Page 7

Ian is silent on the drive to the hospital, and I’m worried about him. He’s been on the edge since he received the blackmail note, and finding out his birth mother is still alive has been a shock. I think he assumed she was dead—probably of a drug overdose. But she’s not. And he’s struggling to process that information. I know he resents her for how she treated him when he was young, but I have to think there are some tender feelings in there as well, perhaps buried deep. Really deep.

I park in the emergency room parking lot, and we walk in together. Ian hangs back and lets me do all the talking at the information desk.

“We’re here to see Rhonda Mitchell,” I tell the woman seated at a computer. “We were just notified that she was brought in.”

The woman types something into the computer. “And you are?”

Ian steps up to the counter. “I’m her son.”

I certainly wasn’t expecting him to say that.

“She’s in room number five.” The woman presses a button, causing a large, automatic door to swing open. “Right through there. Take the first right and then turn left. Her room will be at the end of the hall.”

“Thank you,” Ian says as he leads the way.

I’m right behind him, wondering where this sudden confidence came from. This is a good thing, right?

We follow the signs to room five. There’s no door, but a privacy curtain is drawn. I hold the curtain aside so Ian can enter.

Rhonda is lying on a wheeled bed, a white blanket covering her up to her waist. Her left arm is hooked up to an IV. Her right arm has been splinted, and I imagine it’s probably broken. A machine beside the bed is reading out all kinds of numbers on a screen—pulse, blood pressure, oxygen saturation. I quickly scan the readings. At least her vitals appear stable.

Ian stops in his tracks and stares at the battered woman lying on the bed. He takes a quick step back, and I catch his shoulders to steady him.

This is the first time he’s seen her, and unfortunately she looks like she’s in bad shape at the moment. There is a blood-stained bandage wrapped around her head, covering her forehead. Both of her eyes are bruised. Her top lip is split open and swollen. It looks like her nose might be broken—it’s so swollen it’s hard to tell.

Her eyes are closed, and it doesn’t seem she’s aware of our presence.

“Look at her,” Ian says, his voice so quiet I can barely hear him over the beeping of the machine.

I squeeze his shoulders. “This is my fault, Ian. I antagonized Sharp, and Rhonda walked into a landmine.” Damn it. I should have warned her not to return to her apartment until she was sure he was gone.

Ian turns to face me. “It’s not your fault.”

“Ian?” Rhonda’s voice is barely audible. When he turns to face her, tears are streaming down her cheeks, and her eyes are wide in disbelief. “Is that you?”

When Ian leans back against me, I slip one arm around his waist. He just stares at her.

“Rhonda, I’m sorry,” I say. “I should have warned you—”

“It’s not your fault, Tyler,” she says. “He was gone when I got home. I thought it was safe, but he came back later. Like an idiot, I didn’t set the chain lock. And he still had a key.”

Ian pulls away, and I release him as he takes a step forward. Then another one. “Is it really you?”

Rhonda nods. “Yes, honey. It’s me.” Her face crumples. “Your mom—or at least I used to be.” She shakes her head as she studies him. “I can’t believe you’re a grown man now.”

Ian stares at her, frozen.

I turn him to face me, and I’m not surprised to see his eyes are filled with tears. “Are you okay? We can leave—”

“No.” He turns back to Rhonda and takes a few steps closer until he’s at her bedside. “Why did you do it? Why did you lock me up, in a dark room, for hours on end?”

Her eyes are so bleak, she looks broken, not just physically but emotionally as well. “I did it to protect you, honey. I was afraid they’d hurt you—the men. Some of them would have tried if they’d known you were there.”

When Ian stumbles, I catch him and lower him into a chair. Mother and son, they’re both lost. They’re both broken-hearted.

I crouch down in front of Ian and take his hands in mine. They’re shaking.

“Did you hear that?” he asks.

“Yes, I did.”

“She was trying to protect me.” His voice is so hopeful, as if he’s desperate for that to be true. Desperate for an explanation that makes sense.

“I know.”

And then the dam breaks, and he falls into my arms, sobbing, as years of pain and suffering rise up and pour out of him.

* * *

The ER doctor, a petite black woman, and I speak in hushed tones outside Rhonda’s room. According to the officers who escorted her here, Gary Sharp beat her with a baseball bat. She has a possible head injury, a broken nose, and a broken right arm. There’s a lot of bruising as well.

“She’s lucky to be alive,” the doctor says. “According to the police report, a neighbor heard the commotion and called 911. Otherwise, if he’d kept it up, he probably would have killed her.”

