Page 11 of Property of Shotgun
Startled, I blink at him wordlessly for a moment. Shotgun turns in his stool, but he just stares at me, his expression blank. “You need something? The boys?—”
I tear my eyes away from Shotgun and meet Biggie’s gaze. “We’re leaving. I have a doctor’s appointment tomorrow, and Legend has school. We need to get back to our routines.”
“Honey,” he sighs. “It isn’t safe.”
“I understand the concern, so I will tolerate a prospect. You can have him tail me or stand guard at the house. Whatever you decide, I won’t try to interfere, but I can’t stay here. I will lose my mind, Biggie, and my kids can’t afford to lose another parent. I’m asking for your grace.”
My voice quivers at that last part. I’m not opposed to begging if that’s what it takes.
He turns his attention to Shotgun which results in me doing the same. I can tell by the tight set of his jaw he doesn’t like the idea.
“It can’t be Skid,” he says firmly, his eyes cutting to Biggie. “The kid can’t even tie his fucking shoelaces.” He turns back to me. “Just so we’re clear, I don’t like this.”
That comes as no surprise to me. The man forced a brother to take his shirt off at my husband’s funeral so I wouldn’t stand barefoot in the dirt. It’s also no surprise that my oldest has been clinging to him since he learned his dad died. Legend has always favored his Uncle Shotty, and I know he’s going to need him, probably about as much as Shotgun is going to need Legend to feel close to Irish. I’m not looking to take that away from either of them. I just need time.
“I didn’t think you would.” I tilt my head and study him, noting he looks as exhausted as I feel. “The boys will expect you to visit, especially Legend.”
His Adam’s apple bobs with a swallow. “Just say when and I’m there.”
Typical of him to leave it up to me. I always thought he’d be the friend that camps out on the couch after Irish and I got married, but Shotgun never showed up without an invitation. He’s like the family member that never wants to overstay his welcome, always keeping his distance until someone tells him it’s okay to be an active participant in the family.
“Where’s Dad, today?” The sonogram technician asks as she squirts the gel onto my belly. “When I saw your name on the schedule, I got excited. He always brings the office pastries from Alba. Tell him he owes me a cannoli next month.”
Getting the kids out of the house this morning was brutal. Irish always made sure to take Legend to school, giving me a little extra time to get myself ready before I dropped Raiden at his preschool program. Of course I misjudged time, so everyone was late. After I left Raiden’s school, I sat in my truck and cried for ten minutes.
I’m realizing now, those precious minutes would’ve been better spent preparing for my first sonogram appointment without my husband.
When I don’t respond, the technician turns to face me, and her eyes go wide when they see the tears spilling down my cheeks.
“Oh my God. Did I say something wrong?”
Boy, did she ever.
I wipe away my tears. “My husband passed away unexpectedly.”
That sounds a lot better than saying my husband was killed by a guy named Fatmir. It didn’t make the news because the guy who brought you cannolis was a one percenter in a motorcycle club and they’re masterminds of keeping untimely murders under wraps.
A gasp flies past her lips, and she quickly lifts her hand to cover her mouth. “I’m so sorry Mrs. Callahan. Please forgive me.”
Shotgun: How’d it go at the doctor?
I stare at the text for a few moments, hating that it’s him texting me. My anger isn’t even rational. I mean it’s not like Irish ever texted me after a sonogram appointment. There was never a need, he was always there. He was also always the first to take the sonogram photos we got at the visit and add them to the previous ones on the side of the fridge.
That reminds me I didn’t add the new photo. Setting my phone on the counter, I walk into the living room and grab my oversized Louis Vuitton purse. The strip of photos is right on top of my wallet, and I feel a faint smile touch my lips when I see my unborn son.
“Eight more weeks,” I whisper, pressing my hand to my belly. He isn’t very active today, but that doesn’t alarm me. All my boys like to kick when I’m lying down. They’re generous like that.
I head back into the kitchen, tacking the sonogram photos on the fridge with the others, before doing another sweep around the room. All the dishes are done. Legend’s lunchbox is clean and ready for the next day. I didn’t take out the garbage, or separate the recycling, but I’ll do it tomorrow. There are three baskets of laundry waiting for me upstairs.
Swiping my phone from the counter, I close the lights in the kitchen and head for the stairs, but I pause at the door, making sure I set the alarm. Through the glass panels on the front door, I spot Fuckface. I wasn’t paying attention to notice if he followed me from errand to errand, but I heard the distinct sound of his bike when I was cooking dinner. Come to think of it now, I probably should’ve sent him out a burger. If he’s still there in the morning, I’ll bring him out a cup of coffee.
I climb the stairs, phone still in my hand and another text from Shotgun comes through.
Shotgun: ?
Reaching the top of the landing, I swipe my thumbs over the screen and start to reply to his text.
It was horrible. The technician asked where Irish was, and I burst into tears.
