Kid: Cerberus MC Book 2 (24 page)

“How can I fix this?” I ask staring at the poster of a half-naked woman on the wall. Even the sight of the blonde clad only in a tiny bikini that Snatch hung up years ago disgusts me. I close my eyes and let my body slide down the wall, defeated.

“I don’t know,” she says softly.

With legs drawn up, I place my arms on my bent knees, holding the beer bottle between both hands. I hang my head, counting the cracks in the concrete between my thighs.

“The only woman I’ve ever loved, and I ruined what we had in less than a month,” I tell the speck of an ant crawling aimlessly near my boot.

“You didn’t remember her,” Em offers similar words to what she’d told me earlier inside.

I raise my head and look into her sad eyes. “How could I forget her?” The tears begin again. “How could I lose the warmth that rages in my blood at just the sight of her? How could I fuck that slut and enjoy myself? I
enjoyed
sleeping with her.” I close my eyes again attempting to combat the sickness creeping up my throat again. “It was innate for me to come home from a job and grab a girl for the night. I did exactly what I’ve always done. How will she ever believe I love her if I can do that after a bump to the head?”

I see a tear roll down Emmalyn’s cheek before she speaks. “It’s more complicated than that, Kid, and you know it.”

“I can’t live my life without her, Em. My world was empty before she came along. I don’t want to lose her.”

“Give her time. That’s the only advice I can give you. She knows your memories were gone. This isn’t the same situation as if you were running around behind her back, or sleeping with Snapper to get back at her.” Emmalyn gets up from the chair, walking to the fridge. She reaches in and pulls out a beer and hands it to me, taking the empty bottle in my hands and throwing it in the large metal trash can with a thud.

“What if this were Diego? What would you do?”

She shakes her head back and forth as if she doesn’t even want the scenario in her head. “I can’t even fathom what Khloe is going through. Diego? I imagine he would be a lot like you are now.” She swipes at another tear. “I’d probably run, only, this time, he wouldn’t be able to just show up and bring me back. My heart would be utterly shattered.”

I nod my head, acknowledging my future without Khloe.

“She’s planning on leaving after her birthday,” Em says delivering the worst news yet.

I can’t blame Khloe if she chooses to leave.

“Where will she go? She has no one,” I implore trying to see the future in her soft blue eyes.

“She doesn’t even know at this point,” she answers. “Give her time,” she says again getting up from the chair and softly kissing the top of my lowered head. “Just give her time.”

That tear. The pain in his eyes. The tremble in his hand when he reached for me. The way his voice cracked when he said my name for the first time after his memories came back.

It broke me. I had to get out of there as fast as possible. If I’d stayed, I would’ve wrapped him in my arms and held him while he cried. I would’ve put his pain above my own, and that’s not something I’m going to do any longer. Putting others first is how I got in this damn situation to begin with. I should never have opened my heart to anyone. Not just him, it included Alec and my parents.

I barely made it through my door and into the bathroom before the ice cream curdled in my stomach from my despair. I prayed to empty my feelings, pain, and heartache out of my body as it released all the food in my stomach. It went on forever, largely in part because Em and I had been snacking on junk all day and then topped it off with more ice cream than could be consumed by a playground full of kids at a birthday party.

“Seems to be the theme around here,” Em says coming into the bathroom and placing her hands at my temples to pull my hair up.

“Getting sick?” I manage finally after the heaving stopped.

“Yeah,” she says softly wetting a rag as I flush the toilet, close the lid, and sit on top.

She hands me the rag, and I hold the cool wetness to my face. I shouldn’t feel a tiny twinge of joy from knowing that Kid was upset enough to also get sick, but I do. He has destroyed me, so it’s only fair that he suffer as well.

When I pull the washcloth away from my face, Em presents me with a toothbrush already loaded with paste. The sight of the dark blue stick makes my eyes water.

“Mine is the red one,” I say softly. “That one is his.”

“Sorry,” she mutters preparing my toothbrush, handing it to me, and rinsing the paste from his.

“Just put it in the trash,” I tell her before beginning to brush.

“You’re done with him? No chance? He’s pretty fucked up over this as well,” she says as she respects my wishes and throws the toothbrush in the small trashcan.

“I’ll always care for him,” I say as she steps aside so I can rinse my mouth. I try not to let my anger show. I’m not the one who’s done something wrong, but the tone of her voice in his defense rubs me the wrong way. I remind myself that they have been friends for a while, and I’m the newest addition to this group. Her loyalties lie with him, regardless that he was the one who took Snapper back to his room and fucked her the second he got back to the clubhouse.

“What am I supposed to do if this happens again? If I forgive him now, how much more will I have to forgive in the future? How easy it would be for him to do this again, and his expectation would be that I forgave him once, and I should do it again?”

She shakes her head. “That’s not what this is,” she seethes, the anger in her voice evident. “He’s fucking broken too!” She points toward the front of the clubhouse. “He collapsed on the damn floor and had to run outside to puke in the bushes. He didn’t get caught cheating. He lost his fucking memories.” I take a step back from her, unsure if this is going to turn violent. I’ve never seen her this way before, and I have no clue how she’s going to act.

Another tear runs down my face, and it pisses me off. The pain, the betrayal, and her defending him cause it all to reach the boiling point. I straighten my spine and narrow my eyes at her. “You don’t know what this is like. Diego would never fucking do something like this!”

