Secrets Revealed
Something is going on. Shooter came home after my shift last week and moved us all into his house. This whole ‘club business’ shit gets real old, real quick. Not that I need to know every detail, but when my safety is an issue to the point that I have to uproot my son and my mother to protect them, then damn, some information would be helpful. Granted, I haven’t come right out and asked questions either. Would Shooter give me answers or shut me out?
I can’t complain, or at least, I shouldn’t; Shooter is keeping us safe. His house is amazing with the three bedrooms, two full bathrooms, and the family room with a fireplace a girl could fall in love with. His kitchen is a dream to cook in, and he has a full dining room with a table that could seat eight. Everything about his place screams family home, yet he lives here comfortably alone.
The rooms and door jams are wide, easily accommodating Momma’s wheelchair when she needs it. Shooter, ever the gentleman, has moved to his empty room on an air mattress so Momma could have his room with the bathroom connected. He was sleeping on the couch the first couple of nights, although I tried to get him to let us all share one room. I would’ve given Momma the bed and slept on the floor with Axel, but since he wouldn’t let us do that, I went and bought the air mattress and set it up for him two nights ago.
Axel is on a cot in the second bedroom, something Shooter had stored in his garage. With Shooter being ex-Army, Axel is obsessed now with becoming a soldier like him. He thinks sleeping on a cot in our room here is the coolest. The room is void of decorations. The cot doesn’t get in the way since the space only houses a bed, small dresser, and single nightstand. Everything is minimal.
Honestly, out of the nine nights we have stayed here, Shooter has ended up in his guest bed with me. Too bad needing to be strong for my son doesn’t keep the nightmares at bay. I end up crying out in the middle of the night or waking up in a panic. No matter how quiet I try to stay, it’s like Shooter can sense it. He ends up holding me until I fall back asleep.
There is something about him that soothes me. He carries himself in a collected, calm, and controlled manner at all times; maybe my subconscious is drawn to that. As long as I am wrapped in the safety and comfort of his strong arms, I sleep without waking and without the nightmares.
Deciding to be as helpful as possible, I have given his already spotless house a spring cleaning. Light fixtures are cleaned, floors scrubbed, and vents dusted. With there being so little furniture cleaning is relatively easy. Feeling like I need to do more, I venture into doing laundry for Shooter. Mistake.
Don’t ask a question you aren’t prepared for the answer to. Don’t go in a man’s drawers, whether to innocently put laundry away or not, unless you are prepared to pull out some skeletons from his past.
The black velvet box in his sock drawer is haunting me. I have pulled it out and put it back more times than I can count on both my hands. The soft fabric under my fingers is a firm reminder this was once a gift for someone very special. The temptation to open the tiny box, to test the hinge, to touch the silk lining I am sure is inside, is almost too much to resist. The box is an enticing temptress. I keep going back to it.
Someone at some point in time meant so much to Shooter that he bought the contents of this box for her. In all the years I have watched Shooter leave the bar, he is mostly alone. The more I think on it, he has never arrived with anyone on his arm. Sure, I have seen him leave with Corinne a couple of times and a few of the other barflies, but Shooter isn’t like the others. He isn’t in your face with his sexual conquests. Someone had him at some point, though: hook, line, and sinker. He was there, ready to give them everything. Why does that pull at me so hard?
I am fumbling with the object of my curiosity when there is a noise behind me. Shit! I scramble, dropping the box at his feet.
“Baby, do I even want to know?” Shooter questions gently.
“Ummm… it’s not what it looks like.” God, I am so stupid. Of course it is exactly what it looks like. I was messing in his personal belongings, only I found it innocently, not because I was intentionally snooping.
“Can’t say I know what it looks like. How ‘bout we don’t beat around the bush and you just tell me why you had a ring box in your hands in my bedroom?”
Always honest, always blunt; he never plays games with me. Will he hate me for questioning him? This is beyond any of my business.
“I found it,” I reply truthfully.
“Where exactly did you find it?” he questions, picking up the object of my fascination. Opening the box, I see the sparkle of a small, emerald cut diamond engagement ring. “Never mind. I know where you found it.”
“I wasn’t snooping. I washed your clothes and went to put them away when I came across the box,” I try explaining.
“Tessie, just drop it.” He closes the box and wraps his hand around it tightly, his eyes appearing haunted. Watching him, my heart breaks.
“Where is she?” I boldly ask.
“Dead,” he replies, void of emotion.
“Shooter—”
“Drop it, Tessie. It was a long time ago. I’m sorry you found this. Thank you for doing my laundry.” He walks past me, returning the box to his drawer without another word. To further solidify his point that our conversation is over, he walks into his bathroom, closing the door without so much as a glance backwards.
