Chapter 7
Slim
“Prez, I can’t find Marissa.”
“Why the fuck do I care?” he replies drunkenly.
“I last saw her an hour ago, and then she vanished into thin air. She’s not answering her phone, the car is still in the lot, and she’s nowhere in the clubhouse. This isn’t like her, Sly.”
Something about my tone seems to sober him up.
“Let’s ask Twitch if he saw her leave. I could use some air.”
Shit truly hits the fan when I step on Riss’s phone in front of the abandoned guard booth.
“Where is that stupid motherfucker?” Prez snarls.
Someone finds Twitch fucking one of the club girls in the bathroom, and I only manage to get a couple of hits in before the other brothers pull me off of him.
“Whoa, Slim, what the fuck?” He asks as he wipes the blood from his mouth.
“Why aren’t you at the gate?” Prez asks, stepping in front of me before I can charge at him again. “And put your dick away, man.”
Twitch gives him a sleazy smile. “I was just taking a break with Maya here. I’m going back right now.”
“I’ll have your patch for this, you fucking idiot.
Slim’s ol' lady is missing! We found her phone on the ground by the unguarded entrance to our fucking clubhouse. You better pray that at least the cameras were working, because otherwise I’m taking your life too,” Prez spits at him as I run back out to look at the footage.
All the blood drains out of my limbs as we watch two masked men lead a hooded Marissa to an unmarked dark van.
Prez frowns. “This doesn't make any sense. Why would someone take her? You mostly deal with your shop, and besides, the club doesn't have any beefs going on right now. If anything, things are going really well.” He scratches his beard in confusion.
“What do we do? Do we call the cops?”
“Are you out of your mind? Do you want the fucking cartel to hear that we’re calling the cops for any reason whatsoever?" Sly snarls, then leans back in his chair and takes a few moments to think. "We wait.”
“For what?”
“A ransom call. Clues. Anything.”
“What the-” I start to argue, but he holds up his palm, letting me know he’s done.
“Go sober up for an hour, and then go get your kid.”
Fuck. I haven’t even thought of DJ.
“Oh my God,” I helplessly bury my face in my hands.
“Focus on what you can control right now, and that is taking care of your son. Go, man.”
*
Three days ago, I woke up in a warm, milk-smelling family bed that I was reluctant to leave. Today, I barely slept a wink due to Junior’s crying.
How did this happen? Hell if I know.
Before you leave the hospital with your newborn, they give you all sorts of advice on how to deal with the baby in the weeks to come.
I vividly remember how angry and disgusted I was that there were people out there who would take these innocent, new beings and violently shake their tiny bodies just because they were crying too much.
DJ’s soft, meowing cries inspired only fierce protectiveness inside me. I was so excited to be a father.
When we started our new life as a family of three, I usually worked late, and Marissa stayed home for a long time after she gave birth, around two months, so she handled nights. I got to hold a clean, well-fed baby for a few half-hour intervals every day, and it was absolute bliss.
In contrast, the last two days have been hell. Junior just wouldn’t stop crying. And it wasn’t sad, mournful cries. He’d wail until becoming dark red in the face, and a few times I feared he might choke on his sobs.
Nothing helped. Rocking, shushing, singing, stroking his back, pacing with him in my arms, leaving him in the crib to cry it out, talking to him, giving him a bottle, giving him a bath, it was all in vain.
When I found myself assaulted by visions of flinging him against a wall, which I feared was one step away from actually doing it, I broke down and called Rachel for help.
She was the one who got him to calm down on that awful first morning. I don’t know how she did it. Some mom/nurse black magic, probably. It made me feel like shit, and yeah, I took it personally.
I didn't want Rachel to think that I was some stranger to my own fucking kid, so I tried explaining to her that DJ was like this because Marissa always babied him too much, and she fucking snapped at me. Said that he was a baby and that this was what babies were like, that she’d had three of them, and that he was understandably having a hard time.
I didn’t appreciate the way she said it, like I was some idiot, so I resolved not to call her for help again, not with that attitude.
But Mom was no help. Daycare was closed until Monday. And Rebel… Rebel said it was too hard for her to interact with DJ; it reminded her too much of our baby. Which I could understand. Although I wish she’d think of me a bit.
I was stuck between a rock and a hard place. I couldn’t go out to look for Marissa because we didn’t have the first clue where she was. Couldn’t help my own kid to stop crying. Wanted to cry myself whenever I imagined Marissa being cut up into tiny pieces by some freak somewhere.
