Sometimes, on days like today, I have to remind myself how much better my life is now. Three months ago, when Ian and I got to Fort Bragg, we had nothing but a suitcase and a backpack between the two of us. My boy had one pair of shoes. He had nightmares almost every night. Not just nightmares, but full-on night terrors that had him completely flipping out, screaming, and hurting himself. The six months before we got to California were undoubtedly some of the worst of his short little life. Before men who swore to protect us became the monsters that hunted us, Ian was a happy little boy who took our chaotic life with the ease of a child who knows nothing else. Afterward, he was nervous and on edge all the time. Even the times the clouds seemed to lift, he was still only a fraction of his old self. But now? In the last three months, I've seen more of who my boy used to be than ever before. And even though right now I'm ready to string him and his troublesome best friend up by their toes, I'm grateful for the life I have. Hell, I'm also grateful that Ian has a friend, much less a best friend.
I keep all these happy, sappy thoughts in mind as I carefully pull up to the elementary school in my borrowed minivan. It's a nice minivan, as far as minivans go, but it's not mine and so I'm driving like Miss Daisy. I don't actually know who it belongs to because Jim won't tell me. Not that we talk all that often. In the last three months, I've determined a few things about Jim Stone. He's not going to physically harm me. He meant what he said when he told me I wasn't going to be paid to have sex. He really is trying to help. Still, I don't know what his angle is. Nobody does something for nothing, and Forsaken's been doing a whole lot for me and my boy. When I got my first paycheck--or envelope full of money--I thought somebody had made a mistake. There was more than three times what I expected to find. After trying to ask Jim about it, he told me to talk to Ryan--his nine-year-old son--who's the one who told Jim he better pay me well. Two weeks later, Sylvia, Jim's mom, helped me find a little studio for me and Ian really close to the clubhouse. Despite the daggers the woman throws out of her eyeballs, she hasn't given me any trouble and she's good to my boy, treating him just like he was her own.
Ryan Stone. God, that kid is adorable. He's also a fucking handful, with a mouth that's made me blush a time or two and an attitude to match. Most days I can laugh it off, but this isn't one of those days. It's only the third day of summer school and I'm already getting a call to pick both boys up early. The lady on the phone didn't say anything except that there were behavioral issues. Which is just freaking perfect. Ian does not need to miss any school. As it is, I'm damn lucky Fort Bragg has a summer program to catch him up for the upcoming year. As long as he does everything that's asked of him and he scores high enough on his tests, they'll place him in the fourth grade, like he's supposed to be. Poor Ryan only got screwed into summer school because Jim got excited about free daycare. Not that the boy couldn't use some extra help. He's behind in writing and math but excels in reading.
Tentatively, I smooth down my hair and walk into the office. I almost forgot how brightly decorated elementary schools usually are. All in all, this seems to be a good one, not that I know a whole hell of a lot about it despite the fact that Ian's been to six different schools so far. I'm determined to make sure there's not a seventh. So when Jim Stone tells the school I can pick Ryan up and deal with his shit, I'm doing it. Even if the ridiculous little boy isn't mine, it looks like he's my responsibility for the day. I just hope his dad doesn't mind the fact that he's going to have to live by my rules, then.
"Can I help you?" Denise, the school's secretary, looks about middle-aged with only minor graying in her light brown hair. She has a friendly smile on her face, just like the two other times I've met her, and seems to really care about the kids.
"Yeah, I got a call to come pick up my kids." The words roll off my tongue before I even realize I've said them. Ryan's not mine--I know that. Sometimes it sure feels like it, though. With his dad coming in and out of the clubhouse at all hours, just leaving the kid there with me and Ian, I sometimes wonder if he even realizes his son exists. There's been no mention of a mother figure, and the only people I've ever seen take much time with the kid has been Sylvia and Jim. Once in a while one of the members' old ladies will talk to him or give him a hug, but all in all, I think the boy is starved for affection. My hackles rise, remembering Jim's threat to take Ian away if I didn't get my shit together. The more I think on it, the more pissed off I become. There's more than one way to fuck a kid up, asshole.
"Their names?"