Command: An Everyday Heroes World Novel (The Everyday Heroes World)

by Amélie S. Duncan

Why do you care?

  They didn’t come for you.

  Hell, my parents and I hadn’t been in the same room in two years, not even on Christmas.

  I lowered my head as my pulse sped up, anticipating seeing the large framed photo of Jackson and me at four years old. My favorite picture that hung at the end of the hallway of the two of us wearing matching sailor-suit outfits hugging each other in Mom’s flower garden.

  My eyes lifted to a blank space. It’s gone. My chest eased with relief, and I cursed myself. Deep down, I didn’t want to see it and feel hurt. Guilt erupted and consumed my conscience. You should be here. We should be here. I’m sorry, Jackson.

  I’m still here, Shadow, Jackson said in my head.

  I forced my brain to fill in the gaps. In the loggia, Dad’s piano while the three of us sang along to Christmas songs. In the great and family rooms, Mom’s joyous chatter and clinking wine glasses from her weekly lunches with friends. The billiards and entertainment rooms where I’d listened to the blaring of electronic dance music from Jackson’s and my attempt at becoming DJs, with all our friends dancing along. The only place where I found something from BJD—Before Jackson Died—was with all the sports equipment in the gym. I supposed the bats and footballs didn’t hurt my parents. As for me, seeing them tore my heart. We trained there together almost every day.

  Jackson had not only had the skill and physical edge to succeed but a real passion for baseball. The kind of combination only found among the legends. He would have triumphed.

  You always downplayed your skills, Shadow. You were just as good. You could have made the USA team in softball.

  Jackson always overinflated my skill and prospect.

  No, Jackson, I couldn’t have. My passion was spending time with you.

  A short, middle-aged female in a housekeeper’s uniform came out of the gym bathroom. Her eyes widened as if she was surprised to find me here. They had new staff here now? “Hello.”

  “Hi, do you know where I can find my mom?” I asked.

  “She’s in the library.”

  “Thank you,” I told her and went straight there.

  From the hallway, I saw her standing next to the window. She had a glass of wine in one hand and her cell phone in the other. Her focused frown went in the direction of the mother-in-law suite in the back of the house. Deducing from the poster boards, design swatches, and open binders covering her desk and worktables, she had one of her projects brewing.

  Her walk-in closets had always been full of rows of silk shirts and linen slacks. They were all I ever saw her wear, and today was no different. She was dolled up in full makeup too, including fake lashes and pink frosted blush—something left over from her ’90s fashion style.

  “We set the landscaping appointment two months ago, and I have been here all day waiting for your team to show up . . . No, I won’t be available next week . . .”

  I waved my arms from the door until she turned her attention my way. “Hello.”

  She turned away again and said to whoever was on the phone, “Let me put you on hold. My . . . daughter is here.”

  Her hand trembled as she removed the phone from her ear. Her neck turned my way, and her green-eyed gaze darted over my face with a dreamy glint. I’d come to think of this perusal as an assessment of what she’d imagine she’d have seen on Jackson at this age. Then came the drooping of her head. She took a long sip of her wine and placed it down.

  “I’m here,” I said, plopping down in one of the recliners near the bookcases, though she hadn’t invited me inside.

  “I know. You arrived a few days ago, but you came inside this time. You should go to your room and change or go see your dad. I know he’s expecting you. I’m busy.”

  My insides crumbled, but I didn’t budge from my seat. I lifted my chin and crossed my arms. “You do know I was arrested and thrown in jail?”

  She let out an exasperated breath. “Yes, I am well aware, and you didn’t call us. I didn’t know what was up or where to begin.”

  I rolled my eyes. “So, you left me in jail because you didn’t know what to do. Got it.”

  Her brows pulled together. “You expect us to deal with your drugs and partying? You’re too old to behave so irresponsibly. There has to be an end for parents’ involvement.”

  I snorted. “Since when have you been involved with me? You didn’t mind Jackson’s partying. You didn’t even ask me if I was dealing, the reason they arrested me. I wasn’t, by the way.”

