works his jaw. “It wasn’t my intent to be dismissive, but when you talk about our baby like it’s a given you’ll miscarry, I don’t want any part in the conversation.”
“Don’t you understand I’m just trying to be prepared for all possible scenarios?”
“I get that, fuck do I get that, but just for once, can we fucking enjoy being pregnant?”
I stare at him, willing him to take back those words. They’re like a slap to my face. Seven years of doing this together and this is how he feels? Like I’ve never once let us enjoy any part of it? Swallowing hard, I bite out, “You should go. I don’t want to talk to you right now.”
His face is a mixture of anger and regret, but mostly anger. And unlike how he used to handle me in the early days of IVF, he turns and walks out of our bedroom. Winter doesn’t fight with me how he used to. And some days it feels like he doesn’t fight for me either.
23
Winter
* * *
I watch Birdie sleep. She’s slept in this morning after the long night we both had of very little sleep. After I left her and Max to go and sort out the mess Striker had made, I came home late to find her already in bed. She was as far on her side of the bed as she could get. And instead of checking in with me like she used to do when I came home in the middle of the night, she didn’t utter a word. Back before IVF took over our lives, she had to get her hands all over me while she checked to make sure I was okay after a night taking care of club business. Now, I barely feel her hands.
Another text comes through. It’s the second one from the Silver Hell president this morning.
* * *
Bull: Your boy has fucked shit up.
Me: You at your clubhouse?
Bull: Yeah.
Me: I’m on my way. You and me are gonna fix this.
* * *
With one last glance at my wife, I shove my phone in my pocket and exit the house before making the trip to the Silver Hell clubhouse. When I arrive, I’m greeted by two club members who make it very clear I’m not welcome here.
“Let him in,” Bull barks from the front door.
The Silver Hell clubhouse is as different to mine as you can get. Mine has the touch of a woman who cares for it; this one doesn’t. This one is a mess of empty booze bottles and neglect.
Bull leads me into the bar area, plants his feet wide and crosses his arms. He’s a big motherfucker, packed with beer rather than muscle. And he’s seen better days; at nearly sixty, he’s an example of hard living with no care for anything but good times.
“Not sure how you think we’re gonna fix this, Winter,” he grunts.
Striker fucked up worse last night than he’s ever fucked up. After doing what I told him to, he later changed his mind and told the girl he refused to help her raise the child. That set shit in motion that I spent hours reversing. What I didn’t do, though, was talk to Bull again, and it seems that was my mistake.
“I’ve sorted Striker out, so I don’t see why you and I have a problem,” I say. “But clearly we do, so let’s talk. Tell me what you need to fix this.” The last thing I wanna do is bend over for him, but Striker’s made it so I may have to. With the shit going on between King and Stark, I need to do everything in my power to fly under the fed’s radar.
“I don’t like the way he’s handled this and I sure as hell don’t like him. And neither do my members. We’re looking for a little of your business to make shit better.”
“So that’s what this is all about? It’s not that someone got knocked up; it’s that you wanna milk it for something that’s worth far more than what this situation calls for.”
“Read into what you want; I don’t give a fuck. But I want that business or my boys are gonna come knocking for payback.”
