Page 13 of Blue-Eyed Jacks (Destroyers MC: Skilletsville PA #1)

P regnant. Phrases like one in a thousand and limited effectiveness swam in my head.

One in particular stood out. “Certain depression and anxiety medications can interfere with your birth control.” Damn Shock all to hell for getting in my head after over a year of work.

No sooner than I filed for divorce, the nightmares came back.

Along with it, the need to return to medication.

And because of that, and finally feeling safe with Jackson, I was in this situation.

Even scared out of my mind, alone, and waiting for Crystal to come back to pick me up, I had one hand over my lower stomach as if to protect the potential human in there from what was to come.

It. Him? Her? I wouldn’t know for a while.

Would they look like Jackson or me? Was this even real?

My breathing was shallow, but slow. Paced in such a way that the panic was a low ebb of waves like a gentle shoreline.

My freakout was filed away as happening, yet I answered questions, knowing underneath it all I wasn’t there.

I was shut away, maundering in that limbo between reality and terror. Crystal pulled up in her truck.

Where would she put the car seat?

“You okay?” She helped me in, instinctively knowing there was something wrong with me.

“You’re right.”

She waited for me to say more. To confirm a fear no woman isolated and near penniless wanted to have. I could barely take care of myself; how would this work?

“Should I be sorry about that?” The words were harsh, almost accusing.

They shocked me out of the panic and fear into anger. “No. It’s my own damn fault.”

She nodded sharply. “Technically, both of your damn faults.”

I glared at her.

“It takes at least two, you know. Are you going to tell him?”

I couldn’t. Even if it was the right thing to do, he’d explicitly warned me to never contact him again. “I’m not supposed to contact him.”

“Bullshit. He’ll want to know.”

“You know this how?”

She shifted the truck into gear and began the slow trip back to the island.

Just before the bridge, she admitted one of her secrets.

“His father, One-Eyed Jack, was the kind of man who tried very hard not to get any of his girls pregnant. But was one hundred percent vested as soon as possible. Only Jackson survived to be born, though.”

That was… horrific. “His father was—”

“A biker, a pimp, one of the girls’ biggest customers. And, overall not a bad man, despite all the murder and shit.”

I blinked, not believing my ears. “Wait a minute, Jack’s son… Jackson? Oh my fucking God, I don’t even know his real name. Damn it.” He’d made up names so easily. Bill, James… Ugh.

Crystal was kind enough to keep her laughter silent. But her shaking shoulders gave her away.

“What is his real name?”

She sighed. “Honestly? I don’t even know if his mother remembers it. Everyone’s called him Jackson since the day he was born. One look at him, right out of the womb and that damn eyebrow was right there staring everyone in the face.”

I knew exactly what she meant. I’d traced it one night, marveling at the clean angles of it. “Not even a hint?”

“Nist. That’s his last name. Like list with an N. Not many of them around.”

That tidbit got filed away. “Was his father Jack or John?”

“John. John Edward Nist. John named him James. James Campbell Nist.”

More trivia to bury deep inside should I ever need to dig it up. I labeled that with “Break glass in case of emergency.”

“You’re keeping it, ain’t ya?”

At first, I didn’t move, but I nodded slowly as it sunk in.

If I could get angry at Crystal for being sharp with me, I had enough fight in me to see this to my grave.

No matter how long it took, this child would know my love, the love of this tight-knit community, and maybe grow up to be…

I pondered over that. Would I be the kind of parent who pushed her—wait, him, they, them—face it, I wanted a boy, but knew my life and luck would make it a girl.

So, her. Would I push her to be something she didn’t know whether she wanted to be that person, or would I let her discover it on her own?

I never wanted to be the person I’d been. My father pushed me into it. That was quite enough to solidify my plan. She’d do whatever she wanted, when she wanted, and get one hundred percent support from me no matter what.

“You’re thinking awful hard over there.”

For that, Crystal got a smile. “Is it better, as a parent, to try to mold a child into what they can be or let them be who they want to be?”

“I’m team let them be who they want.”

“I think I am, too.”

She had to concentrate on the bridge traffic, so she was silent for a minute.

That continued as we weaved through the little Main Street of the town at the bridge’s feet.

Crystal waved at the mayor. I did, too, sending him a cheery “Hi, Hank” as we passed.

He smiled and waved back, leaning a bit forward from his perch outside the local ice cream shop.

One day my daughter would hang out there. And maybe Hank would still be mayor.

“Wait til he hits his teen years; you’ll regret that decision.”

“What if it’s a girl?”

“God help us all. A girl with One-Eyed Jack’s blood. Poor kid. She’ll be running this town by age twelve.”

It wasn’t difficult to imagine that.

“It’s a good thing you live right next door to the sheriff. He’ll know where to drop her off when she gets in trouble.”

The sly way Crystal smiled at me was annoying. But the worst part of it was that I could also picture the scenario she conjured up. “Okay, maybe not team freedom.”

“Balance, like nature. Find the right blend of discipline and love and freedom with boundaries; she’ll be fine.”

She . My hand stroked my stomach.

I happily pictured that for a minute or two, but Crystal was too quiet. “What’s wrong with you?”

She stopped outside my house-shack. “Better wait to tell him. Just in case it doesn’t make it.”

Oh .

We sat there, each weighing the risks, choices, life, death, and all that lies in between. “Okay.”

I hopped out of the truck and planned the next remodel. Winter would be here soon. And then… April.

Too soon, it was a capricious, nasty, tricky spring in Maine.

