by Beth Flynn
I kept reading and wasn’t shocked to see that he’d refused treatment. Who could blame him for not wanting to extend a life that would never see freedom? I hadn’t read through the entire file and didn’t feel like it after the morbid discovery. I tried unsuccessfully to stuff all the papers back in the envelope. A few of them kept sticking out, so I removed them while I finagled the larger wad inside. Satisfied that I’d managed it, I picked up the leftovers and was getting ready to fold them in half thinking they’d slide in more easily, when one sentence caught my attention. A single sentence that would define the rest of my life and the man I’d chosen to spend it with.
After shoving the extra papers inside the envelope, I calmly made my way downstairs and found Jake rummaging through the refrigerator. He heard me and without turning around said, “I’m not sure what I want for breakfast. Do you have an inkling for anything, Barbie doll?”
“Blueberry pancakes.”
His face was buried in the refrigerator, and I watched his knuckles turn white as he gripped the handle tightly. He straightened up, and after closing the door, slowly turned around to face me.
Giving me a look that said he must not have heard me right, he asked again, “What are you in the mood to have for breakfast, sweetheart?”
“I told you, blueberry pancakes.”
His forehead puckered. “And you want me to make them?”
“I do,” I told him.
He looked away, his Adam’s apple bobbing as he swallowed hard. “You told me once that Kenny had promised he’d make you blueberry pancakes when you were together and had your own house. I’m not sure if this is you messing with me or telling me you’re not the stubborn girl you used to be and you’re ready for blueberry pancakes a la Jake.”
I stared at him. The longest twenty seconds of my life passed before I said, “You never should’ve told me about the things you got away with in prison. The stories about the way you tricked the guards and other prisoners and how over time they couldn’t distinguish between you and Jake.”
He laughed. “You mean me and Kenny.”
“No. I mean you and Jake.” I noticed a tic in his jaw as I held up the envelope. “I almost missed it because I wasn’t looking for it. But it’s all right here in Kenny’s medical records. Except they’re not Kenny’s. These records belong to Jake Chambers. The real Jake Chambers. Your best friend was dying, wasn’t he?”
“Barbie, you got it all wro—”
“Stop it right now. Just stop. I’m not stupid.” I tossed the envelope on the kitchen table. “I can only surmise that you and Jake kicked it up a notch after he received his hopeless prognosis. It’s when you switched places permanently, and the reason why he refused treatment for his cancer. Because he didn’t want you getting chemo and radiation you didn’t need. Someone was paid off to swap out the names and dates on every piece of paper in your files and probably in the computer too. It was you who accidentally stabbed Jake in the prison yard. And when you confessed to killing Kenny to me, you were confessing to killing him metaphorically.” I waved my hand in the air. “Or maybe you did feel responsible for Jake’s death and wanted me to know that you carried that guilt. I can only guess that you felt the need to come clean with me about everything. Everything except your true identity.”
He stood still, his fists clenched at his sides.
“All those stories you told me as Jake, about the pain of how you treated your parents. Those were Jake’s stories, but you made them yours. And I almost believe you think they were yours to tell.”
I saw the defeat in his eyes and a slight sag of his shoulders. “Other than his prized baseball, they were all Jake had, Barbie. If his stories didn’t get told, he’d be forgotten, and I couldn’t let that happen. He was my best friend.” He tucked his hands in his front pockets. “Besides, I couldn’t very well tell you stories about my childhood, now could I?”
He had a point. “I should’ve guessed it. I should’ve let myself think it out from the beginning. Jonathan wouldn’t let a single man near him in over thirty years. Was I supposed to believe that Jake Chambers was the first blue-eyed man who’d ever tried to work with him? It always had to be you, and I don’t know how he knew it, but Jonathan recognized you. Didn’t he?”
He scratched at his jaw. “I still can’t believe you deduced all this because Jake was dying of cancer.”
“It wasn’t his cancer that made me realize it. I still would’ve believed you were Jake if I hadn’t kept reading.”