I glance into the room at Ian, who’s still sitting in the chair, staring straight ahead at a wall, deep in thought. My guess is he’s reliving old memories, perhaps seeing them in a new light. Maybe his mother wasn’t the monster he always thought she was.

Rhonda is staring at her son like she’s desperately trying to memorize the sight of him. Like she’s afraid this is her one and only chance—that she’ll never get to see him again.

“We’re sending her to Imaging for an X-ray of her arm and an MRI of her head. She’ll be tied up in testing for a few hours.” The doctor glances at Ian. “Is he okay?”

“He’s her son,” I say. “This is the first time they’ve seen each other in twenty years.”

“Yikes.” The doctor nods. “It might be best if he comes back tomorrow. She’ll be more clearheaded then, better able to talk to him. Certainly in less pain.”

A hospital staff member steps into the room and prepares to move Rhonda’s bed. Ian doesn’t put up any resistance when I lead him out of the ER, out into the parking lot.

I walk him to the front passenger seat and open his door. “Let’s go home.”

“Do you think she’ll be okay?”

“She’ll be fine. If you want to see her again, we’ll come back.”

Ian is quiet on the drive home, lost in his thoughts. I imagine he can’t get the memory of Rhonda’s battered face and body out of his head.

When we arrive home, we find Layla and Jason sitting on the sofa in the living room, each holding a sleeping infant. Empty baby bottles and burp cloths are lying on the coffee table.

“How’d they do?” Ian asks his sister as he peers down at Lizzie, who is sleeping soundly in Layla’s arms.

“Fine,” she says. “They got hungry about half an hour after you left. We fed them, and then they fell asleep again. We’ve been staring at them ever since.”

“How’d it go with Ian’s mom?” Jason asks.

“She’s pretty banged up,” I say. “She has a broken arm, nose, and a possible head injury, but it sounds like she’s going to be okay.”

“How do you feel?” Layla asks her brother.

Ian sighs, as if he doesn’t know where to begin.

I reach down and take Lizzie from Layla. “Why don’t you come upstairs with me?” I ask Jason. I think it would do Ian good to have some time alone with his sister. “Help me put the babies to bed.”

Jason stands, shifting his hold on Will. “Sure.” He follows me into the hall and toward the stairs.

“I thought we’d give them some time to talk,” I say.

Jason nods. “Layla’s been worried sick about Ian since she found out about the blackmail note.”

We take our time changing the babies’ diapers and putting them in bed. By the time we return to the living room, the siblings are seated side by side on the sofa, their arms around each other. Layla’s eyes are red and damp, as are Ian’s.

After Jason and Layla head home, I take Ian by the hand and lead him upstairs to our bathroom. I turn on the water in the shower stall, and while the water heats up, Ian strips, numbly going through the motions as he drops his clothes on the floor.

I know Ian. I know what he needs right now.

I join him in the shower to quickly wash myself, then I step out to let him finish up. While he’s doing that, I pull on a pair of sweatpants, towel dry my hair, and then head up to the rooftop greenhouse—Ian’s safe place. It’s dark out now, and a few stars are visible. Because of all the lights, living in a city doesn’t allow for much stargazing, but it’s the feeling of openness that he craves—lying under the expansive sky is the antithesis of being locked inside a small room.

I tidy up the room, turn down the bedding, and switch on the baby monitor so we’ll be able to hear if the babies need us. Just as I finish lighting the half-dozen candles scattered around the room, I notice Ian standing in the doorway. Like me, he’s dressed only in a pair of sweatpants. His chest is bare, as are his feet. His hair is slightly damp after towel-drying it and finger combing his curls.

When I hold out my hand, he comes right to me and places his hand in mine. We’re about the same height, so he stares directly into my eyes, communicating without words what he needs from me.

But there’s no need for him to tell me, because I already know.

His hands slide down to the waistband of my sweats, and he slowly pushes them down, freeing my erection. Then he drops to his knees on the thick rug underneath our feet. He grips the back of my thighs and leans in to lick the length of my cock, from the base to the tip, slowing to swirl his tongue over the tip.

Ian’s groan is not nearly as loud as mine. My husband has a wicked tongue, and he knows how to use it. I reach down to grasp his head, my fingers sliding into his thick curls. I try not to direct him, but it’s hard not to. Besides, I don’t need to. He knows what he’s doing. He knows how to rachet up my desire and drive me crazy until I’m desperate to come, and then he’ll back off, edging me, making me suffer a while.