Right now, my son's finally quiet. He’s with Rachel on the other end of the common room, and he seems content. I’m sitting on the same couch Marissa and I sat on three days ago, doodling in my sketchbook to relieve some of the tension in my body.
I don’t understand Junior. He’s dry, he’s fed, and he’s being held by his father. So why the fuck won’t he shut up? Does he not like me?
Does he understand his mom's gone? How much does a seven-month-old even know about the world and the passage of time? What’s the difference between being left at daycare every day for hours and what’s happening now?
Does he feel absence as keenly as adults do? Does he think about me when I’m gone? Did he miss me these last few months? Was he sad that I wasn’t home a lot?
How the fuck did we get here?
“Is that a new design?” Rebel asks as she lowers herself onto the couch next to me.
Her hair smells of cigarette smoke. I don’t look up from the sketch.
“Don’t know yet.”
“Remember when Daddy found your sketchbook and called you into his office? You thought he was gonna throw you out of the club for sure.”
I smile at the memory. “There were quite a few nude sketches of you in there; I had good reason to worry.”
She smacks me on the shoulder. “Instead, it was the beginning of a wonderful new career.”
I nod, my throat tight as it always is when I think of our late Prez. Gunner was a great man. He might not have been the best role model for his children or a faithful ol’ man to poor Shirley, but he was a visionary. He built this club from the ground up and dedicated his life to it.
Gunner saw things that weren’t obvious to the rest of us. Like when he found my doodles and arranged an apprenticeship for me at the studio where he got all his ink done. And then fronted me the money to open Inskpiration right before he died.
Sly likes to think that the drug transport deal he’s gotten for the Wolves is the shit, but now we’re just the cartel’s bitches. Rich slaves.
“I miss him,” Rebel says like she’s reading my mind, and I take her hand in mine.
She squeezes it gratefully. “Where’s DJ?”
“He’s with Rachel,” I say, and nod over to where they are.
Rachel’s looking at our joined hands and frowning. I quickly let go of Rebel’s hand, feeling sleazy all of a sudden.
“Wanna go upstairs and forget about the world for a little while?” Rebel asks in a low, sultry voice, and despite my better judgment, I feel a tiny spark of pleasure.
“Not right now, baby.”
Rebel looks hurt, but what can I do? I don’t want people to talk about what a pig I am, fucking around while my son’s mother is missing.
This is all such a mess.
“I just feel so guilty,” I explain, not wanting her to feel bad.
“It’s not your fault that she’s been taken,” Rebel protests.
“I feel like it is, though. Right before she went out, I’d decided that on January 1, I’d tell her we’re done. I know it’s irrational, but I feel like that had something to do with it. And now continuing to do things behind her back when she could be…”
I don’t finish that thought. I run my hand over my unshaven chin and face to regain some composure.
Rebel rubs my back soothingly. “You shouldn’t feel guilty for deciding to break up with her. You deserve to be happy. And please don’t feel like we’re doing anything wrong. We’re meant to be.”
She traces her finger over my neck tattoo. “My name is still under these vines, inside your skin. You were mine first. Marissa was simply keeping you safe for me.”
Something about this conversation is ramping up my anxiety. I glance over at Rachel, but she’s busy cooing at DJ, who’s jammed his entire fist into his mouth and is drooling all over it.
“No matter what happens between Marissa and me, I still want Junior to have his mom, you know. She’s a good mom, I won’t take that away from her.”
For a moment, Rebel looks like she wants to object to that, and I feel my fists clench in anger, but her next words and their tone surprise me.
“It’s hard for me to talk about this. I can’t even begin to explain to you how I felt when I saw her wearing my cut.”
I refuse to feel bad about this.
“You were gone for six years at that point, Bell. Marissa told me she was pregnant, and honestly, I was desperate to tie her to me somehow so she would keep it. I opened my closet and gave her the cut. Don’t make this out to be something that it’s not.”
“Okay.”
I see Rachel frantically waving me over before I can respond, so I immediately make my way over to her. She seems to be finishing up a phone call. Junior is on her lap, gnawing on her sleeve.
“Alright. Alright. Will do. Thanks again, Nickie. I owe you big time. Big time. Bye.”
She presses her phone against her chest and closes her eyes.
“A colleague from the hospital just called me. A woman matching Marissa’s description was dropped off at the hospital earlier. She’ll let me know as soon as she can find out more, but it’s a good chance it’s her.”