Chapter 18 #2
And it’s Pippa who walks behind Rattler, giving him a clip round the ear. “I’ll give you eyes to match them if you don’t watch your tongue.”
To my surprise, Rattler blanches and seems not to take her threat lightly, while Pippa continues to approach Saint. The VP reaches up, pulls her down onto his lap, where she proceeds to give him an open-mouthed kiss, while he… is his hand really caressing her breast?
Short, having gone tense for a while, now relaxes after Rattler’s been put in his place.
“Bronwyn, you remember Pippa, don’t you?” Acting as if nothing unusual is happening, Short introduces me. Pippa, ignoring what her man is doing, offers me a little wave. I do notice he doesn’t introduce the other women by name.
“Hey, little man. Want some eggs and bacon?” One of the scantily clad women addresses Trip directly.
Of course, Trip stays dumb, his eyes wide. This is so far out of his comfort zone, I have no idea how he’s going to behave. But to my surprise, there’s a slight upward and downward movement of his head. If I’d blinked, I might have missed it.
Eggs and bacon? My own mouth waters. We’ve never been allowed such delicacies for breakfast before, though I might have sneaked some from the hospital cafeteria.
Short pulls out two chairs. I urge Trip forward, indicating he should sit, but being careful not to let my hand make contact with him.
Within seconds, it seems, two overflowing plates are placed in front of us, loaded not just with the aforementioned items, but also with sausage links, waffles and syrup.
Trip’s eyes go wide, while my stomach clenches.
“Can I just have toast?” I ask, having looked around, seeing there’s no oatmeal on offer.
“Of course,” the woman who seems to be in charge of breakfast says. “Aren’t you hungry?”
Starving, I think in my head. When all heads turn toward me, I fidget with my hands and know I have to offer some explanation. “I usually just have a bowl of plain oatmeal.”
“Nonsense!” Saint barks. “Your parents might only have eaten that, but we know an army marches on its stomach. You didn’t eat when you arrived yesterday. You must be starving now.”
I don’t know why I feel I have to make an admission, but the words come out of my mouth. “Mom and Dad had a full breakfast. But it wasn’t for us.”
“What the actual fuck?” Saint barks.
Hesitantly, I offer what my dad would have said. “I need to lose weight.” I shrug as if it doesn’t matter.
“Bronwyn, eat your damn breakfast. Set an example for Trip.” Short’s eyes all but roll back in his head. “You’re not overweight. In my view, you both need more flesh on your bones. Trip’s a growing boy. He needs nourishment, not starvation.”
My mouth’s watering, and I’m torn between doing what’s been drilled in me is right, and my manners. This woman has prepared food for us, and is standing, the sides of her mouth turned down, as she waits to see whether we’ll accept the offering she’s placed in front of us.
I pull my plate toward me, pick up the utensils, and raise a fork full of heavenly cheese-covered scrambled egg to my mouth. It tastes glorious. So does the bacon. Looking to my side, I see Trip glancing at me, then digging in himself.
His face. Just watching him enjoy the food sends all the feels through me, even more than the pleasure the tasty offerings are giving me.
Once it’s obvious we’re eating, the men start talking to each other.
I recognise a couple, Paint and Winchester, who I’d helped treat for their injuries, coincidentally when Short had been shot.
Huh, I’ve never believed his story about accidentally shooting himself, then falling on a knife.
But as Dad had gone along with it, so had I at the time.
He’s either the clumsiest man on earth, or he had been caught up in some fight.
Rattler, I recognise from last night, and Saint, of course. But the other man? Listening to him speak, his words are measured and eloquent. I wait to see if I can catch his name. Finally I do, and I smile to myself when I find out it’s Words.
My plate is almost empty, my stomach full to overflowing, when Short leans into me.
“The clubhouse is no place for the boy. After breakfast, I’ll take you both to my house. You can stay there while you figure out what you want to do.”
I vaguely remember him saying something about a house last night.
“I don’t want to put you out.” Though it’s said automatically.
Something I should say, rather than having much meaning behind it.
If he doesn’t help me, I’m actually stuck.
Where do I go with no real money to my name and a traumatised boy with development issues?
“Where the fuck else are you going to go, Bron?”
I’d run last night, with no plan, just knowing I had to get Trip out of that toxic environment. I’m just thankful I had someone to run to, at least to give me some breathing space. And whether it’s Short’s house or not, it’s an option I didn’t have before. What can I do but accept it?
“I don’t know if I’ll ever be able to repay you, or pay you rent.”
Short’s jaw tenses, but that’s all he gives away of his thoughts. “We’ll figure it out.”
For some reason, Saint’s brow is furrowed as he gives a pointed look toward Short. In return, Short gives his VP a sharp dip, then a nod.
I’ve eaten more than I ever have of a home-cooked meal before. When the woman who served us comes and picks up our empty plates – Trip also having eaten everything that had been placed in front of him - I thank her profusely, able to overlook her barely there clothing.
“Oh fuck!” Pippa exclaims, suddenly leaping off Saint’s lap and disappearing out the door.
Saint stands abruptly, swears, and says, “Fuckin’ morning sickness.” He disappears after her.
Pippa’s pregnant? The nurse in me wants to go help, but I guess there’s not much I can do. They’ve probably got it covered. Now the ginger biscuit she was eating makes sense.
“You ready?” Short asks me, his voice bringing me back to the present. I must have sunk into a food coma, and I’m not sure what he means. Ready? For what?
As if reading my confusion, he adds, “To go see my house. Though I have to prepare you, it’s not much. I bought it cheap with a plan to do it up.”
As long as it’s a roof over our heads, and somewhere Dad won’t be able to find us, I don’t care if it’s a mud hut.
Though there’s always the worry it might upset Trip if it’s not up to scratch.
It pains me how little I really understand about him and his problems. I can only be grateful we’ve survived breakfast with these men who’ve taken us under their wing.
Short’s looking at me as if waiting for a response, and inside a kernel of excitement grows. He’s taken on my most pressing problem and has solved it – a place to live. A place to make a fresh start. Whatever state it’s in, I won’t complain.
This time, I answer with a grin on my face. “I’m so ready,” I truthfully confirm.