I’m not really sure which one of us is in charge here. On the surface, it’s me because he’s naturally submissive, and he loves my physical strength, but the truth is, if he crooks his finger, I come running. I never experienced sexual satisfaction before being with Ian. After years of failed relationships with women, it turns out I was looking in the wrong place the whole time. When we met, Ian pulled me kicking and screaming out of the closet, and now he owns me body and soul.

As Ian draws my cock deep into his hot, wet mouth, I see stars. He grips my thighs, his fingers digging into my muscles.

Groaning, I tighten my hold on his head as I begin to move, thrusting slow and deep. Every nerve in my body fires, and my pulse pounds. My erection throbs, and my balls tighten. Heat streaks up my spine. When I’m close—so close—I withdraw from his mouth, reach down, and pull him to his feet. I kiss him then, devouring his mouth with mine and relishing the sound of his whimpers and groans. Our erections collide, both of us hard and aching. He’s as ready and needy as I am.

I guide him onto the bed and follow him down until our bodies are stretched out side by side. Ian takes a moment to gaze up at the glass ceiling, at the night sky and a sprinkling of stars. I roll toward him and turn his face to mine. We kiss, long, languid deep kisses, our tongues stroking. I wrap my fingers around his thick erection, and he cries out his pleasure at my touch. I squeeze him and then start stroking. I capture his precum and spread it over the crown of his cock.

I rub myself against him, our erections hot and hard, pressing close, pressing hard. I grasp the back of his head and hold him still for a kiss. Our lips cling, our tongues tease and stroke, our harsh breaths mingle.

Blindly, I reach over to open the top drawer of the bedside table and pull out a bottle of lube. With a sigh, Ian rolls to his belly and spreads his legs. I lube myself, then him, before settling myself between his thighs, opening him up, teasing him, getting him ready for me. And when I finally guide myself into him, he lets out a long breath. Slowly, gently, I sink in, deeper and deeper until my body covers his, pressing him into the mattress. He whimpers, a sound half submission and half discomfort as his body adjusts to mine. Soon those whimpers turn to ones of pleasure.

I start to move, slowly at first, letting him adjust to me. He fists the sheet, his whimpers turning into moans. This is what he likes, for me to cover him with my body, pinning him down, making him feel completely enveloped and protected as I rock into him. I reach for his hands, linking our fingers, and pin his to the mattress. In this position, I can kiss his neck, behind his ear, or capture his mouth. He pants and moans beneath me and shivers beneath my touch. He groans and whimpers and shudders as I thrust, gently at first, and then harder and harder.

His body is so hot and tight and slick, I have to grit my teeth to keep from coming too soon. I slow my movements, gliding smoothly in and out. Ian’s breathing is heavy and fast, and his voice cracks as he cries out my name, begging and pleading, the words nearly incomprehensible.

After my orgasm shoots through me, I release his hands and roll us to our sides so I can reach around him and wrap my fingers around his erection. Still buried deep inside him, rocking slowly, I wrap my slick fingers tightly around him and stroke him firmly.

“God, Tyler, please,” he moans, his voice hoarse, the words desperate. “Oh, God, yes!” He bucks his hips uncontrollably, which only forces me deeper inside him. “Tyler!”

He’s so close. I press my lips to the back of his head and mutter, “Come for me, baby. That’s it. Come for me.”

With a shuddering cry, he comes, hot spunk coating my fist. His body shakes and his back bows as he empties himself.

When I finally pull out, he turns to me, and we share soulful, aching kisses. “God, I love you,” I say against his trembling lips.

“Love you, too,” he gasps.

We roll to our backs, and Ian rests his head on my shoulder so he can gaze up through the glass roof at the inky night sky.

“Do you think she was telling the truth?” Ian asks.

“Who? Rhonda?”

“Yeah. When she said she locked me in my room to protect me from her tricks.”

I kiss his forehead. “I do. There are a lot of sick fucks in the world who would love to get their hands on a little boy.”

He shudders. “I guess that sort of changes things, doesn’t it? I always assumed she just wanted me out of the way, that I was a hindrance. Or that she couldn’t be bothered with me. Ruth will always be my mom,” Ian says, as if he’s thinking aloud, trying to process everything. “Nothing will ever change that. Ruth and Martin saved my life. I owe them everything . But maybe I could get to know Rhonda better. I suppose we could be acquaintances, or maybe even friends one day.”

“So, you want to see her again?”

“Yeah. I want to make sure she’s okay, that she doesn’t need anything. The least I can do is help her out financially. I owe her that much.” He presses a kiss to the edge of my jaw, then chuckles. “I’m a sticky mess.”

“Me, too. Let’s clean off and hit the hay.”