Page 1 of The Bastard's Lily
AutumninBerlin,NewHampshire, carries a wind that wails like a ghost, rattling the cabin windows and slipping icy fingers through the cracks of this old home. It’s kept me up since before dawn, and now I sit in the silence with a chipped mug of shitty coffee, watching the sun drag itself over the mountains.
Never in a million years did I think I would be back here. I shiver as another gust of wind whips across the empty field, shaking the cabin.
Berlin feels smaller than I remember. Or maybe I’ve just outgrown the version of myself who used to belong here. The girl I was died the day I left; buried under lies, betrayal, and ink-black grief. What’s left of me now is sharp-edged, stitched together with scar tissue, and too damn stubborn to stay gone.
I glance toward the back room where Beau sleeps. My sondoesn’t know what it means to start over. To him, Berlin is just another town, another bed, another chance to kick off his sneakers in the doorway and leave crumbs on the couch. He doesn’t remember the blood that stained these streets. He doesn’t remember the bastard who carved his name into me and left me to carry the pieces.
I sip the bitter coffee and force the thought back down. He’s not here anymore. There’s no way he is even alive at this point. I heard the whispers of his crash-out when my mother would come to visit me.
“He’s fighting anybody who looks his way.”
“A reckless little boy with a death wish, that one.”
“Jesus, Mary, and Joseph. I’ll tell ya, I’m glad we didn’t stick around to see him corrupt my poor daughter even more.”
“Between fighting, racing, and beer—that boy is destined for the grave.”
Rook developed a death wish when he found out I “ran”, or that’s what he was told, at least. I can’t say I blame him too much on that front. We were two kids in love, and then we were ripped apart at the height of it all.
But there was a minor difference between Rook and me—he had nothing to live for, while Ivery muchhad somebody to live for. Our son Beau was the one I had to push on for. From themoment I heard his heartbeat, I knew there was no way in hell I would ever abandon him.
Beau is my heart. The only person I’d live—or kill—for. But with each passing day, it’s getting harder to hide his father from him. At four and a half, Beau is beyond his years. The questions he asks are so inquisitive and complex. He asks about his dad a lot and even tells me he knows things about him, but I just keep delaying the conversation.
Yet here we are. Back where it all started—the shitty little mountain town in New Hampshire. Ironic, isn’t it? I had to be ripped from this place to survive… and now it’s the only place I can survive.
Today I start my new day as an LPN at Berlin State Prison. I make thirty dollars an hour, rent is dirt cheap, and they are desperate for help. Turning, I make my way to the stove and cook a quick breakfast for me and Beau. While the eggs cook, I pack his lunch for daycare—a fried bologna sandwich, apple juice, green peppers, and three chocolate chip cookies.
I sigh as I zip the lunch bag up. God help me if Rook ever meets Beau. There is no denying that Beau is his son. The only other person I know who eats fried bologna sandwiches and green peppers is Beck Wilder—the damn bastard.
I nudge Beau’s door open and step inside, careful not to trip over the scattered blocks and half-dressed action figures littering the floor. He’s curled up under his blanket with his stuffed fox clutched tight in one arm, his lashes so long they kiss his cheeks.My chest tightens. No matter how hard things get, I know I’ve done at least one thing right.
“Beau,” I whisper, brushing his curls from his forehead. “Time to wake up, bud.”
He groans dramatically and rolls away from me. “Five more minutes,” he mumbles.
I laugh under my breath. “Nice try. But today’s your first day at the new daycare, and I made you a fried bologna sandwich for lunch.”
That gets him. His eyes snap open, wide with excitement. “With green peppers?”
“Of course,” I say. “And three cookies. But only if you get up and brush your teeth before breakfast.”
He bolts upright like he’s just been granted parole, racing down the hallway in his mismatched pajamas. I shake my head with a smile, then turn toward the tiny mirror in the bathroom and brace myself.
The woman staring back at me is tired. Her hair’s twisted in a messy bun that didn’t survive the night, and there’s a shadow of worry under her eyes that even the concealer can’t entirely hide. But she’s still standing. Still fighting. That counts for something.
I wash my face with cold water, swipe on mascara, a touch of blush, and smooth my brows into place. Nothing fancy. Just enough to look alive. Then I tug on my scrubs—navy blue, state-issued—and braid my hair over one shoulder. I dab on the rose-scented lip balm my Gram gave me before I left and take a long, steadying breath.
Today, I step into the lion’s den.
The smell of toast and fried eggs pulls me into the kitchen, where Beau’s already seated, swinging his legs under the table, chattering away to his fox like they’re plotting something. He grins when he sees me.
“You look pretty, Mama,” he says with a mouthful of toast.
“Thanks, kiddo. You look like a muppet who got hit by a tornado.”
He giggles, cheeks puffing out like chipmunks, and I feel that familiar ache in my chest. A tangle of joy and guilt. Love and fear.
Because the truth is—I have no idea what waits for me at that prison. But I know what’s sitting across from me at this table. And I’d go to war for him all over again.
