by Mason, V. F.
“But—”
“Shh, let me finish.” I wiggle my finger in the air. “If we have visitation, this means we are spending time together. Along the way, we fell in love, and the minute you got out, we decided not to waste our time. Life is too short to not live it fully.” I grip the arm of the couch. “And voila! You have an unconventional love story for the press, and everyone is rooting for us.”
Her jaw drops open, and she shakes her head in disbelief before shouting, “Are you insane?” She groans, face-palming herself. “This is the most idiotic love story I’ve ever heard. Not to mention you have no evidence to support that.”
I bark out a laugh. “What evidence, woman? You think they will go to the prison to check if the information is correct? They wouldn’t get it anyway. It’s classified.”
“It’s stupid. How can you not see it?” she exclaims and swings her feet to the floor, slapping on it soundly. “No one will believe it.”
“That’s where you’re wrong. They’ll believe it, since it’s romantic, a darkish kind of fairy tale. Tragic yet beautiful in a weird way too. But most importantly, the unsub will believe it, because he knows us. You mainly.”
Her brows furrow. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“He knows you hated me. You suffered an unbearable loss because of me.” She casts her gaze down, and even though guilt once again shows its ugly head to me, I rein it in. “But more importantly, he knows we both married for love in the past and how much we loved our significant others. If we’re doing it again, with you agreeing to be with me, it must mean something. Enough for him to feel betrayed.” I hope she sees the reasoning behind my thoughts and not push the whole point that he or she is super smart.
The unsub’s intelligence has nothing to do with this anyway. He’ll react emotionally to the news and snap. I just have to prepare for it to happen during the wedding and then trap him in my net, so the nightmare can be over for everyone involved.
And begin for him, because his suffering will be eternal.
“My head can’t wrap around this shit,” she finally says, her gaze locked on mine. “But I guess I have to be on board this sinking ship, since everyone now knows about the engagement.” She snatches the phone from underneath the couch pillow where I hadn’t noticed it before. She unlocks the screen and slides the phone in my direction. “Scroll down. It seems the whole freaking world is talking about us.”
Indeed, the news feed consists of the photos and articles about us with the most ridiculous headlines.
The King and the Ex-Con: A love story.
When a murder is not enough of a reason to stand in the way of love.
Keep it in the family, King style. Looks like another Hale is joining the dynasty.
I chuckle at the last one, which only serves to piss off Phoenix more as she accuses me, “Oh, it’s funny for you, is it?”
“You gotta admit the last one is fucking hilarious. And don’t worry, Sebastian is not my family by blood, so you’re not double dipping or anything,” I assure her, and her eyes widen at my words before she grabs the nearby pillow and throws it at me. I duck my head to avoid it, but she grabs another one and once again misses as it lands on the floor.
“I can’t believe you can say something like that!” She huffs in frustration. “It’s disgusting!”
“It was unavoidable. Did you really think we could go through with this marriage without anyone mentioning the fact that your ex-husband is engaged to my sister?” I’m not thrilled with it either; in fact, fury washes over me, demanding I erase any kind of memory from everyone’s head she was married to him, because the idea of her belonging to anyone else doesn’t sit well with me.
She is mine and mine alone, and everything and everyone that came before me can go fuck themselves.
Which is hypocritical as hell, but who gives a fuck?
“Honestly?” She says, “I don’t think much about Sebastian besides—” She clears her throat, shutting her mouth, but I know what she wanted to say anyway.
Besides the times when she thinks about her daughter and what could have been if Sebastian raised her.
Well, we’ll never find out, will we?
“Doesn’t matter what, but he doesn’t occupy my thoughts twenty-four seven,” she continues and then bites her lip worriedly. “Have you checked on your sister?” I frown, not sure what she means by that, so she elaborates with a huff as if she can’t believe I’m this dense. “Is she okay? I bet she doesn’t want the ex of her fiancé marrying her brother.”
“We’re not close,” I mechanically reply, although my mind digests this information as my family didn’t even factor into my decision-making.
Why would it? I never factor into theirs, so the feelings are mutual. I haven’t checked for calls or messages since we entered the house, so nothing would disturb my time with Emmaline. I fish for my phone inside my jacket pocket and mutter, “Well, I’ll be damned.” Because there are fifty missed calls from my various family members, even the stepmother, and five from Zeke.
And only one text message from my father.