He cocked his head to the side and squinted his eyes. “What was it?”
“Two words. Renal agenesis. You were born with only one kidney. I remember you telling me about it when we were kids. Of course we didn’t know the medical term for it.”
“Yeah, so?”
“The medical report I just read states that Kenny Pritchard had been treated for a ruptured kidney while incarcerated. He must’ve gotten into one heck of a fight. The doctor recorded his treatment and noted that his other kidney had no damage. And since you only have one kidney, it was obvious I was reading Jake’s file.”
“I always said you were the smartest person I ever knew, Barbie.”
“Please don’t patronize me. I’m not the smartest person you’ve ever known. I’m a physician and it was all in the medical report. What I don’t understand is why you couldn’t tell me!” I cried. “Why couldn’t you trust me? Why all the subterfuge and secrets?”
“Because Kenny Pritchard should still be sitting in prison serving out a life sentence,” he said through gritted teeth. “If you’d rejected me, turned me away, or worse, turned me in, I would go back to prison, Barbie. I would lose you and Jonathan all over again.”
What he said made perfect sense, but I was still operating in the Twilight Zone and wasn’t processing all the information. It was like my brain was on overload. “You came back here believing you were my half brother. Were you thinking that we could be together?”
“You can’t even imagine the struggle I had with that.” His expression was pained. “One day I’d convince myself I could live down the road as your neighbor. The next day I’d tell myself I wanted you more than I wanted air in my lungs and could forget we shared a father. And then I’d have nightmares that you’d find out and be disgusted.” He stopped and shook his head slowly. “I know I kissed you the night I carried you up the stairs. And there were a few more times we locked lips before Granny Dicey told you the truth about your father, and you told me. Just so you know, I spent every Sunday standing in the back of church asking God to forgive me and asking for a sign of what I should do.”
“Oh, Kenny, I…”
“You can’t call me that, Barbie! You can never call me that name!” he snapped. “Everyone accepts that Jonathan calls me Kenny. But I’m Jake Chambers now. Dr. Pepper-drinking, safe-cracking, baseball-loving Jake. I have to be him.” He looked at the ground and said, “And to be honest, I’ve been Jake since 2010. I’m not sure if I can remember how to be Kenny anymore.”
“Mike from The Lonesome Keg knew you both, but thought you were Jake because of the skull tattoo.” It wasn’t a question, but a statement. “You were part of that guy Grizz’s motorcycle club. And Jake worked for him, but wasn’t part of the club. Am I right?”
His eyes darted up. “Yes. And the respect you saw the bikers giving me the second time we were at The Lonesome Keg was because they believe I’m Jake Chambers. Mike had filled them in after I knocked them out that first night, and they heard what the real Jake did for Grizz while in prison.”
“Which was?”
“Like I told you before, Jake cracked safes, but he was also part of Grizz’s muscle inside. So much so, that he earned a reputation in and out of the penitentiary for being a pretty scary dude.” He gave me an even look when he added, “And I stand by what I told you about myself. I never deliberately hurt a soul, but I did what I had to do to survive while incarcerated. We both did.”
It was obvious he knew how to ta
ke care of himself based on what he’d done to the bikers that night at The Lonesome Keg, as well as how he’d handled Sheila’s husband. Kenny Pritchard was no longer the mild-mannered and innocent boy I remembered and loved.
“When you were sharing Jake’s stories of regret with me, you were in so much anguish. It was almost as if—”
“I was sharing my own pain,” he finished, and stared at the floor.
I slowly walked toward him but he didn’t sense me until I lightly brushed his arm. His eyes shot up as he steadily met my gaze. But there was a dullness, a deadness to the sharp blue eyes that had held my heart captive since I’d tried to put a splint on a terrified bullfrog more than forty years earlier. How was it that I hadn’t recognized them? Who are you kidding, Barbie? You’ve known. Somewhere deep inside, you’ve always known.