  “Here you go trying to act like I played favorites. You didn’t want me and your dad involved in your life. You stayed secret and stubborn. My Jack always reached out and explained what he wanted or apologized when he did wrong.” Her Jack. He was only my twin brother. “You don’t communicate, and now you’re placing blame on us. You don’t call and ask about us. When you do call it’s always about money—”

  “No, it isn’t. You rush to get off the phone. The money I ask for is from my trust fund Gran and Gramps left me—”

  “Enough.” She stomped her foot. She put down her phone to rub the space between her brows. “You’re always so argumentative. I can’t deal with you arguing all the time. Go take a shower and then go to your dad’s office to see him. He’s relocated it to the guest house.”

  She pointed her manicured finger out of her office for me to leave.

  Whatever. I got up and left. I hadn’t expected more, but the disappointment still stabbed my chest. Before I could wallow in self-pity, I remembered how Nathan had told me off. I couldn’t blame my mom for her reaction. I had left my car parked in the driveway on Friday and then hadn’t gone inside. Instead, I went out partying with Amber like some stupid kid. I let myself get so drugged up that I’d lost track of time and ended up in jail. I deserved no better treatment.

  Yes, you do, Shadow. Partying is one thing, but this drug possession is bullshit. It could ruin your life. Mom and Dad should’ve been there for you.

  The words I imagined Jackson saying held some truth. I decided to delay the shower and head straight to my lecture from Dad. Unknowingly, Mom had forecasted his talking points. Now, I was ready for them.

  I took the stone path outside along the back of the house to the guest house. It was a smaller version of our home that had a beautiful view above the hills down to the ocean.

  After knocking twice, I walked inside and found Dad reclining in a chair with a book on his lap. In his golf shirt and trousers, he appeared relaxed, toying with a Scotch glass in his hand. His blond hair had gray at the temples, but his skin only had wrinkles at the corners of his eyes. He looked fucking great. Healthy.

  The windows were open with soft jazz playing from his surround sound. He obviously was in the middle of living his best life while my freedom hung from a cliff in court. I mean seriously, what the hell?

  “Am I interrupting something?” I asked in a snarky tone.

  He flicked his eyes over to me. “Are you ill?”

  I shrugged. “Nope. I just look like I’ve been in the jail suites.”

  “Take a seat,” he said, ignoring my comment. He gestured toward one of the leather seats across from him.

  He eyed me speculatively and frowned. “What happened to you? You were the responsible one.”

  No, Dad, I’m the one you always held responsible.

  “And Jackson was your treasure,” I mumbled.

  “Jackson may have had some leniency, but you’ve always been clever. You’re smart enough to know better, but you choose to do wrong anyway. And a parent has to make choices.”

  I slumped in the chair and bit into my lip. The words were on my tongue, but Dad’s authoritative presence had always brought silence to me.

  “You make us out to be the bad people. You received a full ride for four years of college. A condo in Los Angeles and funds for you to start your business. A monthly allowance. That was more than your grandpa gave me when I was going through law school.”

  Grandpa didn’t buy a condo for Dad w
hen he went to Stanford. He rented. That was his big difference in parenting. Instead, “mean” Grandpa gave him and his brother his financial empire later. Not one time did I hear “good” Dad complain about the tens of thousands Jackson spent on whatever he desired.

  He put his Scotch down on a side table and squared his shoulders. “I know you’re upset about my decision to stop the funding of your company. I couldn’t in good conscience continue to allow you to spend the trust fund my parents gave you on an unprofitable venture. I went over the numbers with my financial team—”

  “Business was picking up.” My jaw tightened. “We had a setback last summer. I decreased the two staff members I had. One investor had financial troubles and had to pull out, and all I needed to do was match the investment while my partner and I secured another investor. I always presented a business plan. I never took more than I believed I could cover.”

  He went quiet, and after a few minutes, he asked, “Are you done arguing? I understand you’re upset, but coming in here looking disorderly just shows me your lack of care. A business requires hard work and concern. You’re not giving me a good argument that you deserve me to reconsider.” He spoke like he was ruling on a case.

