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“I’m not a rebel,” I defend.
Adam snorts, not at all convinced. “Right, and the Pope isn’t Catholic.”
“I’m not, Adam.” I’m really not.
“Look. In. The. Mirror. Mom.”
“I have,” I counter.
“No. Seriously. Go look in the damn mirror, Mom.” He points toward the bathroom as if I’m somehow gonna get off this couch to do as he asks. This is getting out of hand.
“No,” I bark.
Noting my tone and overall dislike of where this conversation has headed, Adam readjusts himself on the couch before speaking again. “Maybe you should because you’ll see the strong woman who raised a strong man. A man who can think and act on his own. I’ve done far worse than I was arrested for. The pranks are always decoys.”
Sure, they are.
I resist the urge to roll my eyes. “Care to elaborate?”
“They’re meant to keep people off the actual trail. They’re not the act of some child. They’re deliberate.”
“Youwantto go to jail?” Who the hell wants to sit in a cell or a bunk or whatever it is they do in county? That’s insane. Not maturity. At least not from my perspective.
“Yes,” is Adam’s simple, shoulder-shrugging, calm, infuriating answer.
I grip my mug harder. “Why the fuck would you want that?”
“So I don’t get caught for the bigger shit. If they’re too focused on the silly stuff, they pay less attention to the subtle moves. The ones that make an actual impact,” he explains, as if it’s no big deal. As if it’s logical.
Is it just me… or maybe don’t do shit that requires police evasion or willful jail time? Ding. Ding. Ding… We have a winner. Don’t commit crimes that’ll do the time … I know… I know… the irony of this moment isn’t lost on me. I’m sitting on the couch of a biker, on a compound full of bikers, all of which are not law-abiding citizens. I’m aware. They’re not Girl Scouts. Never expected otherwise. Adam’s antics have nothing to do with Gunz or the Sacred Sinners and everything to do with life choices.
Not wanting to alienate my son by being a holier-than-thou bitch, I adjust my grip on the mug, take the world’s largest breath, and calibrate my tone to give-a-shit-non-judgey-mom. “Like what?” The words drip like honey from my lips. I loathe them almost as much as I loathe where this conversation continues to go.
Stern as ever, Adam’s head shakes back and forth. “I’m not sharing that with you. That’d make you an accomplice, and I’m already sitting here watching my mother drink tea from a mug with bruises around her neck, her wrists, and on her face. You’ve lost a lot of weight. They raped you. I’m gonna guess repeatedly. You wanna discuss my actions, fine. We can do that another day. Right now, you need to focus on you. On getting right with whatever the hell went down at that warehouse.”
That sounds like a cop-out if I ever heard one. “Adam—” I begin, only to be cut off by my son.
“No, Mom. It’s true. You’re always concerned about me and everyone else, so much so, you don’t live your own life. You’re doing it now. Focusing on my shit, when I’m not the one who just got pulled from a fucking warehouse. We are worried about you. I was scared out of my damn mind.”
Ugh.
I swallow hard and look away from them both.
I bite my bottom lip.
Maybe I don’t wanna talk about the warehouse. Maybe I don’t wanna focus onmystuff. I’m sorry I scared him. I didn’t want that. I didn’t wanna be there in the first place. I’m sorry we’re here because of me. I’m sorry I couldn’t help the women I lived in that hellhole with. All I could do was listen to them being violated day after day. At one point, I offered myself to our captors, so did Loretta, when Jade couldn’t take another moment of pain. They loved her more than the rest of us. Big tits and ass, lots of curves—gorgeous. They wrecked her. I couldn’t save her either. Only listen to the screams.
I’m sorry.
So… so… so fucking sorry.
For everything.
I just want my son to be okay. Not jailed. Not making dumb childish decisions.
I don’t wanna deal with the rest.
I don’t wanna think about it.
