Hold On (The 'Burg Series Book 6) Page 3

  He would.

  He’d take care of me like he took care of me by not sneaking out of my house and making me feel like a stupid slut.

  Merry would take care of me.

  Just not the way I wanted.

  Never that.

  He could kiss me how he’d kissed me. He could move inside me, his eyes locked to mine, watching his work build, watching it explode. He could sit on the side of my bed and brush his lips along my cheek, wrap his hand around my neck, and tell me he’d call me.

  But he’d never give me what I wanted.

  I forgot.

  I forgot I wasn’t the kind of girl who got what she wanted.

  Not once.

  Not in my whole fucking life.

  Yeah, I’d forgotten that.

  And as I walked down the side of the station to the sidewalk, heading toward J&J’s to get my car, passing a garbage bin and tossing the coffee and muffins in it, I reminded myself of that fact.

  Slicking another thick, strong coat on that layer of hard I’d built around me, I reminded myself again.

  And I did it in a way that I’d never forget it.

  Not again.

  Not ever again.

  Until the day I died.

  Chapter Two

  Ironic

  Cher

  I drove home because, caught up in visions of life actually not sucking for once, I’d stupidly not taken my grocery list with me.

  And as I drove to my and Ethan’s rental—a crackerbox house on a street that was full of tiny crackerbox houses—I knew that, even if it wasn’t yet ten in the morning, my shit day was about to get shittier.

  This was because Trent’s beat-up, piece-of-shit car was at the curb in front of my house.

  Ethan’s dad.

  He’d bailed on me the day after I told him I was pregnant.

  I’d been cautiously excited. He had his problems, but I was young, stupid, and misread the situation (not unusual back then and, apparently, now), thinking I saw a decent guy underneath him smoking anything he could get his hands on—pot, meth, crack, whatever.

  When you were young, you could go crazy, do stupid shit, then pull your life together, or that’s what I’d thought. And people bounced back from that all the time; I’d thought that as well. If they were in too deep, they found reasons to get clean; I’d thought that too.

  And I’d been good to him. I was in love with the decent guy I saw underneath, and I was all in to pull that guy together and give him happy. We were young, so I had time to fix whatever was broken in him and build a good life.

  We’d had great times. I wasn’t a nag, not about his drug use, not about anything. I was generous with the money I earned waitressing at a rundown bar since he couldn’t hold down a job. I’d thought it was him being a good-time guy, but looking back, he was a full-blown junkie.

  And I thought there was no better reason to get your shit together, to grow up, to start your real life, than the fact you were bringing a kid into the world, making that kid with someone you loved.

  When I’d told him Ethan was on the way, Trent had acted ecstatic. We’d celebrated. He’d gotten loose, doing it saying it was the last time, promising he’d get his shit sorted starting the very next day, and we’d had sex all night before both of us passed out.

  The next morning, I woke up and he was gone. I knew it regardless of the fact that he didn’t take anything but some of his clothes, the money out of my wallet, and the huge jar of coins I threw all my change in.

  I didn’t see or hear from him for years.

  Not until the shit hit with Dennis Lowe.

  I aimed the tires of my car to the two strips of cracked cement that led to an old, one-car, unusable-except-for-storage garage, doing this repeatedly glancing at Trent’s wreck, watching him fold out of it and make his way to the sidewalk.

  By the time I’d parked and got out, he was at my front stoop.

  As I moved toward him, it gave me no joy to know that I’d not been wrong. There was a decent guy under all his bullshit.

  The problem was, when he got his shit together and got himself a steady job, he’d found himself a steady woman (who was obviously not me), married her ass, knocked her up, and only then did he come clean to her that he had another kid out in the world.

  She’d lost her mind. She’d told him he was out on his ass unless he made good with his new kid’s brother or sister.

  He’d balked at this and they’d gone ’round about it, but when my name hit the news alongside a serial killer, he sought me out.