I shook off the internal accusation. “Getting a cadaver dog was deliberate. You were looking for your mother, weren’t you?”
“Yes.” Swallowing, he asked, “Where do we go from here?”
“You asked me a question last spring when I suggested that it was possible for Kenny and Jake to swap places permanently. You asked if I could live the rest of my life knowing you were involved in a sexual assault. Or that you gave up a possible relationship with your daughter to be with me.”
It was the first time I’d ever seen fear in his eyes.
I reached for his hand and squeezed it tight. “The answer is yes. Yes, I can.”
He pulled me so hard against his chest, it almost knocked the wind from my lungs. Burying his face in my neck, I thought he was laughing and I smiled. Then I realized he wasn’t laughing as I bore witness to the third time in his life that Kenny Pritchard cried.
I lightly stroked his back as he pressed his face tighter against my neck. Temporarily ignoring his ‘no name’ rule, I whispered, “I’ve missed you so much, Kenny. Welcome home, my love. Welcome home.”
THE END
A Note From The Author
Even though the subject of sexual assault is not a central theme of this story and is not mentioned until the last few chapters of the book, I want readers who may be struggling with their own experience to know they are not alone. Reporting sexual assault does not change the past, but for some, a report can help survivors seek justice and begin the healing process. To report criminal sexual assault, call 911, visit the emergency room, or call the National Sexual Assault Hotline at 1-800-656-HOPE to be connected to a local rape crisis center. For those who are unsure if they are ready to report an assault, additional methods of healing and support can be accessed through your local crisis center, or by calling the above hotline. Remember, you have options, and the only person’s opinion that matters in how you move forward, is your own.
Acknowledgments
I once again find myself at the end of a very long journey. And if you’re reading this, you’ve taken this journey with me, and for that I am forever grateful. For all my loyal readers and the new ones who are meeting me for the first time, you have my heartfelt and sincerest love and appreciation. Thank you for giving me and my words your precious time. Thank you for telling someone if you like the story, and thank you too, even if you didn’t like it. If that’s the case, I hope you’ll pass it on to someone who might.
I find that acknowledgments can be the most difficult part of finishing a novel because I can never seem to find the words to adequately describe the level of appreciation I feel for the dear family and friends who contributed to bringing this story to fruition. I hope it’s okay to do a general love-filled shout out to everyone who, in their own special way, helped me bring Jake and Barbie’s story to life.
Adriana Leiker, Alyson Santos, Amy Donnelly, Angie Longgwood, Beth’s Niners, Cheryl Desmidt, Darlene Avery, Dr. Stacy Waltsak Lexow, Ella Fox, Hazel James, James Flynn, Jay Aheer, Judy Zweifel, Katie Flynn, KC Lynn, Kell Donaldson, Kelli Flynn, Kim Holden, Kirstie Fletcher, Natasha Madison, Nicole Sands, Peggy Tran, Scott Dry, Jr., and Tijan.
A very special thank you to my friend and talented country music composer, musician and artist, Jay Drummonds, for allowing me to use the lyrics for his song, Better Than This. I hope you’ll check out Jay and his music at:
https://amzn.to/2XAYlaM
http://www.jaydrummonds.com/
“Better Than This”
Words and music by Jay Drummonds and Kurt Thomas Used with Permission
If there are any discrepancies or errors in the healthcare, medical, legal or law enforcement aspects of the story, they are a result of my creative license and do not reflect on the professionals who so patiently provided their knowledge.
P.S. Nisha, I miss you.
About Beth Flynn
Beth Flynn is a fiction writer and USA Today Bestselling Author who lives and works in Sapphire, North Carolina, deep within the southern Blue Ridge Mountains. Raised in South Florida, Beth and her husband, Jim, have spent the last twenty-one years in Sapphire, where they own a construction company. They have been married thirty-five years and have two daughters and a lovable Pit bull mix named Owen.
In her spare time, Beth enjoys studying the Word, writing, reading, gardening, and motorcycles, especially taking rides on the back of her husband’s Harley. She is a nine-year breast cancer survivor.
