Thursday Afternoon
Sean was trying not to be an overprotective parent, but realized that it probably wouldn’t happen overnight—if at all. Such was the nature of his world. He and Lucy led dangerous lives, and Jesse was still a kid, barely thirteen.
He had soccer practice Mondays and Wednesdays, and those days Sean let him go to the field with another parent of a kid on the team who was at the same school. He’d done a full background on the family; the kid’s dad was an SAPD cop, and his mom was a nurse. They were good people and Sean had them over for a BBQ at the beginning of the school year just to get to know them. Sean picked Jesse up at the field when practice was over.
The other days, though the junior high was only a mile away, Sean opted to pick him up. There were only two routes to get home without going way out of the way, and if someone was watching his kid, it would be easiest to grab him walking or biking home.
Sean had thought a lot about how to fix the situation, and realized that it would never be “fixed.” Jesse was a Rogan. There were many benefits to being a Rogan, but that also meant there would always be a bull’s-eye on his back. Kane wanted to take him for a couple weekends of “training”—and Sean knew exactly what that meant. Sean wasn’t comfortable with any form of military-style training for his son, not now. But Jesse did need to learn self-defense and situational awareness, and because they had guns around the house, gun safety was an absolute necessity.
Kane would be the best guy to teach Jesse the ropes, but Sean wanted to be there to limit how far Kane went. Lucy was right: With Kane, everything was black-and-white. Maybe Jack would be the better option—Jack had a similar background to Kane, but he wasn’t so rigid in his view of how things worked. He would be more respectful of Sean’s wishes to limit the kind of drills he put Jesse through.
Sean didn’t mind picking Jesse up from school—he actually liked it. He hadn’t been around to teach him to walk, but in a couple of years he’d teach him how to drive. He hadn’t been around to help with his homework, but he’d be around to help him with college applications. He wasn’t in his life on his first day of school, but he’d be there giving him advice on his first date. He’d watch him graduate from high school, see him pursue his own dreams. Sean was trying to look at the positives and not dwell on everything that was denied him for the first thirteen years of Jesse’s life.
He got to the school early and waited in the long line of cars—other parents, mostly moms, who picked up their kids. Sean didn’t mind being a stay-at-home dad. He had a job, he was lucky that most of the time he could do it from his computer. He already had a backup for when he traveled—he and Lucy had made a lot of friends in the nearly two years they’d lived in San Antonio. If Lucy couldn’t pick Jess up, they had Nate, Brad, Tia, or Jesse’s soccer friend. Jesse also had his own Uber account. It wasn’t like he always needed a police escort, but Jesse would always be protected.
Kids poured out of the school. Jesse was usually in the middle. He was friendly, and though it was a new school and a new city, he had adjusted better than Sean would have. The soccer team meant instant friends with a common hobby. Plus, Michael had really stepped up to help Jesse feel comfortable with his new situation. They’d been practically inseparable last night. It was good for Jess, but also good for Michael to know that there wasn’t just hate and violence in the world. That there were good people and good kids who did good things.
Jesse didn’t immediately come out of the main entrance. Sean wasn’t concerned at first. Jesse could be talking to a teacher, picking up an assignment, using the john. But he kept a close eye on the double doors, and the surrounding area. He inched his Jeep up as cars in front of him left, giving him room. He was in front of the line when he finally saw Jesse emerge from the building.
His relief was short-lived. Something was wrong. Jesse was walking slowly, like he was in pain. His right arm was stiff across his stomach, and he wasn’t chatting with anyone. Someone waved to him, and he lifted his arm to wave back, then winced.
Dammit, what happened?
Sean jumped out of his Jeep and watched Jesse as he approached. When Jesse caught his eye, Sean saw him try to mask the pain. Sean strode over and took his backpack from him. “What happened?”
“Nothing.”
“Jess, tell me.”
“I did. I’m just bruised.”
“From soccer yesterday? Lift up your shirt.”
“No, stop, I’m fine.”
“You’re not fine. You look like you have a broken rib. I know. I’ve had a broken rib.”
“In the car,” Jesse mumbled.
Fair enough. Sean tossed his backpack into the back and jumped into the driver’s seat. As soon as Jesse sat down, Sean motioned for him to lift his shirt.
The left side of his chest was purple and black.
“We’re going to the hospital.”
“I’ll be fine.”
“You’re not fine. If it’s broken it can be serious. You could have internal bleeding. Why didn’t you tell me you were in so much pain?”