  This was one reason why I’d legally changed my name and moved out of Morrie’s old apartment that Colt and Feb had moved Ethan and me in to after Denny Lowe committed suicide by cop. Too easy for all sorts of trash to find me.

  Dennis Lowe played Cheryl Sheckle.

  Now, me and Ethan were Cher and Ethan Rivers.

  I’d thought about doing it up big, finding some fancy romance novel heroine’s name and giving it to me and my son. But in the end, that just wasn’t me, and I didn’t want to do anything that might make Ethan a target for snotty kids at school.

  And I liked water. Lakes. Oceans. Rivers. Even streams. I didn’t have much calm in my life, but anytime I was around water, I found it.

  So Rivers it was.

  “Hey,” Trent called.

  “Yo,” I replied, making my way toward him, needing food in my stomach and another cocktail of hangover cure.

  I scratched swinging into McDonald’s before I hit Walmart on my to-do list as I arrived on the stoop.

  I looked up at Trent.

  He was good-looking, always had been, but it was better now that he wasn’t gaunt and strung out because he’d rather smoke than eat. And I was grateful to him for giving me one thing—or giving it to Ethan—that being sharing with my son all the good stuff he had to give. Thick, dark blond hair, a long, sturdy frame, nice bone structure.

  But Ethan got his momma’s brown eyes.

  “What’s up?” I asked.

  “You got a second to talk?” he asked back.

  I didn’t. I didn’t because I didn’t, and I didn’t because I felt shit, and I didn’t because my morning was even more shit than I felt, but I also didn’t because I never wanted to take a second to talk to Trent.

  He might have gotten it together, but he still left me alone, pregnant, and in love with a junkie asshole who, in the end, didn’t give a shit about me.

  I could hold a mean grudge; it was just how I was.

  But on that score, I felt he deserved it.

  Of course, him being Ethan’s dad and now around, I reined that in when usually I’d let it fly.

  Another part of life that sucked.

  “Sure,” I answered, digging out my keys and moving to the door.

  He got out of the way so I could pull open the screen door, and as I did that, seeing as it was late September, I decided it was time for me to get the storm windows from the garage and switch out the screens.

  I put that on my to-do list too.

  Then I let us in, Trent shutting the door behind him.

  I tossed my purse and keys to the couch.

  Even though he’d been there before to pick up Ethan, Trent looked around.

  I didn’t. I knew what I’d created for my son. I knew why I did.

  It was me and it was comfortable, even if it was more than a little crazy.

  It leaned toward boho, something you might not read looking at me, my high heels, my short skirts, my tight tanks and tight jeans.

  Then again, you might.

  In my living room (and throughout the house), there were some garage sale finds. There were some secondhand store finds. There were also some good, quality pieces I’d saved up for or put on layaway or bought on my card and paid off.

  I’d thrown some scarves over ornate lamps. Other lamps had bright shades in pink or turquoise. Fringed, floral throws. A tiger-print ottoman. Whacky-patterned, mismatched toss pillows on equally mismatched furn
iture. A wicker bucket chair with a round paisley pad cushioning it. Lush potted plants everywhere.

  The living room was smallish and painted a muted grape that somehow pulled all the colors and patterns in the room together, giving the whole thing a warm, fruity, cave-like feel. And the walls were chock-full, nearly edge to edge, of everything from prints of flowers to tribal designs to abstracts to cartoonish portraits to beat-up, old mirrors to framed pictures of me and Ethan living our lives.

  The house was old, built back in the ’50s, so there was no great room. No cathedral ceilings. It was segmented into small rooms that, unfortunately, separated its occupants. But it worked for Ethan and me because it was just the two of us and we liked to hang together.

  The renters before me had dogs that didn’t behave, so the carpet was new. Not even close to top of the line, but it was still clean and I took care of it so it looked nice.

  The hall off the side to the left led to two bedrooms, a utility room, and a bathroom that Ethan and I shared. My landlord had let me paint Ethan’s room blue and it was decorated in boy. My room was a continuation of the boho feel but super-charged, painted a subdued turquoise and stuffed full of stuff, from furniture to knickknacks to pictures.

