I start with the pleasure palace--because it's my least favorite room--and work my way back toward the main room. I skip over Jim's room long enough to finish the rest of them before I finally buck up enough to take care of it. The pleasure palace is my least favorite because of the sheer volume of gross going on in there, but Jim's room is the most difficult. It doesn't look any different from the other rooms when I first walk into it, and it's no bigger than any other room either. He's not messier than his brothers and it's not like it gets cleaned so seldomly that I find moldy food or dead rodents under the bed. It's just... the room smells like him. And when I open the door, it's the first thing I'm hit with. His scent. This intoxicating mix of leather and tobacco that's just subtle enough that the smell of his soap overrides it. There are only two rooms in the clubhouse that have their own bathrooms, and Jim's is one of them. He's been using this small room and attached bath as his home for a few weeks now. I don't even know when it started, but he's just kind of stopped going to his house. And I've had Ryan with me and Ian.
Silvia knows, and she's offered to take Ryan on her good days. If I'm being honest with myself, I don't let her because I want him with me, not because I'm worried about how much she can handle right now. It doesn't really matter though, because I think she knows. Ian is my son and I love him in ways I don't have words for. My loving Ryan doesn't take away from that love, it only adds to it. When Ryan's around, I see my little boy--not this shell that he was before we moved here--and for that alone I love that boy. But I also love his smile and his laugh. I love his heart and the way he seeks me out. I love the way he makes me feel needed and wanted and important. Ian's the only other person who's ever made me feel like this. So even though I'm tired and I want Jim to step up and be a damn parent, I also don't want to lose my boy. I don't relish the day I have to face the fact that Ryan isn't mine and no amount of playing mommy is going to make up for that fact.
Before I know it, Jim's bathroom is clean. None of the typical signs of life were on the floor or in his wastebasket. Signs of life being condom wrappers and random pieces of underwear. Jim chases me for months, acts like he's my friend, and then lets me clean up his fucking condom wrappers. When he first told me he can't remember Ryan's mother, I was surprised. Not that I remember a whole hell of a lot about Ian's father, but that's on him, not me. Asshole didn't even wait until the stick turned blue to cut bait. Maybe it was less about surprise that a man could have a kid with somebody he can't remember--not that it matters since she's dead--but more that Jim, my friend, a guy I thought was a decent person, couldn't remember a woman who'd supposedly told him she was having his baby.
"Men. Fucking pigs--the whole lot of 'em," I walk back into the bedroom, muttering to myself, with the garbage bag in hand and contemplate whether or not to toss the pile of dirty clothes from the floor into the bag. My grandpa had a rule about that shit growing up. You put your clothes away. They end up on his floor and he'd chuck 'em. Didn't matter what they were. It's tempting, but I have enough shit to work out with Jim to add that infraction to the list.
"What's wrong, Momma?" Jim's deep voice sounds curious, not worried. But I'm screaming from the shock of it. I thought I was alone. My right hand grips the half-full trash bag as I swing it out in front of me. My left just flies around maniacally. Only when I come to the realization that I'm screaming like a banshee do I come to my damn senses and shut myself up. Comfortably stretched out on the bed is Jim. His jet black hair is tucked behind his ears and his gray eyes dance as he smiles up at me.
"I hope you're better at defense when you're home with our boys."
Our boys?
I don't put a voice to the words that fly through my head, but I know damn well that my face is saying it for me. He has got to be fucking kidding me. I struggle every single day to be a decent mother to my own kid and because Jim can't step up and be a fucking father, I've got Ryan too. And he has the nerve to suggest that I can't take care of those boys on my own? Hell no and fuck that and fuck him, too.
And because this man makes me lose my marbles and doesn't even have the courtesy to patronize me a little, I let out another scream and throw the bag of trash at him. I don't run, which is really what I should be doing right now. MC's are all the same. The club is about brotherhood and the brotherhood is about pride and respect. Even though the guys try to turn the bullshit off with their women in private, they never fully do. Those patches and that ink becomes who they are, whether they like it or not. Jim would find me quickly, but at least I'd have a head start before I had to deal with the consequences of my actions. Because there are always consequences.
Always.
But I don't run because I promised myself I'm going to do different, better even, than before. I told Ian that we're home now, and I meant it. So I dig my heels in, chest heaving, eyes narrowed, and I dare Jim to say a word to me.
And because he's fucking stupid, he does.