  “I . . . I thought you’d . . .” Deep down, I knew what he expected. He wanted me to be perfect, so he wouldn’t be disturbed. I thought if you saw me like this, Dad, that you’d care about me. That you’d see that I need you for more than financial backing. That I needed . . . needed a hug. My thought was childish, and I inwardly admonished myself for having it. “What now?”

  A ghost of a smile appeared on his mouth. “Good. You see reason. Judge Sullivan has called me and shared his ruling. Besides the fact that you don’t have a job or condo any longer in LA, and you have to stay in Sunnyville, I have a new proposal.”

  “I have community service and rehabilitation meetings for a crime I didn’t commit,” I pointed out.

  He rapped the side of the glass with his finger. “Jim didn’t order community service. You volunteered to help your case, and I’m in agreement with you doing it. The job I have lined up for you will work around it.”

  My brows rose. “What job?”

  “An assistant job at Orion-Tech. Aaron Matheson assured me it won’t be stressful. It will give you something to work on and support your integration and involvement in the community. Now, I told Jim I wouldn’t get completely involved in your case, but I will be willing to supply a lawyer if you show me you can help yourself.”

  My lips parted. I had no argument back from that or other options since I didn’t have any way to afford a lawyer right now. “So, you expect me to stay in Sunnyville, here, and work? Is that why you asked me to come here in the first place?”

  “We asked you home because your mom . . . needs you.” His eyes softened and went distant.

  “What’s wrong with her?” I asked, my brows lowering as my pulse sped up.

  “You’ll have to speak with her,” he said and cleared his throat. “Now, I’m about to head out. I won’t return until late. Clean up. I don’t want to see you like this again.”

  Go make yourself like Mom, who wanted a doll instead of a tomgirl.

  I walked out and crossed the lawn, taking the outdoor hidden staircase off the spa room to the mezzanine floor. Passing back into the house, I saw more empty walls, although here, there were outlines of photos purposely taken down. I opened a door and walked in, closing it back with a slam. I took a step and almost tripped over a pair of . . . high-top sneakers?

  A hitch in my chest stole my breath. I stumbled back like I’d tripped on an uneven step—Jackson’s room. I must have come in here out of habit from years of loving him and seeking him out.

  His academic and sports trophies decorated his walls. His team jersey was still on the back of the chair. The remote controls were still next to his PlayStation and controllers. Even the guitar he played twice was still in the corner. They had moved nothing, not even the power cord to his laptop on his oak desk. It remained plugged into the wall.

  My body trembled as I sunk down on the bed and ran my hand over his pillow. They had to be the same sheets and duvet from the night he died.

  I buried my face and inhaled. The fabric still smelled like Jackson. You’re still here. Tears threatened, and I could almost hear him say, “I’ll talk to them. Don’t you worry.”

  His ghost came and hugged me tightly. “I’m still here, Shadow.”

  “What are you doing here?” Mom’s screech nearly made me jump out of my skin. She stood in the doorway, arms tight around her body. “You didn’t shower, and you’ll change his smell . . . You moved Jack’s stuff. Why are you so careless?”

  I stood up, and Mom frantically smoothed her hands down his bed, repositioned the baseball mitt on the floor, and cursed.

  I moved to touch her shaking shoulders, but I pulled back. “I’m not careless, Mom. I . . . I came in here. He’s my brother. I can look at his room.”

  She twisted her lips in a scowl. “Well, now you’ve seen it. I need you to go to your own room.” Her tone sliced deep into my heart.

  I stepped into the hall and hung in the doorway as she scanned his room and closed the door. Her hand swiped below her eyes.

  “Mom?” I said.

  She shook her head.

  “Dad said you want to tell me something.”

  “Later, not right now. I didn’t mean to snip, but I need you to leave Jackson’s bedroom . . . Please, just go to your room,” Mom said. Her voice broke.

