Hearts of Winter (Bleeding Angels MC Book 2) (8 page)

“Aimee, what a pleasant surprise,” Sally says, smiling brightly as she opens the door, but looking a little guilty all the same.

“Jake called you, didn’t he?” I ask, knowing how bad Sal is at keeping secrets.

“He just said that you might be stopping by,” she assures me.  Although the look she gives me says she’s guessed that Jake and I probably aren’t on best of terms at the moment.

“I know it’s late,” I start, only now realizing that it’s a little dark out to be arriving unannounced at someone’s door.  But the Summers household wasn’t just “someone’s” door—they were family.

“Nonsense.” Sally waves away my concern.  “Have you eaten?  I can heat up some leftovers if you’re hungry?” she asks, already making her way towards the kitchen as I follow behind.  As usual, she’s making it her mission to feed me up.  There’s comfort in routine, in knowing exactly what to expect.

“No thanks, Sal, I’m fine,” I assure her. 

I can tell she’s dubious, but she doesn’t challenge me. Instead she nods towards the decking outside.  “Bea’s out there,” she explains softly.  “I was about to go get her ready for her bath when Jake called.”

The idea of Sally, who had been and I suppose still is my mother’s best friend, bathing the tiny frame like she would a child, makes me feel so sad it’s almost hard to breathe.

“You’re amazing Sal,” I tell her, not for the first time.  “I won’t be long. I don’t want to keep you up,” I add, stepping out onto the deck.

“Take your time.” Sally waves in my direction as she heads out of the kitchen to give us some privacy.  “I know she’ll be pleased to see you,” she says softly.  There’s no judgment in her words—just an assessment of the situation.  Nothing more than that.

I take a deep breath as my feet hit the wooden deck.  My mother is in the swing seat that Jake and I used to pretend was a boat when we were little kids.  She doesn’t make any move to show that she’s heard me or that she’s even aware of me.  So I sit down slowly, careful not to disturb the gentle rhythm of the swing. 

The air is starting to cool as night falls.  We’re heading towards Fall and I’m grateful for the change in the weather.  The heat has become less overwhelming in recent days.  It helps with the panic attacks.  The warmer it is, the more claustrophobic I tend to feel and the more anxious I get.  It’s amazing how much good the occasional cool breeze can do. 

We sit in silence, swinging on the seat, and eventually I take my mother’s hands clasped in her lap and hold onto her.  The simple touch seems to awaken her from whatever it was that she has been dreaming about.  Perhaps she had been dreaming, or maybe just remembering.  I was never sure if she was sifting through memories of the past or just imagining a different present for herself.  A present that included my father.

“Hi momma,” I say softly as our eyes meet. 

“Aimee,” she breathes out contentedly and, with that one word, I feel like a terrible daughter all over again for not coming to visit her more often.

“How you doing?” I ask, smiling and squeezing her hand gently. 

I’m not really expecting any kind of response from her, bearing in mind the last time I’d seen her, a conversation didn’t seem like something that we could hope to aspire to just yet.

“Better,” she says as the silence stretches out between us.  She breathes out the word, as if it took all her strength just to say it out loud.

I feel my heart hammering against my chest in excitement. Not only has my mother understood that I was talking to her, but she’s also been able to respond.  I’m not sure if one question and one answer counts as a conversation, but it’s more than we’ve had for a while.

“Good momma, good,” I say softly.  “That’s great.” I nod as we both go back to looking out at the horizon.  Perhaps this was the trick of it—not expecting anything more than she was able to give.  Taking every step as a positive move in the right direction, not being angry over what’s missing, not carrying around this anger with me all the time.

It’s restful, just to sit in the silence of the desert night with my mother, holding hands and each thinking our separate thoughts.  The crippling loneliness that I’d associated with being around her doesn’t reach me—not tonight.  Once I feel ready, I say what I came here for.  I tell her the story of everything that’s happened since we were forced out of our home that night.  I tell her about Jake and me, how we just keep getting closer and closer, tonight’s argument notwithstanding.  I tell her about Big George giving me my job back at the diner and how good it is to know I have a friend like him.  I tell her about the night of the explosion and the army truck and how it might be the best chance that Jake and I are going to get.

“But he thinks it’s too dangerous. That there’s too much at stake for me to make it my business to tell the Feds what they need to know,” I explain, struggling to keep my voice calm so that I don’t spook her.  “I can’t just sit by and do nothing, especially when this may be the only real chance we have to get away from the Angels for good.” I sigh at the thought of how good it would feel to know they were behind us. To know that they couldn’t hurt anyone else.

