Chapter 9 #2
"And you took it." She steps closer, her eyes blazing. "You took it and you sold it for what? A few hundred dollars? A few hours of getting high? You traded my mother's memory for poison."
I don't have a defense. There is no defense. Everything she's saying is true.
"I know," I whisper. "I know what I did. I can't—there's nothing I can say that makes it okay. There's no apology big enough."
"You're right. There isn't."
We stand there, the silence stretching between us.
Garrett hovers in the doorway, his face a mask of pain.
He loves us both—his sister and his wife—and right now, we're tearing each other apart.
"I was sick," I say finally. "I know that's not an excuse. Addiction isn't an excuse. But I need you to know that the person who stole from you—she wasn't me. Not really. She was a monster wearing my face, doing whatever it took to feed the hunger."
"And now?"
"Now I'm trying to be someone else. Someone better.
" I meet her eyes, letting her see everything—the shame, the guilt, the desperate hope.
"I can't give you back what I took. I can't undo the hurt.
But I can spend the rest of my life trying to be worthy of your forgiveness. Even if you never give it."
Leah stares at me for a long moment.
I can see the war playing out behind her eyes—the anger and the grief and something else.
Something that might be the first fragile seed of understanding.
"I'm not ready to forgive you," she says finally. "I don't know if I ever will be."
"I know."
"But..." She takes a breath. "Garrett loves you. And you're carrying my niece or nephew. So I'm willing to try. To give you a chance to prove you're different."
It's not forgiveness. But it's a door left open. A possibility.
"Thank you," I say. "That's more than I deserve."
"Yes. It is." She turns to leave, then pauses. "Don't make me regret it."
And then she's gone, and I'm left standing in the kitchen with my husband and the weight of everything I've done.
Garrett crosses the room and pulls me into his arms.
I bury my face in his chest and let the tears come.
"You okay?" he asks.
"No," I admit. "But I will be."
The OB appointment is on a Thursday, two weeks after I get home.
Garrett drives me to the clinic in Morgantown, his hand on my thigh the whole way.
I'm nervous—terrified, actually—but it's a different kind of terror than I'm used to.
This is the fear of hope.
The fear of wanting something so badly that losing it would destroy you.
The confrontations with Venus and Leah are still fresh in my mind.
But today isn't about them.
Today is about the baby.
About the tiny life growing inside me, the one thing that's kept me fighting through all of it.
The waiting room is full of pregnant women in various stages of showing.
Some of them have partners with them; others are alone.
I watch them and wonder what their stories are.
Whether any of them are like me—recovering addicts, trying to build something good out of the wreckage of their lives.
Whether any of them understand what it's like to be terrified that your past will poison your future.
"Hey." Garrett squeezes my hand. "Stop thinking so hard."
"How do you always know?"
"Because you get this little crease right here." He touches the spot between my eyebrows. "And your leg starts bouncing."
I look down.
Sure enough, my knee is going a mile a minute.
"I'm scared," I admit. "What if something's wrong? What if all those years of using..."
"Then we deal with it. Together." He lifts my hand to his lips and kisses my knuckles. "But let's not borrow trouble. Let's just see what the doctor says."
"Vanna Mercer?"
We follow the nurse back to an exam room.
I change into a gown, lie on the table, and try to remember how to breathe.
The paper crinkles beneath me as I shift, and the fluorescent lights hum overhead.
Everything feels too bright, too clinical, too real.
"First ultrasound?" the tech asks, smiling at me.
"First real one. They did one at the rehab facility, but it was early. Just to confirm."
"Well, let's see how baby's doing."
She squirts gel on my stomach—cold, making me flinch—and presses the wand against my skin.
For a moment, there's nothing but gray static on the screen.
My heart pounds.
Please, I think.
Please let everything be okay.
Please let me have this one thing.
And then I see it.
A tiny shape.
A flutter of movement.
A heartbeat pulsing steady and strong.
