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Chapter 37
DARREN
Past
Iheld off my mom as long as I could. She wanted to fly to California earlier, but I didn’t want to deal with her while I was rehabilitating from my injuries and tracking down the perpetrator at the same time. But eventually my mom needed to see for herself that I was doing okay.
“So she’s moved in with you?” my mom asks as she notes Bridget’s laptop and textbook on my dining table.
“Temporarily,” I reply as I make her some tea.
“Where is she now?”
“In class. Which hotel are you staying at?”
“The Montclair. Are you letting her stay or kicking her out when you’ve recovered more?”
“She’ll probably kick herself out.”
My mom looks out the window overlooking the street where the shooting occurred.
“And how is she taking everything?” my mom asks.
“She was nervous and had trouble sleeping at first,” I answer.
The BDSM distracts her a lot, I silently add. Because she expressed unease that the shooter might never get apprehended by the police, I had Sergeant Trawley come by the club with the “news” that the shooter had been found dead, shot by a rival gang member.
Bridget being Bridget, she had to ask Trawley a lot of questions.
“You’re sure he was the shooter?” was her first question.
“He had the gun that was used in our shooting. Ballistics were a perfect match,” Trawley had replied.
“But what was his motivation for shooting at us?” she’d pressed.
“That I can’t say for sure, but from what we learned, he was a cokehead. Might have been high at the time he decided to try out his new semi-auto.”
Bridget had asked more questions, prompting Trawley at one point to say that she watched too many crime shows on television.
“Bridget’s doing surprisingly well now,” I say to my mom. “No major PTSD. At least not so far. She’s strong. Like you.”
My mother snorts. “You don’t know half the times I worried about your father.”
I knew how devastated she was when my father ended up in prison and then when he died. She didn’t know that I heard her crying herself to sleep. But she always put on a stoic front with me.
“And I have to keep worrying with you,” she states.
I hand her the tea. “I’m fine.”
She raises a skeptical brow.
I sit down on the sofa and place my good arm on the back of it. “Doctor says I’m mending fast, and the shooter’s been taken care of.”
“The police caught the shooter? Who was it?”
“Local street gang called the Park Street Boyz.”
She knits her manicured brows. “Really? Why would they come after you?”