Fifty degrees one minute, snowing the next.

Icy, sunny, spitting rain and freezing cold, or almost balmy.

I’d finished remodeling everything but the living room.

In the gut of the bathroom, the bones for a decent kitchen were born, and I had a real tub with hot and cold running water, but still relied on the wood stove in the living room.

Which meant keeping the haphazard bookshelves, antique paneling, and ratty carpet until I could find time and energy to rip everything up.

But mostly, I was just too cumbersome to do more than fix the petty stuff within reach. I couldn’t even accompany Crystal to check on the mansions near the lighthouse. Doctor’s orders. Or in this instance, traveling nurse’s orders. I was due any day now, and had been since April 15th.

Zoe, the baby girl in my womb, was alarmingly big, kicking hard, and taking her sweet time in dropping. But last week, everything shifted and changed and now it was a struggle to waddle. Or sit. Or stand. Or pee. Or not pee.

“I hate your father right now,” I told the empty house and the child who wouldn’t understand. But in an odd way, or maybe because Zoe was Zoe, she took that as a cue to kick.

“Good one. Now I have to pee again.” Or change clothes. I stuck my hand between my legs to hold the water in. But there was too much. And a bit of pink.

“Shit. Shit-shit-shit-shit-SHIT.” That wasn’t pee.

My instinct was to call Crystal, but she was at least two miles away on twisty, icy roads.

John. Right. I dialed nine-one-one, hoping to be patched directly to my neighbor next door. I’d barely explained my predicament when the squawk of radio chatter was outside my door. I grabbed a towel from the bathroom and a blanket to wrap in and whipped the door wide. “I’m in labor.”

He had the radio in one hand and the other raised to knock. His mouth was open, but I didn’t give him time to talk.

“Move,” His car was just down the street and I was determined to get my ass in it.

“Hold on, it’s icy.” He stuck his arm out, radio and all, for me to brace myself on.

Which worked for the steps I kept meticulously salted, but as soon as I hit the road, I slid.

He came down with me and slightly under me so I hadn’t landed hard, but it tore something loose. Cramps that wouldn’t let up started at my back and shot right to my crotch. “John?”

“You okay?”

“No.” I fought to keep the tears inside. I was going to die. Zoe was going to die. “Help.”

He tried to stand up and offered a hand.

I shook my head. “Get the car right here, help me in the back. Get me to the hospital as fast as possible with these damn roads.” I spoke each word carefully and didn’t yell, but you’d have thought I did.

Twenty miles an hour was the maximum speed. On the bridge, he hit his lights so people would move out of the way for us.

I breathed like I was supposed to and held on for dear life with the single intent of getting to the hospital without screaming or hysterics or anything.

But I was freaking out. The hospital would take my name into the system.

Shock would find me. He’d take Zoe. He’d kill Jackson.

“John, do you have any cousins who are terrible?”

“What?”

“Cousins, relatives, something, someone I can blame this on and use their last name for the hospital. Shock is going to find me.”

Crystal and I talked about this at length.

She’d told me about her third cousin, Barry Hunnebaker, who was a drug addict with little memory.

Blaming him with her say-so was our plan.

But something about giving Zoe a mouthful last name like Hunnebaker killed me inside.

I wanted something shorter. Fewer syllables.

“John?” I searched the mirror to see his face.

His eyes met mine. “You’re asking me to lie.”

I was. A cop, my friend, my neighbor. One of the few people who gave a shit about me. “I’m sorry.”

“No, I get it. I did some digging on your ex. He’s a piece of work.”

That was an understatement.

“Back in the day, there was this guy who’d come fishing every summer. He brought his kid with him.”

Was he talking about One-Eyed Jack? I panted and listened as hard as I could.

“Every year, he’d make up a new name. One year, he was Johnny Van Zandt. But I knew some Van Zandts and called him on it. Said at least change up the name a bit if you’re going to pretend you’re someone famous. Ol’ Jack laughed at that.”

“The point?” We were about five minutes from the hospital despite the slow speeds. The roads here were good, barely icy at all. The rain was just that, rain.

“Point being, pick your favorite rock star.”

“I don’t have one.” Those damn posters flashed in my mind and made me ill on top of everything else.

“Country singer?”

“I hate music.”

“Pick any name then.”

Jackson, Zoe Jackson, echoed in my head. I searched for a name that wouldn’t tie to her father so tightly. “Brown. Last name Brown, first name…” I was at a loss.

“Jackson Brown, huh?”

He’d seen through me too easily. I had to throw him off track. “ Dick . Dick Brown.”

John snorted. “That’s awful. But okay. Richard Brown it is.”

Zoe Brown. Not ideal, but easy enough to throw someone off track, right?

Zoe Regina Brown was born at four-fifteen in the afternoon on April 24th.

Her father, Dick that he was, was out of the picture.

And I, one Katherine Jackson, with no insurance, was glad of it.

Everything about her paperwork was a lie.

One corroborated by an upstanding member of the local police force, so no one questioned any of it.

Crystal sat with me, holding Zoe as she slept. “You tell him yet?”

Him . “I will.”

“You have to, as soon as possible. He’s going to flip out if you keep it secret.

He’s got too much of his father in him not to.

” She cooed at Zoe and traced her eyebrows.

One sweetly curved with a little perfect arch, the other crooked and angular, just like too many men in her family line.

It gave her a puzzled look. Like one that asked, “What the fuck have you gotten me into, Mom?”

A mess, that’s what I’d gotten her into. One I intended on cleaning up, hiding, or burying as soon as I could.