"There we go," the tech says. "There's your baby."
Garrett's hand tightens on mine.
When I look at him, there are tears streaming down his face.
This man—this tough, stoic, leather-clad biker who's survived things that would break most people—is crying at the sight of our baby on a screen.
"That's our kid," he whispers. "Van, that's our kid."
I can't speak.
Can only stare at the screen, at this tiny life growing inside me.
Proof that something good can come from all the bad.
Proof that I'm more than my worst mistakes.
Proof that my body, which I poisoned for so many years, is capable of creating something beautiful.
"Everything looks great," the tech continues. "Good heartbeat. Strong and steady. Measuring right on track. You're about fourteen weeks now."
Fourteen weeks.
Three and a half months of this baby growing while I fought my way back to life.
Three and a half months of cells dividing and forming, tiny fingers and toes taking shape, a heart learning to beat.
All of it happening inside me, while I was learning to live again.
"Can we get a picture?" I ask, my voice thick.
"Of course."
She prints out a grainy black-and-white image and hands it to me.
I hold it like it's made of glass, staring at the small blob that will someday be a person.
My person.
Our person.
Garrett wraps his arm around my shoulders and presses a kiss to my temple.
"We're really doing this," he says.
"We're really doing this."
We stop at a pharmacy on the way home to pick up some new prenatal vitamins.
Garrett runs inside while I wait in the truck, studying the ultrasound picture and letting myself imagine what the future might look like.
A nursery painted soft yellow.
A crib by the window.
Tiny clothes and toys and all the things I never thought I'd have.
My phone buzzes.
A text from Tildie:
How did it go? Tell me everything!!!
I'm typing a response when I realize I need to pee.
The pharmacy has a public restroom—I remember seeing it on a previous visit.
And Garrett's been in there for ten minutes already, the line must be long.
I climb out of the truck and head for the side of the building, where a narrow alley leads to the back entrance.
The bathroom is just inside, I remember.
Quick in, quick out.
The alley is empty.
Quiet.
My boots crunch on the thin layer of snow as I walk, my breath fogging in the cold air.
I'm halfway down when I hear footsteps behind me.
"Well, well, well."
The voice stops me cold.
I know that voice.
I've heard it in my nightmares, in the dark corners of my memory, in all the places I've tried to forget.
I turn around slowly.
Virgil.
He's standing at the mouth of the alley, blocking my exit.
He looks the same as he always did—tall, lean, with the kind of handsome face that hides something rotten underneath.
His smile is all teeth and no warmth.
"Vanna Smith." He takes a step toward me. "Or should I say Vanna Mercer? Heard you got yourself cleaned up. Back with that biker piece of shit."
"What do you want, Virgil?"
"What I've always wanted." Another step. Then another. "What you owe me."
I back up, my heart hammering. "I don't owe you anything."
"No?" He laughs—a cold, ugly sound. "Sweetheart, you owe me thousands. All those years I kept you high. All those times I fronted you when you couldn't pay. You think that was charity?"
"I'm done with that life. I'm clean now."
"Clean." He spits the word like it's poison. "You think getting clean erases your debts? You think you can just walk away?"
He moves fast—faster than I expect.
One moment he's five feet away, the next, he's got me slammed against the brick wall, his hand wrapped around my throat.
The back of my head cracks against the brick, and stars explode behind my eyes.
"Let me go," I gasp.
"Shut the fuck up." His fingers tighten, cutting off my air. "You don't get to make demands. Not anymore. Not ever again."
His other hand slides down my body, over my breast, squeezing hard enough to bruise.
I whimper, trying to twist away, but he pins me tighter against the wall.
"Thought you could just disappear, didn't you?" His voice is a low hiss against my ear. "Thought you could run off to some fancy rehab, get yourself cleaned up, and forget all about the money you owe me."
"I don't—I don't owe you—"
He slaps me. Hard.