  I went to my room across the hall and glanced over my shoulder, back at my mom. She put a key in Jackson’s bedroom door and locked it.

  I opened the door and gasped. What the fuck? My awards and artwork had all been removed. Hell, the only thing in my room was my platform bed with a fresh, colorful-patterned duvet and matching pillows. Mom had turned my room into a guest room.

  She came inside and wrung her hands. “I just realized I forgot to tell you about the change. I considered making this room my office since you moved away. I had your bed assembled and dressed. But you can still put your things back. They’re in the closet . . .”

  I gave her a curt nod, and she walked out, closing the door gently.

  I walked over to my walk-in closet and found boxes stacked near the floor-length mirror. Crouching down, I opened one and found my clothes and shoes. Hell, everything I owned, Mom packed up and put away in the closet. Why? She could have used other rooms for an office.

  Because she blames you, my inner voice answered. Because she didn’t want to be reminded that you lived. Because there was only room in her life for one child.

  And that has never been me.

  A memory rose of my mom in the private room the hospital gave us, after she’d dropped to her knees in the emergency room in front of the doctor, who told us they couldn’t revive Jackson. Her hands yanked on her hair as she sobbed and screamed. Dad tried to pull her up and shake her, but she wouldn’t stop until they gave her a benzodiazepine shot.

  Tears stain Mom’s pillowcase as she curls on her side.

  “Why didn’t you look out for your brother, Shana? You were supposed to look out for him. But you let him jump off that bridge. Why, God, did you have to take my Jackson?”

  Fresh tears spill out of my swollen eyes and tunnel down my face, soaking my already wet shirt.

  Why, God, didn’t you take me?

  I dug my nails into my arm to stop the memory. Will this pain ever go away?

  There were fresh towels and bath gels, brushes, and lotions left on the shelves for me to use as if I were staying in an upscale hotel bathroom. I pushed the thought away and turned on the water and stood under the spray, washing my hair a few times, then my body. I scrubbed and scrubbed to clean the stench and hopelessness of the jail away. When the water went cooler, I turned it off. I used one of the plush bath sheets to dry off, wrapping it around my body before returning to the closet to put on a pair of jeans and a shirt and sneakers from the box.
They were a looser fit than my clothes in my car, but comfortable. I glanced over at my bed but couldn’t bring myself to lie on it.

  I walked out of the bedroom and crossed over to use the double stairs back to the front entrance. I hesitated but thought better than to push trying to speak with my mom again.

  Dad didn’t want to be in the main house.

  Mom didn’t want me here.

  I didn’t want to be here.

  It felt like a tomb.

  I climbed behind the wheel of my car and sped out of the driveway, driving back down to Main Street and stopped at Daisy’s. My instincts said I should leave the Birks alone. But something in me couldn’t stomach letting it stand as if I didn’t care about what happened to them. Even though I knew the drugs weren’t mine, guilt clung as if they were.

  I picked a yellow bouquet of roses out front, then joined the queue waiting at the counter. Some of the people turned around and stared at me. A loud whisper started.

  “She’s out already with all those drugs. I can’t believe she had the nerve to show her face in here.”

  “Her daddy thinks he owns this town. Now we know why they have so much money.”

  Sure. Nothing to do with inherited wealth.

  “But we’ll get real justice. I’ll call the national news if the district attorney doesn’t charge her with the crime.”

  “So much for innocent until proven guilty,” I said loud enough for the whole shop to hear.

  “You can come up here and pay for your flowers.” Ericka, who I remembered from high school, waved me forward. She had a baby bump and a rosiness to her pale, round cheeks.

  “She can’t skip,” Ms. Peabody said at the counter.

  “I just want to keep order here,” Ericka explained to her to make sure she understood she wasn’t on my side.

  Her face pinked as she rang me up. “Twenty-five dollars.”

  As I pulled the cash from my purse, I said, “Thanks, Ericka. It’s good to see you looking so—”

  “Next in line,” she said, looking straight past me.

  Okay. Town pariah.