  The door off to the right led to a kitchen that wasn’t all that big, but it was big enough to put a relatively nice kitchen table in it, which also worked for Ethan and me. We didn’t need a fancy dining room table (or dining room). Not for just him and me.

  No one would be banging down my door to beg me to let them take pictures for some decorator’s magazine. But I liked it. It was me. It made me feel safe and comfortable and like I’d accomplished something. It surrounded my kid in me, hopefully making him feel the same way, but also showing him he should be himself and get off on that no matter what that was and no matter what anyone thought about it.

  I could tell by the look on Trent’s face that he was uncertain about all of that.

  I didn’t give a fuck. I’d never been to Trent’s house, but knowing his wife, I pictured doilies.

  “You wanted to talk?” I prompted, and he looked to me.

  “Yeah, you got any coffee?”

  Recovering addicts and their coffee.

  Shit.

  I walked to the kitchen feeling Trent following me and trying not to think of Merry.

  I achieved this miraculous feat but only by allowing thoughts of Trent to leak in. How he’d sorted his shit out after he left me. How he’d been clean and sober now for nine years, with his woman for eight, married to her for seven, and devoted to her and their daughter and newborn son.

  And how he had not given any of that shit to Ethan and me.

  Though, now he gave it to Ethan. Coming to me first to “touch base” and “make sure all’s good after that crazy guy went on a rampage.”

  That had eventually led to the disclosure of his real purpose for seeking me out—he wanted to meet Ethan and he wanted Ethan’s new little sister to know she had a big brother.

  Possibly more than all that, Trent wanted to make his wife happy.

  For my part, I did not want anything to do with any of his shit. He’d bailed, he could stay fucked off for all I cared. I went from waitressing at a shit bar to stripping because I needed the money to take care of my kid. I ate shit and paid big with anyone I knew to get them to help me out, watching Ethan when me or my mom had to work. I took money from my buddy, Ryan, knowing that he would never get in there with me, even if he didn’t hide it real good that’s what he wanted, just because I needed his cash so fucking bad.

  And I’d been blinded to a man who treated me right, who made me feel special, who doted on Ethan, a man who I was certain was a good man.

  A man who turned out to be a madman.

  But it wasn’t about me. Trent was clean and sober, had a solid job and a family.

  It was about Ethan.

  I’d asked my kid. He’d hidden he was over the moon excited at the prospect of finally having a dad.

  But I caught it.

  So I’d let it happen.

  A couple of short meets, attended by me, moved into a couple of dinners, also attended by me.

  Then, when it came clear Trent actually had pulled it together, his wife Peggy was an okay woman, and Ethan enjoyed being with them, I let them take him alone. Eventually, this led to him spending the night or entire weekends.

  Ethan dug it, albeit cautiously. He’d not had a dad for a long time and he was my boy, so he was smart enough not to go all in.

  And he loved the big family he had now, what with me and Mom; Feb and Colt and their kid, Jack; Feb’s brother, Morrie, his wife, Dee, and their kids; Feb and Morrie’s mom and dad, Jack and Jackie (the J&J of J&J’s), as well as all they brought with them. Then there was my girl Vi, her man, Cal, and their kids; Colt’s colleague Mike and his woman, Dusty, and all that came with them; Feb’s besties, Mimi and Jessie, who’d adopted me right along with everyone else.

  In other words, I’d done what I needed to do. I’d traveled a lonesome road paved with shit and snipers aiming at me from each side, but I got my kid what he needed.

  A nice house in an okay neighborhood in a small town (mostly) filled with good people. And a big family who gave a fuckuva lot more than a passing shit.

  Add Ethan’s birth dad and his growing family, and my boy, sweet and social, was in seventh heaven.

  I was not.

  Ethan never knew that and he never would.

  Thinking on this was not much better than thinking about Merry, so I quickly made Trent a cup of joe the way he liked it. I nuked it, since I’d turned off the half-empty pot before I took off to slam my head against the brick wall of my life. When the microwave dinged, I handed him the mug and leaned a hip against the counter across the room from him, leveling my eyes on him.

