Untamed (A Bad Boy Secret Baby Romance)(84)

I can see the terminal building just outside from my window, a few meters beyond the extended arm of the gate.

They all drip with water; the air-conditioning on the inside must be at full-blast.

Getting off the plane is something of a new experience to me. I haven’t been on a plane since I was a child, going to Thailand… with Dad. Since I first met Duncan.

Dad and I never did end up going to Paris.

Back then we were in first class… and it was great. Not this time, though. It’s not like I’m about to complain about it. Sixteen hours cramped in a seat next to a man with smelly breath is a price I’m willing to pay if it means saving my baby, if it means giving my child a good life.

I’d gladly pay much, much more. I guess, leaving Duncan, I already have.

But the way everybody rushes to get off the plane… it just rubs me the wrong way. Why the hell is everybody in such a hurry?

I wait until I’m the last person — I can’t be bothered to go at the same time as everybody else. Most of them push each other, hurry to get off the plane like a few minutes are going to make any difference.

I sigh, pinch the bridge of my nose and then rub my eyes. Chicago to Hong Kong was sixteen hours, and I had a seat right by the toilets. I didn’t catch a wink of sleep. Even if it was quiet, I might not have slept at all. There was, and still is, too much on my mind.

The flight was full, too. Beside me sat a guy with death-breath, and next to him his wife and young daughter. The poor girl cried all flight because she couldn’t equalize the pressure in her ears.

At least I had an aisle seat.

It made me think of my own child… whether it will be a boy or a girl… which I would prefer.

If I’m even allowed to have a preference.

Right at this moment, I feel an odd cross of emotions. I feel utterly alone, but also stronger than ever. There’s a steely resolve that runs through my bones, vibrates inside me, keeps me on-course.

I don’t know if leaving like that is the right thing to do, but I sure as hell know that it is the best thing to do for my child.

Distantly, I wonder what the difference is between the two. If it’s best for my baby, surely it’s right?

But I know I’ve wronged Duncan, and thinking about it even briefly threatens to unravel me.

The idea of being all alone, of not having him by my side when he’s been there for so long, supporting me…

…and then I think: What about him?

He’s had me there by his side, supporting him.

He likes to think he’s some kind of superhero who can take anything, anything. But… I know him better than that.

He’s human, even if he’s amazing to me. He’s still human. I don’t know how this is going to hit him. I don’t know how it’s going to affect him.

I could sit for hours just thinking about the possibilities, but I can’t descend into that.

That’s… that’s a road that’s now been wiped off the map.

Anyway, I can’t risk my child, can’t risk letting Dad get his hands on my baby. If it’s a boy, he’ll groom him into a fighter, just like he did Duncan.

God damn it, everybody that falls into Dad’s gravity ends up suffering!

I don’t want my child to suffer at his hands.

I want my child to do what he or she wants. I don’t want my child to be brought up thinking there’s only one way to live. I don’t want my child anywhere near crime, the mob, the violence, like I was as a kid.

I can’t stop Dad from doing what he does. I’m not under any illusion here. People might want to judge me, might say that I should have turned my own father in with the mountains of evidence I had access to.

But… he’s still my father. Family. The only true thing he’s ever said to me is that family is everything.

In the end, what else do you have?

Me…? I don’t even have family anymore. I have nothing!

Damn it, the thought makes me feel weak.

I sigh. There’s so much I could testify to. I’ve watched my father and Frank beat a man to a bloody pulp for not paying back a debt. His body was still, unmoving by the end of it. I was in the car with the inside lights on, maybe eleven years old. Dad told me to keep them on so I couldn’t see outside.

Of course, I just cupped my hands around my eyes against the glass, and watched them. It was by the river, right in the middle of town, and before midnight. Nobody who passed by stopped. Dad’s limousine, the license plate, M4R1-N0, was effective signage: Stay Away.

The guy lay there, in the winter night, out-cold, when Dad and Frank returned to the car. I never found out what happened to him.

He probably died by morning of hypothermia.

My thoughts invariably come back to Duncan. I wonder what he’s doing right now.