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With a soft scoff, Eight replied, “I know it’s gonna piss you off, but I gotta ask. Why the fuck did you name him aftercleanser?”
It did piss her off—in part because, yes, she’d had to field that question from other people. So had Ajax. She loved his name, but she hadn’t realized she was condemning him to a life of teaching everybody he met about Greek mythology.
She’d noticed that he was starting to introduce himself as Jax. It was probably much easier to let people assume he’d been named after a TV biker than to explain the much cooler actual reference of his actual name.
“I didn’t name him after cleanser, you stupid gorilla, I named him for Ajax the Great, who fought in the Trojan War.”
His expression had narrowed and darkened at the word ‘stupid,’ but all he said was, “Never heard of him.”
“So sue the Oklahoma Board of Education. But shut the fuck up about my kid’s name.”
“Ourkid.”
Marcella laughed, giving those two words the contempt they deserved. “Not yet, he’s not. Maybe not at all. That remains to be seen. Answer the fucking question—why do you want to see him?”
“I told you, I don’t know.”
“Then let’s stop this bullshit right now.” She grabbed her bag and made to scoot from the booth, but he snapped his arm out and seized her hand.
“Wait, wait! I’m trying to think how to answer. Fuck, woman, give me a second!”
“You’ve had ten fucking years.”
“Agh!” he roared and slammed his fists on the table, over and over, like he meant to go straight through it.
When he stopped, Hal’s was nearly silent. Everybody in the place had turned to stare.
Marcella sat at the edge of the booth, her bag under her arm, and waited to see what would happen next.
Eight sucked in a huge, chest-expanding breath, set his elbows on the table, and dropped his head into his hands. The restaurant had given up on the hope of a scene and returned to its normal activity before he looked up at Marcella.
When he spoke, his voice was softer than she’d ever heard it, without any hint of challenge. Mainly, he sounded exhausted. Actually, he looked pretty spent as well.
“I know I fucked it up. I know I’m an asshole. Doesn’t it count for nothin’ that I’m here trying to make it right?”
A small voice in Marcella’s head whispered that maybe it did count for something, that she ought to give him a chance. But that voice was stupid and dangerous. So she kicked it away and instead said, “You want a fucking cookie for remembering you’ve got a kid after ten fucking years?”
“Jesus, woman, your mouth is foul.”
Her laugh at that was almost genuine. “You’rethe fucking language police? Are you fucking kidding me?”
With another sigh, this one a huff, and a defeated shake of his head, Eight turned and stared out the window at the strip mall next door.
He was still looking that way when he said, “My best friend died last year.”
She really did not want to feel sorry for him, for anything. But in those few weeks all those years ago, she’d known a guy who was, under that he-man, could-give-a-shit, thickheaded bullshit, isolated and lonely. Though he’d been a Bull back then, too, so obviously had a crowd of he-man, could-give-a-shit, thickheaded assholes around him, he’d spoken of only one friend. Marcella didn’t remember his name, but his importance to Eight had been obvious.
So yeah, she felt sympathy. “I’m sorry,” she said and managed to keep her bitterness out of it.
Nodding, he swung his attention back to her. “It’s been a hard year. I guess I’ve been thinkin’ about all the shit I’ve fucked up in my life. Not knowing my kid is the worst of it. But I told you back then I’d be a shit dad. He’s gotta be better off without me. So I don’t know what to do.”
Right then, Tabby came with Eight’s lunch. While that transaction happened, Marcella leaned back and thought.
What she and Eight had been together, most of all, was fuck buddies. Until she’d told him she was pregnant, they’d spent several nights a week together, having explosively amazing sex, and occasionally chatting between bouts of it. She’d never met any of his people, and he’d never met any of hers, except the band, which was around when he showed up for her—because that was how they’d got together. He’d show up where she was playing, and they’d hook up from there. They’d never even exchanged numbers.
Never an actual relationship. Fuck buddies. They knew each other not at all.
But she knew his body very well. It was gorgeous, with hugely developed muscles and just the right amount of hair in exactly the right places.