  “What’s up?” I repeated my question of earlier.

  Trent took a sip and put the coffee on the counter beside him.

  Not granite counters. Not marble. No fucking way. There wasn’t a granite, marble, or trendy cement counter within a five-block radius.

  Mustard-yellow, old-style Formica. This matched the fridge and the stove, both having been in that house since America celebrated its bicentennial.

  The dishwasher had bit it and didn’t match, which sucked. But all the appliances, cabinets, countertops, and even the old-school linoleum floor were in excellent shape. I’d worked with it, and the kitchen was just as boho eclectic as the rest of the house, with vintage nostalgia thrown in.

  I loved it.

  I didn’t take it in right then, however.

  I watched Trent reach behind him and pull something out of his back pocket.

  It was an envelope, whatever was inside making it thick, and he set it beside his coffee mug on the counter before picking the mug up and taking another sip.

  Only then did he look at me.

  “Been savin’ awhile, me and Peg,” he said.

  “Savin’ for what?” I asked.

  “For that,” he answered, nodding his head down to the envelope. “Seein’ as I wasn’t around and didn’t do what I should’ve for my son, been savin’ to try to make that up just a little bit.”

  Oh shit.

  “There’s three thousand, five hundred dollars in there,” he went on.

  Shit.

  It was safe to say I was not rolling in it. But Feb and Morrie paid a decent wage; their bar was established and popular so they could. I also made tips, good ones, so I always had cash on hand. And I didn’t have to pay for anyone looking out for Ethan. When I moved to the ’burg, Mom got a job and moved there about six months after me. If she didn’t look after Ethan while I was at work, Jackie did. Or Feb, if she wasn’t working. Or Mimi, since she had a slew of kids herself, one more was no skin off her nose. Vi was always happy to be on call too. Even Jessie took a turn every once in a while. She was a whackjob (a lovable one, but definitely a whackjob) and she didn’t like kids, but she liked Ethan.

 
That list went on and all I had to pay was markers for my friends helping out, something I did whenever they needed me to do it.

  But I’d do that anyway.

  Even so, three and a half thousand dollars was a lot of cake and I could use it simply because I was the bartending single mother of a growing boy. That was probably my Oreo budget for the year, Ethan’s favorite fuel.

  It did not scratch the surface of what Trent owed me in a lot of ways.

  But he had a job as a janitor, his wife was a part-time assistant for a financial advisor, and they had two young kids at home. I didn’t know for sure, but looking at his piece-of-shit car, even though Peggy drove a nice, newish minivan, I had to guess he had less than me.

  Saving that money probably cut and did it deep.

  “And I got a raise at work,” Trent continued. “So Peg and me talked, and we figure we can swing it to give you about a hundred every two weeks to help you out with Ethan.”

  I stared at him, needing to down more pills and get my ass to McDonald’s so I could also down an Egg McMuffin. Being hungover and having a totally shit morning, what I didn’t need to deal with was the possibility I actually had to express gratitude to a man I once loved who left me high and dry with a kid growing in my belly and went on to a happy life with another woman.

  “Cheryl?” he called when I said nothing.

  I continued to say nothing because I had no fucking clue what to say.

  Finally, I found it.

  “Cool of you,” I muttered.

  He nodded, looking funny, and I didn’t know this new and improved Trent very well, so I didn’t get that look. I thought it was disappointment, like he’d hoped I’d decline so he could buy his son a new crib or something.

  As I was often in my life, I found out pretty quickly I was wrong.

  “Also, Peg and me want you to think about something.”

  I felt my teeth clench, which made my aching head start to throb.

  Trent didn’t talk about Trent, not ever. He talked about Trent and Peg. It was like they were one person with one mind, and I got the feeling that mind was all hers. She had the leash on her man, frequently yanked the chain, and he was so devoted, he just panted happily and obeyed her every command.