Aced

“Ace is hungry,” he says, pushing my shoulder again.

And even though he says the words and I can hear Ace cry, that innate instinct isn’t there. There’s cotton in my mouth. I can’t tell him no. I’m not sure that I want to either. But at the same time the only word I can use to describe how I feel is listless.

You’re just tired. You got an hour’s sleep when you really need twelve. Your body is sore, changing, working overtime to produce milk and heal, and is making you more groggy than ever.

That’s all.

“’Kay.” It’s all I say as I roll on my side and lift up my shirt on autopilot. My breasts ache they are so heavy with milk. Colton lies Ace down beside me in the middle of our bed as I guide my nipple into his mouth.

Ace latches on, and I wait for that feeling to consume me. The one I’ve gotten every other time we’ve connected like this in the most natural of actions. There’s usually this soothing calm that spreads throughout me, like endorphins on speed. And this time when Ace latches on, all I want to do is close my eyes and crawl back into sleep I desperately need.

“I’ll be right back,” Colton says, causing panic I don’t quite understand.

Don’t go! I shout the words in my head and yet my lips make no sound. My throat feels like it is slowly filling with sand. My chest feels tight. Sweat beads on my upper lip.

Get it together, Ry. It’s just your hormones. It’s the adjustment period. Mixed with exhaustion. And feeling like I don’t know what in the hell I’m doing even when I do.

Tomorrow will be better.

And the day after that even more.

“YOU WANT TO TELL Me what we’re doing here, son?”

I glance over to my dad and then back to the garage across the street from us. I don’t say a word. And even if I wanted to tell him, I’m not sure exactly what to say. My body vibrates with uncertainty. Head and heart an ocean apart on this decision. My leg jogs up and down where I sit in the passenger seat. Jet Black Heart conveniently plays on the radio and all I can do is hum the words that hit too close to fucking home.

My dad’s car stands out like a sore thumb in this neighborhood. Sleek and red, subtle as far as my standards, but flashy for this rundown part of town. Guess I should have thought about that when I called him up and said, “I need you to drive me somewhere.”

No other details given.

And of course within an hour he was at my house, passenger door open for me to scoot in. No questions asked. Almost as if he knew I needed time to work through all the shit going on in my head.

No small talk. No bullshitting. Just a turn of his steering wheel when I indicated to take a right or a left as we drove.

So why am I here? Why am I chasing this goddamn ghost when the man beside me is all I’ve ever needed?

It all comes back to full circles. Eventually everything connects. Now I just need to see the connection for myself before I leave it there and walk away for good.

My elbow rests on the doorjamb, my hand rubbing back and forth on my forehead as I stare at the dilapidated storefront. The mechanic’s bay is open on the side, a late model sedan up on a lift, rusted parts just to the outside of the door, but it’s the pair of boots I can see standing on the other side of the car that holds my attention.

Buck the fuck up, Donavan. It’s now or never.

“Be right back,” I say as I open the door, realizing I never answered his question. With my heart in my throat and a pocketful of confusion, I walk across the sidewalk and up to the open bay, wondering if I’m about to come face to face with my worst nightmare or a man who has no clue I even exist.

Flashbacks hit me like a car head-on into the wall: fast as fuck, out of the blue, and knocking the wind out of me. Memories so strong I feel like I’m back there in that room, full of shame, shaking with fear, and fighting the pain.

My feet falter. My pulse pounds. My conscience questions me. My stomach rolls over.

And just as I’m about to turn around and retreat, the man comes walking around the front of the car. I freeze.

“Get the fuck out of here!” he growls. And at first I think he’s talking to me but then I see him kick the flank of a mutt standing just inside the door. Its yelp echoes through the garage and fades but tells me so much about this man in the few seconds I’ve been in his presence.

Only assholes kick an animal.

He sees me the same time I see him. Our eyes meet, green to green. Just like mine. Curiosity sparks. His greedy eyes flicker to the expensive car behind me, to my watch, and over my clothes

My first thought: It’s not him. He’s not the fucker who haunts my dreams and stole my childhood. The exhale I thought I’d give doesn’t come. Relief mixed with confusion adds to the pressure in my chest.

We stare at each other like caged animals trying to gauge the situation. Figuring out why it feels like there is a threat when none has been made.

I take in every detail about him: hair slicked back, cracked hands stained with grease, a cigarette dangling from his lips, a teardrop tattoo at the corner of his left eye, and the unmistakable stench of alcohol. A sneer is on his lips and a chip weighs visibly on his shoulder.

My second thought: I know your type. Your lot in life is everyone else’s fault. Bad luck. Hard time. Never your fault. Entitled when you don’t deserve shit.

I stare at him—jaw clenched, eyes searching—and wait for a reaction. Anything. Something. The little boy in me figuring that in some fucked-up way he’d know I was his son. Some kind of recognition. A sixth sense.

But there is nothing. Not even a flicker in his dead eyes.