Page 36 of Ruin (Hell’s Mayhem MC: Maine Chapter #2)

Chapter Thirty-Five

Kolton

After the shower, Lucian lends me a pair of soft cotton pajama pants since I have nothing to wear. He says if I walk around naked, he’ll need to fuck me again, but he wants to get us something to eat first. As much as fucking again sounds good, so does eating.

It’s weird, doing this whole domestic thing with him. With anyone, I guess.

I’ve never fucked someone in their bed before.

I’ve never showered with someone. I’ve never done this awkward after thing, where I wait around for them to cook me food with memories of what we just did together.

It’s strange, but I don’t dislike it. It’s even more weird that it’s with Lucian.

I never thought we would have this, and now, well, we do. Sort of.

It’s not like I’m moving in or anything. Hell, I don’t even know what this is. He’s made it clear that he wants to apologize and likes fucking me. But what more is there than that ?

I browse through the books on the shelf in his living room. They’re all works of fiction. Some old and some new that look like they haven’t been read yet.

Even if he hadn’t told me, I’d know he was working on the house by the smell of sawdust and plastic over the furniture.

There is wood laid out against one wall, with buckets of nails and a tool box.

The hardwood floors are well-worn and warped.

It’s an old house that needs a lot of work, and it seems he’s up for the task.

Guess he doesn’t have much else to do. I can only assume him moving here means he’s retired.

I head down the hall and spot a small bar beneath a window.

To the left is a short hallway behind the back of the stairwell that leads into the kitchen, with a door beneath the stairs that goes down to the basement.

On the right is what looks like an office.

I pour myself two fingers of some fancy bourbon he has, then walk into the office to be nosey.

It’s mostly bare, save for a large hideous painting on the wall of cherubs and a desk.

On it, is a laptop that’s opened, a legal pad and pen, and some printouts from the internet, though I don’t see a printer anywhere.

A few boxes are piled in the corner, and I assume they’re all things that will have to be unpacked and put in here. He needs more furniture first.

I pull the desk chair out and sit in it, looking around the room.

I can imagine him sitting here, thinking, working.

I don’t know what he does these days, but he’s doing something.

One of the cardboard boxes in the corner is labeled medical books , and I wouldn’t be surprised to find out he’s writing one .

Lucian is a smart man. He was a surgeon for years, and spent plenty of years working in the ED. He never did have to work, though. He had plenty of money, but chose to work for other reasons. I used to think it was to get away from his wife, but I think it was more about helping people.

I guess maybe all those times Lucian told me I wouldn’t understand, he wasn’t entirely wrong.

Though, all I needed was for him to explain and not brush it off and blame it on my age.

I’ve always been smart and mature beyond my age.

I didn’t like when he treated me like a child who didn’t know anything, just because I was younger than him.

I take a sip of the bourbon. It’s dangerously good. I push around the papers on the desk and catch a few headlines.

Traumatic Brain Injuries. Waking Up: The Science Behind TBI’s. Brain Death.

I don’t know much about that sort of thing, but I guess he would have worked with a lot of patients like that in the hospital.

I do know that there is a range of TBI. Some people can still live with them while others stay in comas.

Sometimes I’d wonder if my father had a head injury and that’s why he did what he did, but I think it was just me trying to come up with an excuse for him being a piece of shit.

Because if there wasn’t a reason for why he did it, then the reason was because it was my fault.

I pick up one of the packets, my arm brushing by the keyboard and waking up the screen. To my surprise, there isn’t a password on it, and it opens to a word document. The headline catches my attention.

The Missing Years: A Father’s Story of Waiting.

I’m not sure what it is that has me reading more, but something about the headline feels off. Why would he write something like this? I continue to read and the first line tells me all I need to know.

My son was nineteen when he had his accident.

Accident? My heart beats harder as I continue to read the words Lucian has written.

It’s every parent's nightmare. It’s what keeps us up at night.

You’re told the hardest part of having children is when they’re babies and they don’t sleep or when they cry all the time, but it’s all lies.

The hardest part of being a parent is letting go.

It’s when your children learn to use their wings and leave the nest. It’s not showing up for curfew.

It’s skipping school. It’s being somewhere they aren’t supposed to be.

It’s the calls in the middle of the night from the hospital, telling you your child was in an accident.

Of course, not every parent gets these calls. Not every parent has to rush to the hospital late into the night, hoping to find their child alive. Some of those parents walk into rooms and find their child is on the way to recovery. Others find their child has passed.

Then you have others.

Then you have us.

Those who walk into the hospital and there aren’t answers. There are only excuses .

Even as a doctor, maybe even more so, this isn’t good news. Walking into the hospital to find my son had been in an accident, is now in a coma, and no one knows what will happen, is by far the worst news you can receive.

Losing a child is horrible. But losing a child that you still have to take care of and look at, day after day, is torture I wouldn’t wish upon my worst enemy.

Nine years we waited for Luke to wake up.

Three thousand, four hundred and eight days of watching my son dwindle away in a hospital bed, hoping he would wake up.

We were told it wouldn’t happen, but how do you let go of your child? The human you made, you raised, you kissed good night and read stories to. It’s impossible, and it nearly destroyed me.

My marriage was in shambles before the accident, and I

That’s it. That’s all there is.

My heart is in my throat as I stare at the screen, my jaw on the floor. The cursor blinks after the I, waiting for the rest of the story to be told. Too many emotions hit me at once. First I feel nothing, but then I feel everything. It’s confusing, and it hurts. It hurts so fucking bad.

I turn to get up out of the chair, only to find Lucian standing in the doorway, watching me with a pained look.

“Luke,” falls out of my mouth the same time the glass slips from my hand. I didn’t even realize I was holding it. It clunks to the ground, but neither of us looks at it. We can only look at each other.

Lucian nods, a grimace on his face .

I know what all of this means, but none of it makes sense.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” I say. “Why didn’t you call? How have I gone all this time without knowing?” I ask, each of my words getting louder and harsher.

I’m angry. It’s my default. But I don’t want to be angry right now. I want to be there for him, but I also want to understand why he kept this from me. Or maybe I’m angry at myself for not just knowing. How did I miss this?

“We kept it quiet,” is what he says. “Dealt with it on our own. Literally, on our own, as separate people.”

“This is why you split up?”

He nods.

“Lucian,” I choke out. “You… why—”

He walks to me, putting his hands on my neck and staring into my eyes.

“Kolton, please don’t make this about us. This wasn’t about you or me or Beth. This was about Luke.”

I grit my teeth, knowing that’s the truth, but it’s so hard not to be angry.

“I could have been there for you.”

He nods again. “I know.”

“You didn’t let me.”

“I know,” he says, this time sounding frustrated, but it’s with himself and not with me.

I grip his shirt, trying to keep my breathing calm as I work through all the thoughts in my head. It’s impossible. There’s too much .

“Lucian—”

“I can’t talk about this right now,” he says. “Please, I just need a little bit of time to process.”

I hate that answer. I hate waiting. Patience is not my thing, but this is for him. So I nod and wrap my arms around him. For the first time since I’ve known him, it feels as if I’m the one holding him together. And I don’t hate it.