“Kid would never do something like this if there weren’t extenuating circumstances! That wasn’t him, and you know it.” I see her take a calming breath before she continues. “That club whore Bunny made me think more than once that she was fucking Diego. I left him several times because of it. I know what it feels like.”

I shake my head and chuckle lightly. “The major difference is Diego never laid a finger on that whore while you were together. It’s not the same. Not by a long shot. I watched him take her by the hand and lead her out of that room. I watched her answer his door with her tits out in nothing but a thong. I saw,” I lower my voice to a sneer, “his hand print on her ass when she turned around. That,” I say taking a step closer to her, “is not the same as finding her in his room when he has no idea she’s there.”

I remember the story she told me about Bunny in agonizing detail. I can remember it vividly. I cried for her and the pain she felt, all the while feeling grateful in my heart because I was sure Kid would never do something like that to me. Who’s eating fucking crow now?

I quickly change out of my clothes and pull on an oversized t-shirt. With no energy to worry about a shower, I climb in the bed. Emmalyn sits down as well and leans her back against the headboard like she’s done a hundred times over the last couple of weeks.

“Well let’s not think about all that other stuff right now,” she says.

As if I can think of anything else.

“We have your party in a couple days, and the other guys should be back by then.”

“I’m not interested in a birthday party, Emmalyn.”

“Well,” she says quickly. “We can call it a welcome home for the guys, not a birthday party.”

I fluff my pillow under my head and look over at her.

“He’s going to want to talk to you.” I shake my head not even entertaining the thought.

“I’m not ready to talk to him. I don’t know if I’ll ever be.”

“Understandable,” she says kissing me on the forehead and climbing off the bed.

“You’re going to go see him aren’t you?”

She gives me a weak smile. “He’s my friend, too,” is all she says before leaving my room and closing the door softly behind her.

***

“You’re going to have to get it together, Khloe. Foster parents aren’t going to even want to touch you if you keep acting like this,” my caseworker says putting her car in park outside of the
Target
.

I close my eyes at her choice of words. The last thing I want is foster parents to touch me. That’s the whole reason I’m in the car to begin with. My foster dad has been coming into my room drunk for the last three months
touching
me.

My caseworker, of course, doesn’t believe me. Why would she? I’ve had trouble at every foster home I’ve been in since my parents were murdered. My record going against the deacon of a church didn’t stand up very strong.

I cringe at the memory of his disgusting hands roaming over my newly developed breasts. It takes a sick, disgusting man to want to abuse a young, thirteen-year-old girl. I did what I thought was best to get out of that situation. I call it a cry for help; the local police called it arson. At least it was his car not the damn house. It was the only way to get out of there before he could fulfill the promises he muttered in my ear the night before.

“When Carla and the other kids leave for the zoo tomorrow, I’m going to finally make you mine.
” I can still smell the beer on his breath and the callouses of his fingers between my legs.

“Are you even listening to me?” My caseworker turns in her seat to glare at me. “You’re seriously becoming more trouble than you’re worth,” she says climbing out of the car and leaving me alone.

My plan worked. I was pulled so quickly from that foster home, she didn’t even have a chance to grab my belongings. Hence, the reason she’s walking angrily into the store; she has to buy me a few things until the foster family can mail my other belongings.

I open the door a crack once it becomes too stifling in the car. She didn’t leave the keys, which means no air. This in and of itself I’m sure is child abuse. I know there are better caseworkers out there, I just drew the short stick once again.

I roll my head on my shoulders, praying my next foster home isn’t as bad as the one I just left. It’s always a gamble when I’m relocated with what I’ll end up in.

I look around the car for something to do or eat. My stomach is growling since I haven’t eaten much all day. First the trip to the police department, then waiting for the caseworker to come pick me up. No one offered to feed me, and I’m too stubborn to ask.

My bad luck continued when I got before the detective who wouldn’t believe me when I told him about Gary. It just so happens they go to church together, and Gary coaches his little girl's summer softball team. I hate knowing he may be abusing those girls as well. It should have been a clear sign to the detective when Gary decided he didn’t want to press charges.

“She’s just a destroyed little girl. She’s going to have enough trouble making it in life. No sense in adding criminal charges for her to contend with,” I heard Gary tell the detective right outside of his office door.

I spot a thick folder on the back seat. It’s familiar. My caseworker has it with her each time I’m moved to a new foster home. I reach for it, wondering if it would disclose some information about why I seem to land in the worst foster homes imaginable.

I open it; the first page contains my information sheet. I flip through the paperwork on the left-hand side. School records, doctor’s information, and my most recent psychological report. That should make for interesting reading. There would be nothing like finding out that you’re crazy, and only equally crazy people will foster you.

I’m reading about my diagnosed depression and social anxiety when the wind blows in from the gap of the open door, fluttering the pages on the right-hand side of the file. A scanned letter covered in red splotches catches my eye then disappears again as the wind shuffles the pages more. I flip through the file again until my eyes land on the letter.

It’s a note, and I’m certain the red spots are blood. My heart thrums in my chest, growing erratic as I read my mother’s last words. My father had been cheating. He had a long-term affair with another woman. He had a whole other family. She couldn’t take the pain, the humiliation that went along with being a wife and a mother who lived for years without knowing her husband had committed such a betrayal.

She wrote that she didn’t mean to kill him, but the argument got out of hand. He was going to leave her; she couldn’t allow that. She shot him.

I found them dead after returning to the house after a sleepover with a neighborhood friend. I squeeze my eyes shut as the sight of my parents, crumpled side by side and covered in blood on the living room floor come back to mind.