“I keep thinking about what dad would do in my position.  I know that he would do everything that he could that would make anything better,” I say.  “I can’t give up yet, Mom.” I shift slightly in my seat to look at her.  “I’ve been angry at you for so long, for giving up when dad left,” I admit, and I wonder if I’m only imagining the movement of her hand when I mention my father.  “I still am.”

I search my mother’s face for some kind of signal that she’s listening to what I’m saying, or at least registering it in some way.  But her expression remains blank.  Regardless, I continue—now that I’ve opened the floodgates, there’s no stopping everything that I have to say to her from coming out.

“It’s been so hard doing all of this without you,” I tell her.  “There has been so much that I’ve wanted to talk to you about, to share with you.  But you weren’t here. Not really,” I say, motioning towards her semi-present state. 

“I know that I should have come and visited you earlier.  I know that I haven’t been the best daughter since all this started.  But it’s been hard.” I feel the tears coming to my eyes as I come to terms with the reality of how much I’ve missed having my mother to help me.  For all intents and purposes, I’ve been on my own—with a dead father and a mother that wasn’t much use to anyone.  I feel guilty blaming her for the way that she’s had to cope with the passing of my dad.  But at the same time, I can’t stop myself from feeling that way.  I can’t just turn it off.  “I’ve needed you in so many ways, for such a long time,” I tell her, my voice threatening to break.  “But you weren’t here.” I trail off, not knowing what was left to say.

We sit in silence as the seconds stretch out into minutes and the minutes stretch out into the night.  After a while, I become aware of a pressure on my hand and I look down to see that my mother is squeezing it.  There’s no mistaking it.  I look up into her face and she’s staring at me like she’s struggling to say something. Struggling to make herself heard or understood.

“Is there something you’re trying to tell me, momma?” I ask, searching her face.

“So… so… sorry,” she says eventually, straining to get the words out.  She stutters, as if the formation of the words themselves are foreign to her.  I notice that she sounds a little less cracked, as if she’s been speaking more recently, exercising her vocal chords.  Her expression is stricken as she says the words, but in the space of a split-second her face goes back to the mask of confusion that’s been her standard countenance in recent years. 

“It’s alright, mom,” I assure her, squeezing her hand in the same way she had mine.  “It’s not your fault.” There’s no response, and she keeps looking out into the distance.  But, as I have said the words, it’s as if a weight has been lifted from me.  It’s been a light bulb moment. The realization—and I suppose the acceptance—that what happened to her wasn’t her fault.  Rationally, it’s something that I’ve known for years. For as long as I’ve been able to understand what her illness meant.  But understanding something rationally and absorbing it emotionally are two different things.  Now, sitting on this swing chair together, is the first time that I’ve said the words out loud. It’s also the first time I’ve really felt as if they were true. As if I really mean them.

We sit like that for a little while longer, as I absorb and process what’s just happened.  I feel closer to my mother than I have in a long time.  I feel like things are at peace between us.  We’ve both said what we needed to. It’s enough, for now. 

I get a cold shiver.  The air has turned cooler and, as if by magic, Sally appears in the doorway.  She’s looking indulgently at the two of us on the swing chair, like she’s looking at her own kids.

“You two getting a little chilly out here?” she asks, leaning against the door-frame and looking so much like Jake it’s unreal.

“A little,” I concede and, even though it’s true that I’m feeling the coolness of the air through my thin denim jacket, I don’t want this moment to end.   This closeness that I’m sharing with my mother is more important to me than catching a cold.  But, one look at my mom’s tiny, bird-like frame tells me that she can’t afford to get sick. Not when she’s still so weak.

“I’ll help you get her into bed,” I tell Sally, finally standing and taking hold of my mom’s elbow to help her up.

“Don’t worry, I’ve got her,” Sally replies, crossing the short distance between us quickly and taking hold of my mother from the other side.  “There’s someone here to see you.” She looks meaningfully in the direction of the front door.  She doesn’t have to tell me who that “someone” is.

“Are you sure you’re alright with her?” I ask, still not convinced that I want to leave my mom.

“More than alright,” Sally assures me with a smile that has the wattage to light up a room.  “Now go and put my boy out of his misery,” she says playfully, waving me away while she supports my mother in her strong, capable arms.