“I thought it would get better.”
There was really nothing to do for a broken or cracked rib except to make sure that there was no internal bleeding or sharp edges that might cause problems down the road. Pain meds, minimal activity, and breathing deeply were important.
He drove to the emergency room. Jesse didn’t object again, which told Sean he was in serious pain.
It didn’t take long before they were called back, which was a small blessing because Sean was going stir-crazy. He wanted to call Lucy, but he also knew she was working this difficult case and he didn’t want her attention divided. If it was serious, he’d call her.
First Sean filled out paperwork. Then the nurse took Jesse’s vitals. Told him to take off his shirt and put on a gown. Then they waited longer and a tech came in to take Jesse for an X-ray. Then they waited again. Finally a doctor came in moments before Sean went to hunt him down.
“Hello, Mr. Rogan, Jesse. Soccer injury? Usually I see broken legs, sprained ankles, the occasional concussion. You a goalie? Get kicked diving for the ball?”
“No, sir,” Jesse said. “We were doing a drill. I was distracted and the ball hit me in the chest.”
“Huh. Get the wind knocked out of you?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Let’s see. I’m just going to lift up the gown, okay?”
“Okay.”
As soon as Sean saw the bruises in the harsh hospital light, he knew they weren’t from a soccer ball. He had been in enough fights to know that the small, circular bruises were caused from a punch. Two punches. Sean looked at Jesse’s hands. They were clean. He hadn’t fought back.
“Tell me when it hurts,” the doctor said as he pressed different parts of Jesse’s stomach and chest. As he neared the bruises Jesse showed signs of pain.
“Well, okay, young man, let me show you what’s going on here.” He pulled up the X-ray on the computer. “You have a hairline fracture on rib seven here, right where it connects to the cartilage. The bruising is caused by the ball, not the cracked rib—you can actually have a cracked rib with no bruising, believe it or not. Fortunately, there is no sign of internal bleeding, and there are no bone spurs or anything to impede recovery. Everything else seems to be just fine.”
He looked at Sean, Sean’s hands, then Jesse. Did the doctor know this wasn’t a soccer accident? Did he think that Sean had hit Jesse? Sean wanted to argue at the unspoken charge, but didn’t. He had to talk to Jesse one-on-one and find out exactly what happened.
But he’d lied to him. Jesse had lied to him about something important and Sean didn’t know how to fix this. Punish him? Ground him? Sean had lied to Duke all the time about where he was and what he was doing, and Duke had grounded him repeatedly and Sean had ignored him. He realized, not for the first time, that he had been a problem kid growing up.
Maybe he owed Duke a bigger apology than the one he’d given him. Coming into parenthood with a ready-made teenager had to be one of the hardest things to do. Sean would be more confident going back to Mexico and fighting the drug cartels.
“There’s nothing to do for the injury, medically speaking. I’ll write a prescription for ibuprofen—stronger than over the counter. We don’t tape most rib injuries because it can inhibit deep breathing, which creates other problems. No sports for the next four to six weeks. Go to your regular doctor for an X-ray in four weeks and she can clear you if you’re healed. You’re a young, healthy kid. I don’t see future complications, but you’ll want to take it easy for a couple of days.”
“Thank you, Doctor,” Sean said.
“I’ll leave the ’scrip and sign the papers while you get dressed.” He left the cubicle, pulling the curtain closed behind him.
“I told you it was nothing,” Jesse said. He slid off the gown and started to pull on his T-shirt, then winced.
Sean helped him with his shirt. “I’ve had broken ribs and cracked ribs and it hurts like hell. Are you sure a ball did this?”
“You don’t believe me?”
No, I don’t.
“Jess, you can tell me anything.”
“I want to go home.”
“Dammit, I need you to be honest with me!” Sean was about to lose it, and he didn’t want to. Not here, not at home, not ever. But he was on edge, and Jesse lying to him was going to send him over. He didn’t know how to deal with this.
“I’m not lying!”
But he wasn’t looking him right in the eye. He almost was, but not quite.
“Why don’t you trust me?”
“Why don’t you trust me?” Jesse countered.
“I’ve been beaten before. I know what a fight looks like. If you’re in trouble, if someone is bullying you—”
“Stop. You’re wrong.”
Sean wasn’t wrong. Maybe about the circumstances of the fight, but he wasn’t wrong that Jesse had been attacked.
He didn’t know how to get Jesse to tell him the truth.