Chapter 35
Thirty-Five
Melissa
Mountains stretch endlessly green on both sides of the road as we enter the motorway. Phoebe drives while Olive bounces in the backseat, her blonde hair catching the afternoon sun streaming through the window. She hasn't stopped talking since we left Westbeach three hours ago.
“And then Hella said he'd teach me how to ride a dirt bike when I'm older! Not a motorcycle, because those are too big, but a dirt bike is perfect for kids. He said Uncle Ripper learned when he was six, so maybe I can learn when I'm seven or eight. What do you think, Mama? Can I?”
My gut clenches. “We'll see, baby.”
“And Garret said they have horses! Real horses! Not like the pony rides at festivals. These are big horses that you can actually ride. He said maybe I could learn with him if I stay long enough.”
If I stay long enough.
The words hit me wrong. Phoebe glances at me from the driver's seat, sympathy written across her face. I turn away, focusing on the blur outside my window. Trees and guardrails and nothing that matters.
“And Jada makes the best hot chocolate. She puts marshmallows in it and sprinkles and sometimes whipped cream. And she lets me help her cook dinner. Last time I was there, we made spaghetti and meatballs and I rolled all the meatballs myself!”
“That's great, sweetheart.” My response is robotic, hollow.
“And Uncle Beast is getting married! To Yana! And they're gonna have a big party with dancing and cake and everything! Hella said I can stay up late because it's a special occasion.”
Hella said. Hella promised. Hella told me.
Every other sentence starts with his name. My jaw aches from how hard I'm grinding my teeth.
“Mama, do you think Hella missed me?”
The question hits me sideways. “Of course he did, baby.”
“He calls me every night.” She kicks her feet against the seat. “Even when he's busy with club stuff. He always makes time.”
Unlike with me. The thought burns through my head before I can stop it.
Tāwaha's exit is in twenty kilometers. My pulse jumps. Twenty kilometers until I see him again. Until I have to face whatever this has become.
“I really missed him,” Olive continues. “Like, a lot. More than I miss Mrs. Patterson when school's out. More than I miss Mania on the weekends. More than—” She pauses. “More than I missed my other parents when I was with… with him.”
Richard. Eddy. The monster who kept her in a bunker for a little over a week. Fed? Sure. Comforted? No. Bathed? No. Loved? No.
My throat closes up.
Phoebe tightens her grip on the steering wheel.
“That's because Hella's special,” I manage, the words scraping out.
“Yeah.” Olive's voice goes soft. “He is special.”
Silence settles over the car. For thirty seconds. Then — “Mama?”
“Yeah, baby?” My voice comes out tighter than I mean it to. My grip on the edge of the seat hardens, fingers digging into the worn fabric. Like that'll keep me from coming apart.
“Can I ask you something?”
“Of course.” I force the words out while my chest squeezes. What now? I catch Olive's wide, uncertain eyes in the rearview mirror, and it instantly diminishes my tension.
“Is it okay if I call Hella... Dad?”
The world tilts sideways. My breath catches, sharp and jagged, like I’ve swallowed glass. Every thought in my head scatters, leaving nothing but static and the pounding in my ears.
Phoebe’s foot slips off the gas pedal, causing the car to jerk forward, a harsh lurch that snaps me back to reality. She recovers quickly, her head zipping to me and back to the road.
“Jesus Christ,” Phoebe mutters, her voice low and rough, like she’s been punched. I can’t look at her. Can’t look at anything but the blur of the motorway ahead, my mind screaming one thing while my heart claws at another. What the fuck do I even say to that?
I twist in my seat to look at Olive, her hands folded in her lap. Nervous. Hopeful. Terrified I'll say no.
“Baby, that's—” My throat closes. “That's a big thing to call someone.”
“I know.” She picks at her thumbnail. “But he does dad things. He tucks me in at night when we FaceTime. He asks about my homework. He tells me stories. He says he's proud of me when I draw something good. And when I'm scared, he makes me feel safe.”
Fuck.
“And I know my blood dad was bad,” she continues. “But Hella's not bad. Hella's good. And I know he's not my real dad, but he feels like my dad. Does that make sense?”
My eyes burn. “Yeah, baby. That makes sense.”
“So can I?”
Every instinct screams at me to say no. To protect her from the inevitable heartbreak when Hella walks away. When whatever this is between us implodes and he decides he doesn't want the complications of a child who isn't his.
But then I remember the way he holds her. The way he listens when she talks. The way his entire face softens when she calls his name.
He already loves her, and maybe that's enough.
“You should ask him first,” I say carefully. “Make sure he's okay with it.”
Her face lights up. “Really?”
“Really.” The last thing I need is Hella thinking I'm doing this as some sort of way to trap him into parenthood with me.
