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I fucking love it.
“Slow down,” he whispers, his breath skating along my parted lips. “Don’t flaunt this sexy body in front of me and not kiss me or I’ll throw you over my shoulder. Take you into my office. Bend you ove-” His eyes drop to my breasts, and he groans, a deep rumble that forces my pulse to run rampant in my throat. He licks his lips, indecency illuminating the green freckles in his eyes. “You’re leaking, mummy.”
A little smile ticks at the corner of my lips. “You’re such a pervert.”
“Isn’t it great?” He entwines our fingers, guiding me outside where our van idles. Our driver, Henri, waits by the front passenger door. He’s formal today, in a black suit and tie.
It’s an important day.
“Henri, you handsome fucker.” Bronson lightly slaps his cheek. “You don’t dress up like that for me.”
Henri chuckles. “You have never taken me out on a date, Mr Butcher.”
Laughing, Bronson jumps into the back of the van. Moving to the rear where Akila’s wheelchair is parked, he says, “Hey sis,” before planting a kiss on her cheek. “You look fucking beautiful. I think I’m with the wrong sister.”
I smirk, rolling my eyes as I climb into the back with them. Tugging out the soaked nipple pads, I retrieve new ones from my satchel and line my bra with them. Bronson makes his way to the front, sliding in next to me. On my other side, our son sleeps in his baby seat. Bronson reaches over my lap, stroking a tattooed finger down the porcelain cheek of our sleeping baby boy.
Bronson's tanned skin is a stark contrast to our fair baby boy. Stone doesn’t look like either of us; I exhale, the reason riding my breath.
He is probably not Bronson’s.
“It doesn’t matter,” Bronson’s words float into my heart and head.
Feelings of reluctancy and subsequent guilt followed my pregnancy. But they are gone now. Dissolving in the hospital room when Bronson took Stone into his arms after my caesarean. I remember the way our baby - so tiny and fragile - seemed to disappear into the mass of Bronson’s ink-laced embrace. A sense of truth wrapped around me as Bronson studied the boy’s flushed face, which to me was clearly not akin to his or mine.
It didn’t matter.
Bronson grinned and said, “Yeah. He’s a fucking Butcher alright.”
And that was that.
His boy.
***
After we park at the hall, Henri grabs Akila, Bronson grabs his boy, and I climb out with the same smile that often plays on my lips now.
Gathered together, the media line the walkway, and both casually dressed young interns and formally dressed politicians engage in interviews and speak with Connolly residents. Above the hall, hanging from the roofline, is a fifteen-foot banner with Clay Butcher’s face on it.
He’s smiling charmingly. Practiced. Clever. I knew this day would come, but at thirty-five he’s climbed the ladder faster than any other young politician in the state.
As soon as we enter, we are instantly greeted by ushers who guide us towards the private area alongside the stage. The District flag, the Australian flag, and the Aboriginal flag act as a backdrop for the platform ahead while in front a band waits for instruction. Already drifting around us is the rhythmic sound of a man playing the didgeridoo.
I spot the Butcher men with ease, all three towering over the rest of the congregation, looking smart in slacks and button-up shirts. Xander is in a heated discussion with another man I don’t know, and Max has no interest in anyone besides his wife, who has her back pressed to his chest, held within a cage of his arms. Kelly shoves through the boys, diving towards Bronson and Stone. “Can I see, Stone?”
“Outlaw!” Bronson drops to his haunches, cuddling her to his side and giving her a chance to speak baby-talk with her cousin. He does too, both coo exaggeratively.
I beam at them.
I spin around to check Akila is close. Not too far behind, Henri is pushing her over to us. Gazing at her lovely amber eyes, I have come to accept that there is not much life in them. Know that I should have let her go. The next time she is ready, I will make sure I am, too. Still, her face can be expressive, and I hold on to those fleeting moments.
A man’s voice soars around us as the speakers in each corner become active. On stage, a council member begins the ceremony by thanking the traditional owners of our land, and a group of children sing the national anthem in Noongar.
It doesn’t take long before the speaker is welcoming Clay Butcher on stage. The new Mayor of Connolly.
The room ignites.
From the side of the stage, he strides on with slow, confident movements. Smoothing down his graphite-coloured two-piece suit, he grabs the microphone from the stand and stops in place. As the crowd chants his name, Clay, Clay Clay, he nods his appreciation with a cool smile.
