Chapter 8
EIGHT
JADE
Me: Hey are you awake?
I stare at the text, hoping those gray little bubbles will appear, but two minutes go by, and I get nothing.
At this point I wouldn’t be surprised if Shotgun is awake and is just intentionally not answering me.
By now he’s probably had enough of my bullshit, and I can’t say that I blame him. The last few days have been rough.
I don’t know if he really knew what he was signing up for when he offered—no, scratch that—when he demanded I accept his help, but I can guarantee he definitely got more than he bargained for.
The last two nights I must’ve really been unbearable because he dipped out as soon as we got back from my nightly visits to the hospital, when usually he hangs around, helping me get the boys to bed before he leaves.
This morning before we took the kids to school, he asked if I could see Killian a little earlier than normal.
It didn’t really matter what time I got there.
He still wasn’t latching, and for the sake of my mental health, I gave up on trying.
So now that I’m exclusively pumping, and bottle feeding, I don’t have to be there at a specific time to feed him.
I just made sure to bring extra milk for the nurses.
I told him that was fine, and he asked if I minded if Bella stayed with the boys while we went to the hospital. I thought it was random that he asked, but I agreed. I liked Bella, and I trusted her. Plus, she’s a nurse, what more can you ask for in a babysitter?
Instead of waiting in the truck like he did when the boys were in tow, Shotgun came up to the NICU with me, and when I was done feeding him his bottle, I let him hold Killian for a little while.
It was the first time since I was discharged that he did, and even though I caught him up to speed every night on the way home from the hospital, he seemed amazed by the progress Killian was making.
The jaundice had cleared, but he was still on oxygen, although the doctors don’t anticipate he’ll be on it much longer.
They seem more concerned about him gaining weight.
Now that he’s taking the bottle, we’re hoping to see more of an improvement over the next few days.
If that happens, he might be released by the end of the week.
After our visit, he dropped me off at the house. I thought it was odd he didn’t come in to see the boys or say goodbye to Bella, but I didn’t ask any questions, and I figure I did that more out of habit than anything else.
Bella stayed for a while, and having her company was nice.
She didn’t ask me a million questions or treat me like a charity case.
I realized I needed more friends in my life.
For the longest time my social life revolved around Irish’s, and since most of the guys didn’t have ‘ol ladies, I was often the only woman. It didn’t really bother me, but I’m thinking it’d do me good to have at least one girlfriend.
Guido picked Bella up a little while later, and he let it slip that he was in a hurry to meet Shotgun and Biggie at Lipstick & Lace.
I didn’t start to dwell on that until after the kids went to bed.
At first I thought he probably had to handle club business, but as the night dragged on, I wondered if there was more to it.
Maybe he finally got tired of playing house with me and found a girl to release all the tension I’ve been causing him.
As quickly as thought entered my mind, it disappeared, though.
Shotgun would cut his dick off before he ever put it anywhere near a stripper.
Being neglected by his mother as a small boy, watching her pay attention to the men who paid her to fuck them, really did a number on him.
I specifically remember Irish telling me when the Kings first acquired Lipstick & Lace, Shotgun refused to go the club.
That’s why Irish was there so much in the beginning.
I also recall asking my husband how Shotgun ever got laid.
I knew the club had some girls on rotation that often serviced the guys’ needs, but if Shotgun had such a problem with strippers, it didn’t make sense to me that he’d be willing to share women with his brothers. Irish laughed in my face.
“Shotgun gets more pussy than any of the Kings. He’s got half the neighborhood girls on speed dial. His dick ain’t hurtin’ for nothing.”
That shut me up, and I never asked another question about Shotgun’s personal life. Never even gave it a second thought.
Until tonight.
Now, I’m sitting here with a sick child lying across my lap, staring at my phone, wondering where he takes all these neighborhood girls, and what they look like.
Does he prefer blondes or brunettes? Do they know he’s been at my beck and call for the last few weeks?
Are they mad about it? It would sure as hell bother me.
“Mommy, I hot,” Raiden moans.
I set my phone down on the end table and press my hand to his forehead.
He woke up two hours ago, complaining about his belly, and proceeded to throw up all over himself and me.
I took his temperature and gave him some Tylenol, but it hasn’t helped break the fever.
