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“You’re the one tryin’ to take my babies.”
She throws her hands in the air. “Oh, grow up. I’m not trying to take anything. I’m just trying to keep them safe. I’m their mother. I have that right.”
“I’m done with this conversation.”
“God dammit, Spike,” she yells, her voice cracking, “why do you always have to make things so damned hard? I’m trying to talk to you, to help you. We’re in a relationship, or have you forgotten that?”
“I’m not the one who forgot that,” I growl.
I know the moment the words leave my mouth I’ve pushed the wrong button. I’m wild, angry, but fuck I never meant it. I know it, yet it doesn’t make me take them back. I have a knot inside my chest, an angry bubble that needs to be unleashed, and Ciara decided today was the day she wanted to fight.
Fuck me.
I’m being a cock, I know it.
She is only trying to help.
I open my mouth to respond but I don’t get a word out, the absolute pain in her face and her words stop me. She’s wild now, angry and upset, and I don’t blame her. “How dare you,” she hisses, her hands shaking. “You were the one who told me to go, to find who I am and now you’re going to punish me for it?”
I grit my teeth and close my eyes, fighting for calm. “Didn’t mean it.”
“And yet you said it.”
A tear rolls down her cheek, and I know I’ve crossed the line.
“Tom Cat ...”
“No. I’m done with this bullshit. If you’re not going to talk to me, to tell me what’s going on in your head, then I’m not going to waste my time standing here. I am taking the kids to my parents’ when I go this week, so you can have a god damned minute to figure out who the fuck you are and what you want.”
There goes that rage again. “Those fucking assholes are not lookin’ after my children.”
“Those fucking assholes are their grandparents.”
“Because they did a fuckin’ stand up job with their own kids,” I bark.
Ciara shakes her head as more tears roll down her cheeks.
“Try and fight me on this, Spike.”
She turns, walking toward the door. “Ciara!”
She doesn’t look back.
Fuck.
Fuck.
Fuck.
“TELL ME WHERE TO FIND the fucker,” I roar, slamming the man against a tree as he splutters blood from his split lip all over my face. “Fuckin’ tell me before I gouge your fuckin’ eyes out with my bare hands.”
“I don’t know,” he croaks. “Only a few people have that privilege.”
“Then tell me,” I grind out. “Where the fuck do I find the privileged?”
“You’re going to kill me anyway, so I’d rather die not telling you a fucking thing.”
This guy, he’s young, maybe late twenties, but he has a strength about him that I admire. No matter how hard I’ve pushed, or what I’ve done, he won’t break. He doesn’t scream, he doesn’t flinch, he just holds strong, his piercing blue eyes never leaving mine. There is a level of respect for someone who is that loyal, and if I were running my own club, I’d take him in.
