Page 19 of Roxy’s Independence (Mayhem Makers – MMM: Deviant Knights MC #3)
CHAPTER
EIGHTEEN
Roxy
The guys rallied around Python last night, refusing to leave him by himself even though that’s what he begged for them to do.
Their outright refusal had him angry, he started tossing things around in his house as if he was a human tornado, funneling around and destroying anything in his path.
That’s the reason I brought Easton home with me so that he wasn’t forced to witness his father’s mental breakdown.
I know that Easton is probably the only thing that can comfort his father, but babies feel every ounce of what you do and he didn’t need to have that tumultuous emotion dragging him down.
He’s going to be confused enough as it is not having his mother.
He’s sought her out a few times already, he was fussy before conking out, and it’s all I could do to not burst into uncontrollable sobs because I didn’t know how to soothe him.
That’ll come later. I’m so damn mad at myself, because as a doctor, I should’ve known this is how this would play out—Joceline did.
She knew.
She told us.
She all but begged us to do something, but we were at a loss since none of us knew what the situation was—Kinsley never told us.
Joci experienced it firsthand and was afraid for her own life several times throughout her abusive, controlling marriage where he played on her guilt and used it against her.
Whereas we didn’t notice that it was the same for Kinsley as it had been for Joci, she did.
Dammit, she did and we, in a roundabout way, brushed it off thinking we had time to help Kinsley find a way to deal with it.
What a fucking joke.
Who did that bastard think he was?
He used her love for him against her. Made her choose which heartstring was the strongest. The more I mull it over, I don’t think she was choosing him over Easton.
In her way, she was protecting her boy by stopping at the motel to try and flatten Macon’s ruffled feathers.
She didn’t want Easton to wear the brunt of his anger, she was forcing him to point the finger where it deserved to be.
On her.
On him.
They were the adults who made mistakes, jumped the gun and ended things in a fit of anger, yet still, Easton’s the one who paid the ultimate price.
I don’t think Kin realized her ex was as far gone as he was.
As a woman, I get it, we’re the ones who know our men the best. She spent years with him, and knew him intimately.
But you can’t reason with a man who’s seen and experienced the things he has while serving his country.
The things Selah unearthed about his troop and the things they were ordered to do would have even the strongest-willed mind deconstruct.
He watched villages burn—kids scream as they tried to find ways to save themselves.
I thought those times were beyond us, that we were more advanced as a civilization.
His group was like the old-time Guerillas. They were sent to charge in and do the most damage regardless of whether bystanders were caught in the crosshairs. I don’t even think those operations were sanctioned—they couldn’t have been.
They were brutal.
So many people, innocent people , lost their lives.
Their only sin being that they lived on the wrong side of the globe.
So yeah, when you witness and are part of destruction such as that, something inside of you flips.
This is only the tip of the iceberg. It explains why throughout history, soldiers’ suicide rates are high.
How are they expected to come back and try to be normal?
Post traumatic stress disorder is a bitch and hard to treat.
How can you when a mind is fractured and warped?
“Fuck,” I hiss as I sit up in bed. “Get your shit together, Roxy. You can’t have all of these thoughts floating through your head when Easton gets up.
He needs to be greeted by a smiling face, not a tear-stained one.
Stop your mental rambling, lady, and pull your big girl panties up.
You can’t change the past; all you can do is make the future better. ”
I stand up and go over to the playpen to check on Easton.
He’s still asleep, but is beginning to stir restlessly.
I want to wash my face before his eyes open so I rush to our attached bathroom and take care of that.
When I look up into the mirror, I notice my face is still red, raw, swollen, and blotchy, but hopefully, clear enough to fool a baby.
When baby babbling hits my ears, I rush to the kitchen and make his bottle.
I stopped at the infirmary to grab a can of formula that we have stocked there since Kinsley was still breast feeding.
He has a few bags stored, but I didn’t want to take that stock so I left it in the freezer at hers and Python’s house.
He’s going to have to be weaned unless Selah or one of the other moms want to donate some breast milk.
I’ll bring that up to Python later, now’s not the time.
He needs to grieve and process before he’s hit with something like that.
When the baby noises turn into cries, I pick up the pace and run to the bedroom. “Hey there, little man. Are you ready for your butt to be changed and get some food into your belly?”
His eyes light up, even at his age, I can’t help but wonder if he understands my questions.
I shake that thought off because half these kids running around the clubhouse are smarter than they should be.
Especially the ones with gifts. They’re wise beyond what they should be and it freaks me out to think about how they’re brilliant and more worldly than I am.
The second I remove the tabs from Easton’s diaper and start to move it out from underneath him, I get shot in the face by a stream of urine.
“Alright, little man, I didn’t want a golden shower this morning.
Think you can keep that to yourself until I get a fresh diaper on you?
” He giggles, and it’s such a sweet sound that I instantly forgive him.
“You’re going to have the ladies eating out of the palm of your hand, aren’t you? ”
Quickly, I put a fresh one underneath him, wipe him down, put some powder on so he smells fresh, and dress him.
As I pass through the living room heading toward the kitchen to get his bottle from the warmer, the front door swings open and Weston comes in with his feet dragging.
He appears to be emotionally and physically drained.
“Hi,” I whisper. “How are you? How’s Python?”
“As well as he can be considering the circumstances. Wrecker and Dragon had to voodoo him, so he’s calmer and more at ease today,” he tells me.
“Is that a good thing?” I ask. “Isn’t it better for him to go through the motions of grief?”
“I don’t know, Foxy. We had years of that and still needed Wrecker to intervene and switch our places so we could feel the other one’s emotions.”
“True,” I say. “This one’s hungry. I’m gonna feed him while you tell me what you guys figured out.”
“We haven’t figured out shit,” he announces after I grab the bottle from the kitchen and settle down in the chair opposite him with Easton.
The second the nipple is near his mouth, he lifts his head, leans forward, latches on and sucks it into his greedy mouth. Weston and I both chuckle, then stop. It’s hard to know if it’s okay to laugh or not when something as tragic as what happened to Kinsley did.
“We’re waiting on the coroner and crime scene investigator’s reports so we know how to proceed.
We can’t do anything until those are released,” Weston says, his voice gruff.
“From what little we were told, he left a note and confirmed that our suspicions were dead on. It was a murder/suicide. From what little was read to us and what little they were willing to share, it was one of those cases that if he couldn’t have her, nobody could. Including her son.”
“What’s Python going to do?” I ask, sadness enveloping me. “He’s going to need help.”
“And we’ll help him, Foxy. Him and Easton both.”
This may not be the right time, but it needs to be said. I open and close my mouth a few times before gathering enough nerve to say, “We need to get him into grief counseling. The sooner, the better.”
“That’s already in the works. Getting him there, however, is going to be the issue,” he states. “He doesn’t trust outsiders. It took him years to warm up to us and let us in.”
“Then we need to make him realize it’s for Easton. He’ll do it for him,” I press. “I know he will.”
“I hope you’re right, Foxy. Come here, I need to hold you.” I get up with Easton and we settle into Weston’s lap. “Did you know he was named after me in a roundabout way?”
“I thought maybe,” I answer. “And it doesn’t surprise me seeing as they made you his godfather.”
“Two ends of a compass, Kinsley told me when they announced his name and handed him to me. Always pointing in different directions but connected in the middle at the same time. God, Foxy, this sucks.”
What can I say to that? It does, it sucks.
It’s horrific and tragic but somehow, someway, we need to find a way to heal—even if right now, that doesn’t seem possible.
I snuggle into him, rest my head on his shoulder, and comfort him the best I can by simply being in his arms and letting him feel my love.