Hence why I texted Shotgun at three in the morning.
Both Legend, and Raiden tend to spike high fevers, and the only thing that helps is rotating between the Tylenol and Motrin, and in case you haven’t figured it out yet—I’m all out of Motrin.
“I know baby. I’m going to get you another cold compress to put on your head,” I say, easing him off my lap so I can go into the kitchen to get another damp towel. But before I can even take a step my cellphone rings, and Shotgun’s number flashes across the screen.
I quickly accept it, pressing it to my ear.
“Hi, I’m sorry—”
He cuts me off, his voice breathless as he barks, “Is everything okay?”
“Raiden doesn’t feel well. I think it’s a stomach bug or something because he threw up all over the place. But he has a fever, and I’m all out of Children’s Motrin.”
“Send me a picture of what to get, and I’ll go and get it. Might take me a half hour or so, I have to stop at the clubhouse first.”
“I can Instacart it if it’s too much trouble.
” I should’ve done that in the first place, but I didn’t think of it until just now.
I probably could’ve called Fuckface too.
He graduated from sitting outside my house and ruining my lawn since I was released from the hospital, but I doubt it would’ve been an issue.
“You’re not Instacarting fucking Motrin,” he growls. “Just send me the picture. Do you or the kids need anything else?”
“No, I think we’re good.”
“Okay. See you soon.”
He disconnects the call, and I quickly Google a photo of the medicine, screenshotting the picture before I send it to him.
“Is Uncle Shotty coming?” Raiden asks, his little voice groggy as he rolls onto his side. I stare into his glassy eyes, and touch my hand gently to his rosy cheek.
“Yeah, sweetie, your Uncle Shotty is on his way.”
Shotgun: Open the door.
I scramble off the couch, careful not to wake Raiden, before I hurry toward the front door, and disarm the alarm.
When I pull open the door, the motion detection lights shoot on, illuminating my front porch.
Shotgun lifts the bag from the drugstore between us, and that’s when I notice his knuckles are all bloody and bruised.
My gaze immediately tracks over the rest of him, inspecting him for any other injuries, but he’s pretty covered up, dressed in a black zip-up hoodie, and a pair of jeans.
The only thing I notice is the splattering of blood on his bright white sneakers.
“Here,” he says, pushing the bag toward me. “Take it.”
“What happened to you?”
“Nothing, just take the bag. There’s some Ginger Ale in there too, in case he gets nauseous again.”
Instead of reaching for the bag, I take his free hand in mine, turning his hand over to inspect the bruising. It looks like he drove his fist through a brick wall. My eyes lift to his.
“This isn’t nothing.”
He quickly snatches his hand back. “Don’t ask questions you don’t want to know the answers to. Just take the fucking medicine. It’s been a long night, and I have to be back here in a few hours.”
I’m taken back by the first part of his answer. I never asked Irish questions, because answers weren’t an option. I knew from the jump he wouldn’t divulge anything to me. But Shotgun makes it seem like he’d give me answers if I pressed hard enough. I don’t know that I want to, though.
What I want is for him to come inside so I can clean his hands.
The man has been taking care of me and my children for weeks, and I’ve been nothing but unappreciative and resentful.
And he still shows up. It doesn’t matter what time I call him, or how inconvenient the task is.
He drops whatever he’s doing. The least I can do is take care of him, the way he’s been taking care of us.
I think he needs that. I think he’s gone his whole life without having anyone show up for him.
“Come in,” I demand. “Let me put ice on your knuckles.”
“No.” His nostrils flare and his jaw goes tight as he shoves the bag at me once again. “I’m fucking tired, Jade. Take the fucking bag and let me be. I’m not your problem.”
That fires me up, and I snap, “But I’m yours?”
“Yes.”
“Well, I hate to break it to you, buddy, but it works both ways.” I grab the bag with one hand, and his with the other, pulling him into the house.
“Raiden fell asleep on the couch, so be quiet,” I whisper, closing the door behind him, then I motion him to follow me into the kitchen, but he just stands in the foyer.
“Jade.”
I toss the bag on the console table and spin around, planting my hands on my hips.
“Is this payback for me being difficult? If it is, you’ve made your point,” I hiss. “But I feel I should remind you, I’m hormonal and my husband is dead. I have an excuse, what’s yours?”