Keep in Touch With Beth
Thank you for reading Better Than This. I’d love to hear from you!
Beth Flynn
P.O. Box 2833
Cashiers, NC 28717 USA
Email: [email protected]
Website: www.AuthorBethFlynn.com
Facebook Group: Beth’s Niners
Also by Beth Flynn
Nine Minutes (Nine Minutes Trilogy Book 1)
Out of Time (Nine Minutes Trilogy Book 2)
A Gift of Time (Nine Minutes Trilogy Book 3)
The Iron Tiara (A Nine Minutes Spin-Off Novel)
Tethered Souls (A Nine Minutes Spin-Off Novel)
Bonus From Nine Minutes
Prologue, Chapter One and Two
I hope you enjoyed Better Than This If you'd like to start at the beginning, this excerpt will take you back to where it all began.
NINE MINUTES
Book One of the Nine Minutes Trilogy
Prologue
Summer 2000
I’d never attended an execution before. Well, at least not a legal one. My husband sat to my left. A reporter for Rolling Stone was on my right.
The reporter, Leslie Cowan, fidgeted nervously, and I looked over at her. I’m pretty sure this was her first execution of any kind. Rolling Stone had an upcoming issue dedicated to celebrity bikers. They thought it would be interesting to include a real biker story in that issue. The story of a girl who’d been abducted by a motorcycle gang in 1975.
That girl was me.
The remnants of Leslie’s accident three weeks before were still visible. The stitches had been removed from her forehead, but there was a thin red line where the cut had been. Her eyes weren’t quite as raccoonish as before, but it was apparent she’d recently suffered two severe black eyes. The swelling of her nose had almost gone down completely, and she’d been to a dental surgeon to replace her broken teeth.
When we’d first started the interview, she’d told me she wanted me to be completely honest about my experience with the man who was about to be executed. I’d spent the last three months with her and held almost nothing back about my relationship with him. Today was supposed to be the culmination of the interview, a chance for her to truly understand the real side of that experience. To see the unpleasant alongside the rest.
Of course, a man’s death should be more than just unpleasant.
I knew as well as he did that he deserved what he was getting. It was strange. I thought knowing it and believing it would make it a little easier, but it didn’t. I thought I would get through his execution unscathed emotionally. But I was only fooling myself.
Just because I hadn’t been with him for almost fifteen years did not mean I d
idn’t have feelings for him. He was my first love. He was a true love. In fact, he was the biological father of my firstborn, though she would never meet him. He wanted it that way. And deep down, so did I.
The curtain opened. I was no longer aware of anyone else in the small viewing room around me. I stared through a large glass window at an empty gurney. I’d read up on what to expect at an execution. He was supposed to be strapped to the gurney when the curtain opened, wasn’t he? I’m sure that was procedure. But he was never one for following rules. I wondered how he’d managed to convince law enforcement to forego this important detail.
With a jolt, I realized someone had entered the sterile-looking room. It was him, along with two officers, the warden and a physician. No priest or pastor. He didn’t want one.
Him.
His name was Jason William Talbot. Such a normal-sounding name. It’s funny. I’d known him almost twenty-five years and it wasn’t until his arrest fifteen years earlier that I learned his real middle and last name. That is, if it was his real name. I’m still not certain.
He was always Grizz to me. Short for Grizzly, a nickname he’d earned due to his massive size and brutal behavior. Grizz was a huge and imposing man. Ruggedly handsome. Tattoos from neck to toe covered his enormous body. His large hands could crush a windpipe without effort. I knew this from experience. I’d personally witnessed what those hands could do. I couldn’t keep my eyes off them now.
He had no family. Just me. And I was not his family.
I immediately sensed when he spotted me. I looked up from his hands into his mesmerizing bright green eyes. I tried to assess whether those eyes held any emotion, but I couldn’t tell. It’d been too long. He’d always been good at hiding his feelings. I used to be able to read him. Not today, though.