Page 17 of Property of Riptide
“Never mind,” I grumble when my son puts his fist in his mouth, closes his eyes, and lays his head on Riptide’s muscular chest.
“Food’s up!” A man yells in the background and a rush of feet start stampeding that way.
“Go ahead and make you a plate, I’ve got little G,” Riptide says, steadily rocking his body from side to side and lulling my boy to sleep. “Trust me, you want to get in line now while there’s still plenty to choose from.”
“Are you sure?” I ask, twisting my hands together. I’m not used to having any sort of help with Gagey. My needs are always last because he’s my first priority considering he can’t fend for himself, so this is like the flip of a coin. One I’m not sure what to do about. Is this normal? Do men just snatch women’s kids from their arms and take charge?
CHAPTER
NINE
Riptide
Am I sure? That’s a loaded question because I didn’t even realize I’d picked him up and started bouncing him like a pro. “Yeah, I’m sure, Van.” She still looks undecided, but once Zoey hooks her elbow to hers and all but hauls her away, she follows but her eyes stay attached to me and little man with every step they take.
Icer is off in the background, already sitting with Elodie next to him as they chow down on their plates. My brother squints his eyes at me, watching me interact with little G with a keen observation. “He never was Gage’s biggest fan, which means he doesn’t know what to make of Van and this one,” Indiana says, reaching down and running his finger along the arch of the baby’s foot.
“I know, Indiana. But I hate feeling like a bug under the microscope.” I shake my head at Icer as he picks up a chicken leg and bites into it as if it’s his nemesis. “When he is confused about his feelings, he acts out.”
Indiana snorts. “His father really fucked him up.”
“More than I think any of us realize,” I convey. “If I didn’t fear for a therapist’s health and survival, I’d order him to see someone to help him get through the aftermath from the abuse.”
“Letti’s helped,” Indiana states. “She takes what tools she’s learned from hers and has implemented it with him. He hasn’t been as volatile lately as he usually is.” Now I’m snorting because I’ve seen him mean-mug several of the brothers who’ve tried to strike up a conversation with him.
“Has he gone to visit his mom yet?” I ask, shifting little man to my other side. Who’d have thought a kid weighing less than thirty pounds would give me a case of dead shoulder?
“I don’t think he’s made it through her door yet. You know it takes him a few attempts before he can go inside that house,” Indiana reminds me. “I know he’s driven by a few times, and from what a source told me, he even managed to make it into the driveway.”
“How long did he let his bike idle before he backed out and drove away?” I inquire.
“Didn’t ask, but I’m assuming it wasn’t for long,” he answers. “He’ll get there before we head back home.”
“Being honest here, I’m not sure if I want him to or not. If he follows the same pattern as per his usual, he’ll be in a foul mood for days after he has a visit with her,” I harrumph.
“Did you bring Dr. Feelgood with you, Rip?”
“You know I did,” I tell him. “If Icer tags along with me, I never leave home without it.”
“I wish we didn’t have to drug him so he can socialize,” Indiana sighs. “Letti doesn’t like him being forced to swallow narcotics.”
“I know, but it’s either that, or we deal with the fallout of a mass homicide spree, Indiana. Plus, when he relaxes he doesn’t mind people around him. I only do it when I notice he’s twitchy.”
Indiana mimics zipping his lips so I turn around and see the girls heading back our way. When they’re in speaking distance, Zoey says, “We made you two plates.”
Van sheepishly adds, “I didn’t know what you liked so I got a little bit of everything.”
“There’s not much I won’t eat, Van. I appreciate you thinking of me,” I say, walking them over to an empty table.
I sit at the end so I can angle my body to give little G more room to stretch out. When she plops my plate in front of me then takes a seat beside me, I notice the difference between our plates. Mine is full to the point that you can’t see the rim of it and hers is empty enough that you can see the entire outside layer of it.
“Are you not hungry, Van?” I ask her, hoping it’s not her nerves getting the better of her and having her not wanting to eat.
“I don’t eat a lot,” she says, waving her hand over her plate. “All of these curves are thanks to my little guy.”
“Nothing wrong with curves,” I rebut, smirking. “Real men love a little junk in the trunk. Wannabes are the ones who complain if a woman has some cushion for the pushing.”
“You’ll find most of us aren’t attracted to females who starve themselves. If it’s a natural thing and the way your body is genetically designed, then that’s different. But men like us, when we put our woman on the back of our bikes, we don’t want to worry she’s going to pass out and eat gravel from lack of nutrients,” Indiana tacks on his two cents.