“Okay,” I say, smiling my gratitude to her.  But, as I reach the door, I turn. “Thanks Sal. I feel like that’s the only thing I’m saying to you at the moment,” I laugh and shake my head at the truth of the statement.

“And I keep telling you not to mention it,” Sally reminds me, a twinkle in her eye.  “He’s waiting.” She signals with her chin towards the house.

“I’m going, I’m going,” I say, raising my arms in surrender and taking a deep breath, ready to face the music.

When I get to the front door, I find Jake out on the porch, looking down at his feet like a kid that’s been told off for doing something he shouldn’t.  The image of him, standing there in the dark, looking all apologetic and gorgeous, drives all rational thought out of my head.

“Hey,” I say, somewhat lamely, scuffing my shoe against the floor.  Suddenly, I feel very young.  It may seem strange, but one of the things that I love about Jake is how he makes me feel my age when I’m around him.  When I’m with him, I don’t have to pretend to be a grown up. I don’t have to carry the weight of the world on my shoulders.  With him I can just be a nineteen-year-old girl.  A nineteen-year-old girl in love.

“I hate fighting with you,” Jake says meaningfully.

“Me too,” I agree, stepping into his arms and feeling at home there.  “It was my fault,” I admit. “I was being way too hard on you.”

“Wow,” Jake says, whistling softly.  “An apology from Aimee Winters.” As if it was something rarer than gold.

“Ha, ha,” I say dryly, slapping him gently on the chest.  “Don’t get used to it.” My smile makes my warning a little less impressive.

“Are you ready to come home with me?” Jake asks, looking down at me with an intensity that means I can’t look away.

“I am home with you,” I tell him, going up on my tip-toes to kiss his lips softly.

As we walk away from the Summers house arm in arm, Jake comments, “You know, that was pretty schmaltzy.”

“Shut up,” I say with mock anger.  “You love all that stuff.  You’re the one that came out with the whole ‘I think we’re soul-mates’ thing,” I remind him, hoping that my red face hasn’t undermined my bantering tone.

“Okay, you’re right,” he admits, holding his arms up in surrender.  “I guess we’re even then.” He kisses the top of my head and I know it’s not my imagination that he inhales and sighs softly.

“Did you just smell my hair?” I ask him, barely able to keep from laughing.  “Because if you did, I think you just moved up the schmaltz-o-meter!”

“No,” Jake says, looking prim, “I have a cold.” But the smile threatening to break out on his face says differently.

“Sure, because who doesn’t get a cold in 90-degree heat,” I point out, nodding my head sarcastically.

“You talk too much,” Jake mumbles.

“You’re the second person to tell me that this week,” I note, wryly..

We walk in companionable silence for a little while until Jake comes out with something that he has clearly been waiting to ask me.  “Do you feel better now?” he asks, hesitantly.  “After talking to your mom?”

I nod slowly.  “I feel like I’ve said some things that needed to be said, exorcized some demons,” I admit, and Jake responds by tightening his hold around me as we walk.  His supporting arm around me makes me feel like I can say exactly what I need to without worrying about what he might think.  “I guess I never made it easy for my mom,” I explain.  “I was always a daddy’s girl.  We were so close, it was like it was hard for Mom to compete sometimes. It was Dad that I idolized, him that I ran to when I would fall down and skin my knee.  He was the one I wanted to read me bedtime stories at night.  Of course I loved my mom, but sometimes I wonder if I should have been more… even,” I finish uncertainly.

“What do you mean?” Jake prompts.  I’m struck again by just how well he knows me and how easy it seems to be for him to tune into me and know exactly what I’m thinking.  He always knows what I need and he knows that now I need to talk.

“I guess I feel bad for concentrating all my affection on my dad, and not giving my mom the same attention,” I say, my voice far away as my mind drifts back to those long summer evenings I remember spending with my dad.  “It was like he and I just got each other, you know?” I shrugged, unable to explain it any better.

Jake nods solemnly and kisses me on my temple without breaking stride.  “It’s different for me,” he says eventually. Something that he’s clearly been thinking about for a while.  But then he stops, and it’s my turn to figure out that whatever he’s driving at, it’s obvious he needs to get it out.

“Tell me,” I say, gently prodding him to carry on.

“I guess Mom and I have always been kind of like a little unit.” He shrugs.  “Don’t get me wrong—my dad’s great and we spend a lot of time together.”

