I jump up and grab a tissue from the side table to wipe my stomach off. “I’m going to say this one more time. I’m not your property. Wylla Mae is my daughter. She doesn’t belong to you. You don’t know her. You’ve never held her. Fed her. Changed her. You know nothing about what it’s like for us. You wanna fuck someone...go get one of your whores at your clubhouse. Or better yet why don’t you go home to your wife you’re so devoted to and ask her how my pussy tastes, huh?”
In one swift movement he’s back in my face, hand on my throat again. “I should just knock you up again.”
“I’m not Ruthie,” I grit in his face, holding back my tears. “Go home to your pregnant wife and stay the hell out of my life. I don’t want you. I don’t need you and I sure as fuck don’t love you. Leave me alone, Murder.”
“Not till you get it through your head that this is the way shit’s gonna be until I say otherwise. Anyone touches what’s mine...” he grabs me between the legs again. “I’ll fucking kill them. Behave accordingly. Don’t fuck around on me. Do as your told.”
“I’ll fuck anyone I want when I want.”
“Babe, you’re really pissing me the fuck off.”
“Get used to it.” I jerk away from him and stomp down the hall to the dressing groom. Screw him. I don’t need this shit. Not from him. Not after everything we’ve been through in the past year.
Chapter Twenty-eight
The second I stumble through the garage door Ruthie flicks the kitchen light on. I throw up an arm to shield my eyes as I squint. ‘The fuck you doin’?”
“Do you have any idea how worried I’ve been? Do you know what time it is?”
“You’re not my mother.” I shrug past her and kick off my boots, making my way toward the bedroom.
“I needed you and I couldn’t reach you.”
“I’ve held up my end.”
“I’m spotting blood. I called the doctor and he said I should come in first thing but if gets worse to go to the emergency room.”
Fuck. Fucking fuck. This is the second miscarriage in the past year. Her first happened a few months after we buried Rochelle. I don’t love Ruthie. Nor do I want to raise another child with her, but I don’t want to lose my son. My future depends on this pregnancy being viable. I lay my cut over the back of a chair and step out of my jeans. “I need a shower.”
Ruthie comes in close and starts sniffing me. “You’re wasted? You smell...” She sniffs my face. “Like another woman. Like pussy. You’re fucking around on me? After everything?”
“I agreed to another baby. Never said shit all about keeping my dick in my pants.”
“I assumed that was obvious, James. Don’t toy with me. You know what I’m capable of,” she says with a sneer.
“I’m getting in the shower then I gotta head back out to handle some shit for the club. I’ll give you a ring to see what the doctor says.”
Her hand moves to her hip, but I slam the bathroom door in her face before she can start flapping them damn jaws with more of her nagging bullshit. I’m in no damn mood. Alexa is under my skin. I’m disgusted with myself. I know I’m a sorry bastard. I knew not to go to that club and be that close to her, but I did it anyway. In the shower I punch the white tiles until my blood runs down them. I fucked up. I’m supposed to protect her not be the man hurting her. Yet I can’t seem to stop. If I stay away, I can’t breathe. If I get too close, I drown myself in her and hate her for it. I’m fucked in the head.
You’ve never fed her.
Held her.
Changed her.
Alexa’s words echo in my thoughts as the hot water sprays down on me. It hurts because it’s the truth. I don’t deserve that little girl. By the time I get out of the shower Ruthie has gone to bed. I’ve tried to force myself to feel something for her, but when I look at my wife the only emotions inside me are regret and loathing. I hate her but can’t bring myself to kill her because we got one thing right. Rochelle.
I ride out. When I reach my destination it’s quiet. All the lights are off. I let myself in with the spare key. The kitchen is tidy, save a few empty bottles in the sink and a can of powdered formula on the counter. I flick on the light over the stove. In the living room there’s a stack of baby clothes folded on the coffee table with a full basket next to it on the floor. On the end table sits a framed photograph of Alexa in the hospital, holding our daughter. I trace the rough pad of my finger along the smooth glass making out their faces.
You’ve never fed her.
Held her.
Changed her.
Creeping down the hall, I’m careful to keep my movements light and silent. I pause at the bedroom door. Alexa is sprawled out in the center of her bed in nothing but a thin tank top and a thong. I want nothing more than to strip down and crawl into bed simply to hold her, but I can’t. At the foot of the bed is a white crib.
The baby fusses and Alexa stirs. I don’t want her to know I’m here and yet I’m not ready to leave. In three steps I’m leaning over the crib and glancing down at Wylla Mae for the first time. Bald headed and big eyed she kicks her legs out, slobbering on her tiny fists.
She resembles Rochelle at this age. I stroke the top of her head, surprised