In this moment, it dawns on me how little I know about this man, a man who has held me at my very worst. What have I done to support him back? Not a damn thing. It’s time for this to change. It is time for me to give to Shooter as much as he gives to me, at least emotionally.
How do I explain Tracie to Tessie? She would love me saying, ‘I know you can’t sleep until I climb into bed and hold you, but my ex shot herself because of me.’ I am sure Tessie would sleep really well then… not.
I never thought about her doing my laundry and finding the engagement ring. Hell, I forgot I had the thing. Yet again, Tracie has come back to remind me of what I won’t have.
Unable to avoid her in my house all night, I take a shower and make my way into the kitchen. Tessie, Claire, and Axel are all at the table working on Axel’s homework.
“What’s up tonight, Axel?” I ask in my new routine of finding out the daily activities of a first grader.
“Homework is stupid,” he replies candidly, making me laugh.
“What’s wrong? Homework is important, not stupid,” I lie, knowing damn well I always thought homework was stupid, too.
“I gotta do this worksheet, but Mom says I can’t use my answer.”
When I raise an eyebrow at Tessie in question, she shrugs her shoulders at me and drops her head.
“What’s the worksheet about?”
“My Dad, My Hero is what it’s called. The teacher says we can draw a picture of our dad or our hero. Then, tomorrow, we have to stand in front of the class and tell all about our dad or our hero.”
With two words, my gut twists uncomfortably. How does Tessie deal with this? He has to ask questions. What do the other kids think of Axel? It is not his fault his dad isn’t ready to be a dad and hasn’t been given the opportunity. I need to talk to Tessie about Rex. He needs to know. I will support her through the transition and explanations.
“What’s your answer, so maybe I can understand what the problem is?” I question, not really sure how to help the situation.
“You’re my hero, Shooter.”
His words are a kick in the gut. I am far from being a hero. I look at Tessie as tears fill her eyes, making it obvious they have already had this conversation.
Axel continues cheerfully, “You make my momma laugh and rest when she’s tired. Momma never gets to be happy. You give that to her, Shooter. That makes you my hero. You take care of my momma. I don’t have a dad that’s around. I’ve never met him. I can’t pick my dad so I have to pick my hero. Momma says my hero can’t be about her though. She says I can’t draw you, but I already did.
“Momma takes care of everything, and I mean everything. She cleans my room, she makes me food, and she makes sure I get a bath so I’m not the smelly kid at school. No one takes care of Momma till you. Tell her you’re my hero, Shooter. Tell Momma I can leave it like it is.”
Looking at Tessie, I see the tears roll down her face. Claire is wiping her eyes as I look at the bright blue gaze of the little boy at my table, pleading with me to make it okay for me to be his hero.
Walking over, I put my hand on Axel’s shoulder and nod at Tessie so she realizes I am going to give in. How can you say no when his reasoning is out of love for his mother? She is raising a smart, little man. A strong, little boy who knows what he sees, what he feels, and doesn’t hold back. A little boy I could only dream of having for a son one day. To be his hero is an honor greater than anything I have ever had.
“You can leave it, buddy.”
Really not wanting to do anything to upset her, he looks to Tessie for reassurance, and she nods her head in agreement. She has raised him all on her own to be this amazing, little boy. Does she see what a wonderful job she has done? Probably not. No one has been there to support her and show her just how great she is doing. What would things be like if Rex were in the picture?
The decision made about his homework, we clear the table of schoolwork to sit down for dinner together. Thinking this day couldn’t have any more emotional challenges, we all get a little too comfortable. Tessie is cleaning the kitchen after dessert while Axel takes a bath when the rumble of a Harley coming up my driveway draws my attention outside. Thinking it is most likely Boomer, I don’t react to it. Going to the front door, I open it to find Rex pulling up.
Fuck! I step out on my wraparound porch and shut the front door. Leaning against the railing, I wait for my brother to dismount. I meet him at the bottom step, hoping to ward off any thoughts he has of inviting himself inside.
“Shooter, I came by to check on Tessie.”
“She’s fine. Thanks for stopping by,” I try dismissing him.
“I’ve tried callin’ her. She won’t answer me. I wanna talk to her.”
“Tonight’s not a good night. Tomorrow don’t look good, either.”
The audacity of him to show up here now is appalling. He’s had his chance to step up and be a man. He should have been the one to claim her, but he didn’t. Now he comes to my fuckin’ house to mess with her head? Hell no!
I don’t get a chance to dismiss him again. The front door flies open behind me right before a pajama clad Axel runs out.
“Shooter, time for my bedtime story!” he excitedly announces our new routine.
I watch as the recognition dawns on Rex’s face.
“Fuck!” he roars, his tone stopping Axel in his tracks.