“Well, you
do
work together pretty much every day of the week,” I point out. I’m starting to feel a little uncomfortable. It just reminds me that there’s clearly more to Jake’s family than meets the eye.  But not only do I not have any proof of what I suspect, but I also don’t have any right to plant a seed of doubt into his head.

“Yeah. I mean, we get along. He’s great,” Jake continues, clearly struggling.  I wonder if this is the first time he’s really admitted the truth to himself.  “It’s just… Sometimes it feels like he’s trying a little too hard. Listen to me.” He laughs at himself after a beat. “Boo hoo, my dad makes an effort with me—how tough is my life?”

“Hey, don’t do that,” I tell him, stopping us in our tracks.  “Don’t pretend that your feelings aren’t important or valid, because they are.  You don’t have to make excuses—not with me,” I remind him, reaching up to kiss him on the corner of his luscious lips.

“I don’t know how to explain it,” Jake continues after a few moments.  “Sometimes I feel like all my dad and I have in common is the body shop.  We don’t even look that much alike.” He shakes his head.

“That’s not so strange,” I muse, searching around for something to say.  “I look more like my dad than my mom, it’s just one of those things.” I shrug as if it’s no big deal, but wonder if I’m going directly to hell for all these little lies by omission.

“I guess,” Jake says after a moment, not sounding completely convinced.

“What are you driving at, Jake?” I ask as we’re nearing the body shop.  I resolve that if he says something that makes me think he suspects what I do, then I’ll tell him about the photograph that I found.  I wait, barely breathing, hoping that he’s going to come out with something important.

“Nothing, nothing,” he says, shaking his head, as if he’s knocking back a ridiculous thought.  “I guess… I was just trying to make you see that everyone has issues with their parents. I think it pretty much comes with the territory.” He smiles at me and then turns to open the heavy padlock on the door at the back of the body shop.

“Right,” I reply, telling myself that I should really grow a pair.  He deserves to know, at least as much as I do—or as much as I think I do—doesn’t he? 

“Are you coming in or are you planning on sleeping out there?” Jake asks ruefully as I remain standing outside the door.  I walk inside without responding.

“You okay?” Jake asks after I’ve been silent for longer than normal.  We both know that me being quiet isn’t something that happens very often.

“Yes,” I say quickly, wondering if my thoughts are plastered all over my face and as easy to read as I’m afraid they might be.  “Fine,” I add, more confidently, nodding emphatically.

“Okay…” Jake replies slowly, eyeing me like I’m more than a little crazy.  “I’m going to take a shower.” He nods in the direction of the bathroom. “And there’s always room for one more,” he notes, throwing me one of his trademark killer smiles.

“I’ll be right there,” I call after him, already feeling the tingle of anticipation as I think of his naked body, slick and smooth, under the running water.  But there’s a nagging feeling in my head that needs to be addressed before I let my body take over for a little while.

I need more proof, or even
some
proof beyond a fifteen-year-old photograph, that there’s some connection between Jake’s family and Travis. Or at least there was before he became Scar.  I can’t just come out with something to Jake that could potentially ruin his relationship with his parents. Especially when, in reality, I don’t know what I’m talking about. 

Even if you did
, the little voice in my head says,
Are you willing to break up the Summers family in the interest of what?  Truth?
I concentrate hard on telling the little voice to go take a flying leap off a bridge.  Although I’ve grown to hate her, she does have a habit of sometimes talking sense and, in this instance, she’s right.  I wouldn’t be able to live with myself if I was the cause of any hurt or pain to Jake or his parents.  They deserve much more than that from me. 

I start peeling off my clothes and let them drop to the floor in a trail behind me.  If I knew why Scar was so focused on Jake, why it seemed like he was so important to the Angels, then maybe I could figure out how to get Jake away from them.  I keep coming back to this as being the key that could hold unlock everything, and if that’s the case, then I need to find out what the secret is that Sally is so intent on keeping. 

But if Sally wants to keep whatever it is to herself, then maybe she has her reasons.
That’s a “maybe,” I admit grudgingly, but I also know that Sal would do whatever she could to keep her son safe. And that’s what we may be coming down to here: keeping Jake safe.  I know that I’m willing to do whatever is necessary for him to get away from the Angels for good.  Whatever is necessary.  Between the Feds and whatever connection the Summers have with Scar, there must be
something
that can keep Jake out of reach of the Bleeding Angels.  I have to believe that I can do this.