“Thank you, Mama!” She bounces in her seat. “I'm gonna ask him as soon as we get there! Do you think he'll say yes? What if he says no? No, he won't say no. He loves me. I know he does. He told me so.”
Phoebe reaches over and squeezes my hand.
Three more kilometers.
The clubhouse gates appear first, before we roll down the familiar road.
My palms sweat, heart hammering against my ribs.
I can do this.
Phoebe pulls into an empty space. Before the car even stops, Olive throws open the door and launches herself out.
“Olive!” Jesus fucking Christ. “Wait!”
But she's already running. Straight toward Hella.
He's leaning against his bike near the entrance, cigarette between his lips, talking with Ripper. The moment he sees Olive, his entire body changes. The hardness melts. The coldness evaporates. He drops the cigarette and crouches down as she slams into him.
“Dad!”
Well, fuck. My girl isn’t subtle at all.
Silence rings out.
Hella catches her, lifting her into his arms with a wide smile.
“Hey, Rugrat.” His voice carries in the still air. “Missed you.”
“Missed you too.” She wraps her arms around his neck. “So, so, so much.”
I climb out of the car slowly. My legs feel like jelly, my mind not much better. Phoebe clucks her tongue as she rounds the car until we’re shoulder to shoulder.
“Olive, you can't run out of moving cars,” I call out, walking toward them. “That's dangerous.”
She barely glances at me. “Sorry, Mama. But I had to see Dad.”
Hella's eyes meet mine over Olive's shoulder.
Dad.
He doesn't correct her. Doesn't flinch. Doesn't put her down and explain that he's not her father.
He holds her tighter. “Did you ask your mama if it was okay to call me that?” he asks.
“Uh-huh. She said yes!” Little — “Good.” He kisses the top of her head. “Because I like it.”
My chest cracks open, and it needs to not do that while I’m here; it allows too many ghosts in.
Ripper approaches, grinning. “Look at you, Hux. All domesticated and shit.”
He flips him off.
“Uncle Ripper!” Olive twists in Hella's arms. “You said a bad word!”
“Your dad says worse,” Ripper shoots back, arms wrapping around me to kiss my head. “How you going, darlin’?”
I pat him softly. “Good. So far.”
Ripple chuckles, turning back to Hella and Olive.
Olive sasses. “Yeah, but Dad's allowed. He's a grown-up.”
Hella smirks. “Hear that, Rip? I'm allowed.”
I force myself to walk closer. I'm wearing my tightest pair of Levi's—the ones that hug every curve but hang loose at my waist—and a tight white spaghetti strap top that shows enough cleavage to be interesting. I spent two hours getting ready this morning. Hair, makeup, outfit. All for him.
He doesn't even look at me.
“Bachelor party's tonight,” Hella says, focused on Olive. “So I'm gonna spend the rest of the day with you. That cool?”
“So cool!” Olive squeals, head bobbing. “Can we go to the stream? And ride four-wheelers? And—”
He kisses her head as if he’d been dying to do it. “Whatever you want, Little One.”
“Beast's mother is watching all the kids at her place tonight,” Hella continues, finally glancing in my direction. His gaze skips over me as if I'm furniture. “She'll bring Olive back tomorrow morning for the wedding. Her place is on the property, a walk from mine.”
I smile, but it’s weak. “Okay.”
That's it. One sentence. That's all I get.
Ripper steps closer to me, his eyes dragging down my body. “Looking real good, Melissa. That fuckboy in Westbeach treating you right?”
I wait for it. The possessive growl. The warning look. The way Hella always reacts when another man looks at me.
Nothing.
He kisses Olive's head again and starts walking toward the clubhouse.
“See you tonight,” he calls over his shoulder.
Not to me. To Phoebe.
The knife in my chest twists deeper.
Ripper’s arm connects with mine. “Don't take it personal. He's been a miserable bastard since you left.”
“Doesn't look miserable to me.”
“That's because of the kid. Only thing that gets him to smile anymore.” He lights a cigarette. “But trust me, he's been drinking himself stupid every night. Beast had to pull him out of three fights last week alone.”
I turn away before he can see my face crack.
Phoebe links her arm through mine. “Come on. Could think of other things I could be doing than small talk with the local psychopath!”
“Love you too, Pheb’s!” Ripper calls out as he leaves.
“Where am I even staying?” I turn to Phoebe; the question comes out smaller than I wanted. “I assume Hella wants Olive with him, but I don't know—”
“You're staying with me.” Jada appears from nowhere, all ripped jeans and a Woodsman's tank top. “Already set up the guest room.”
Relief floods through me, but then I pause. He organized this before I got here, made sure I wasn’t with him. “You sure?”