My head snaps to the side, and I taste blood where my teeth cut the inside of my cheek.
"Don't fucking lie to me." He grabs my jaw, forcing me to look at him.
"You owe me three years of freebies. All those times I gave you a taste just to keep you coming back.
All those times you paid in other ways." His eyes drag down my body.
"Remember that, Vanna? Remember what you used to do on your knees to get your fix? "
Shame floods through me, hot and bitter.
I remember.
God help me, I remember all of it.
His hand moves lower, over my stomach.
When he feels the small swell there, his eyes widen with cruel delight.
"Well, well. What's this?" He presses harder, his palm flat against my belly. "The junkie whore went and got herself knocked up. How sweet. How fucking precious."
"Don't—" I try to push him away, but he's too strong.
His hand moves lower, between my thighs, groping roughly through my jeans.
I cry out, but he clamps his other hand over my mouth.
"Shh, shh, shh." His voice is almost gentle now, which makes it worse. "Don't want anyone to hear, do we? Don't want your biker husband to come running. Although..." He squeezes, hard, and I sob against his palm. "Might be fun to let him watch. Let him see what his precious wife used to be."
Tears stream down my face. I can't breathe.
Can't think.
His hand is still on my throat, his other hand still violating me, and all I can think about is the baby.
My baby. Our baby.
"Please," I whisper when he moves his hand from my mouth. "Please, I'm pregnant. Just let me go. I'll get you the money, I'll do whatever you want, just please don't hurt the baby."
"Pregnant." He laughs—a cold, ugly sound that echoes off the alley walls. "That just makes you more valuable. Some men like that, you know. Like the idea of fucking a woman who's already been knocked up by someone else. They pay extra for pregnant girls. Something about the taboo of it."
My stomach heaves.
I think I'm going to be sick.
He pulls back his hand and slaps me again, harder this time.
I crumple against the wall, barely staying upright.
"Consider this a reminder," he says, his voice dropping to something low and lethal.
"You belong to me, Vanna. You always have.
From the first time you stuck a needle in your arm, you were mine.
And when I come to collect—and I will come to collect—you're going to do exactly what I say.
You're going to spread your legs for whoever I tell you to.
You're going to make me back every dollar you owe, plus interest."
"And if I don't?" The words come out broken, barely audible.
He smiles, and it's the most terrifying thing I've ever seen.
"Then I'll cut that baby out of you myself. And I'll make your husband watch."
He releases me, and I crumple to the ground, gasping for air.
My throat burns. My face throbs.
Between my legs, I can still feel the ghost of his hand, the violation of his touch.
"See you soon, sweetheart."
And then he's gone, disappearing around the corner like he was never there.
I don't know how long I sit there, shaking and crying, my hand pressed protectively over my stomach.
Long enough for the cold to seep through my clothes.
Long enough for the reality of what just happened to sink in.
Then I pull out my phone and dial Garrett's number with trembling fingers.
He answers on the first ring. "Van? Where are you? I came out and the truck was—"
"Alley," I manage. "Side of the building. Please. Please come."
I hear him running.
Hear his boots pounding on the pavement.
And then he's there, skidding around the corner, his face white with fear.
"Van. Jesus Christ." He drops to his knees beside me, his hands hovering like he's afraid to touch me. "What happened? Who did this?"
"Virgil." The name comes out broken. "My old dealer. He found me."
Garrett's expression goes cold.
Deadly. I've seen that look before—the look of a man about to destroy someone.
"Tell me everything," he says. "And then we're going to the clubhouse. Because this? This ends now."
I tell him. Every word. Every touch. Every threat.
And when I'm done, I see something in my husband's eyes that I've never seen before.
Murder.
He's going to kill Virgil.
And part of me—the dark part, the broken part—wants him to.
But right now, all I can do is let him carry me to the truck and hold me while I fall apart.
No more secrets. No more running.
It's time to fight back.