Call me when you see this. We need to talk, son.
Yeah, I’m not in a hurry to make that phone call, because I’m not in the mood for any lectures. He’ll probably preach to me how much it hurts Felicia, his little girl, and I should have thought about the consequences of my actions first before acting on impulse.
It’s his go-to phrase whenever I do something he doesn’t agree with or might hurt his beloved family.
My grim expression and mood must give Phoenix the wrong impression, as she says, “They’re angry, aren’t they?”
“Don’t concern yourself with my family and their emotions. It doesn’t matter what they think.”
“They’re your family,” she protests but stops when my hollow laughter echoes in the night.
“They remember they’re my family only when they need something from me or think I might have screwed up their lives.” Not wanting to dwell on it any longer, I change the subject. “So how about patching up my hand?”
She rubs her forehead. “All this is giving me a headache. Or maybe that’s my status quo ever since I stepped into freedom.” It sounds more like internal musing, so I say nothing.
Instead, I get up ready to sit next to her so she can work on my hand, but she shakes her head, jumps up from the couch, and grabs the first aid kit. “Let’s go to the bathroom. We need to clean it first. Not to mention the lighting in there is better.”
Whatever fucking works for her.
The lavender-mixed-with-vanilla scent I associate only with her twitches my nostrils as she passes by me, her body brushing against mine, since I don’t take a single step back to give her an easier path.
Annoyance sparkles in her eyes when our gazes meet, but she flips her long-ass hair back, the dark locks hitting me in the face when she walks to the door, then throws over her shoulder, “Maybe I should let it fester, and you can die from infection. Natural causes and all. Just imagine that. Not guilty of the crime and I’d get rid of you.”
I grin at her jab, finding her sassiness a major turn-on, as if I needed any more encouragement, and follow her inside the room. “Since my death will be agonizing and slow, I can always write a letter blaming you.”
“The whole restaurant was my witness,” she fires back, and this time I can’t help the chuckle escaping me. We both step inside the spacious bathroom, and she turns on the light. The enormous space holds a bathtub, sink with a huge-ass mirror, and even a shower stall.
She motions to the sink. “Wash your hands.”
Removing my jacket and throwing it on the counter, I wash my hands and wince, cursing inwardly when the sting intensifies a little, and then she points at the tissues. “Wipe it with them. Towels hold a lot of germs.” Since she is dead-serious, I follow directions and then sit on the stone-covered edge of the bathtub, extending my hand, and announce in a high-pitched tone, “Do your magic, oh medical fairy.”
If looks could kill, I’d be dead right now, but she stays silent, flips open the kit before bringing it to me, and places it next to my hip.
She puts on some latex gloves before examining the cut, pressing lightly on the skin around it, and I wince once again and then flash her a grin that probably doesn’t reach my eyes. No man wants to look like a delicate flower cursing from a sting, but why the fuck does it hurt so much right now? It was all right just seconds ago. “You don’t have to act all brave.”
She presses harsher on the skin, and I mutter, “Fucking hell.”
“All this”—she continues to slide her finger down the cut—“could have been avoided if you just listened to me in the first place.”
“You can gloat later, but for fake’s sake, stop pressing your fingers into it,” I grit through my teeth, and she stops, still holding my hand open.
“It doesn’t need stitches as I originally thought, but it’s deep. We have to cover it up.” She can do whatever the fuck she wants as long as this irritating pain goes away.
She proceeds to do all the things, but I still groan when she pours the antiseptic all over the wound and it slips inside, burning my skin so much I wonder how this shit is even helping.
But my main focus is on Phoenix, how easily she performs all this, each move quick and precise. She used to be one of the best in her class, and according to the majority of her professors, she had great potential as a surgeon and even contemplated going into neurosurgery but changed her mind at the last moment.
“Why did you pick psychiatry as your field?”
She unscrews the ointment tube and dips a generous amount on her finger before applying it to the cut and replies, “A long time ago, I chose a medical degree, because I wanted to save lives. It seemed like such a great idea, a job with such a huge purpose.” An odd feeling niggles at my mind at this information, reminding me of someone else from the past who used to use similar language in describing her dream, and I go still. “The brain fascinated me, and all studies related to it. Before med school, I planned to become a surgeon, but once I began… I just couldn’t stomach the idea of the patients dying one after another on my table.” She takes the bandage from the kit and rolls it up, placing the ripped edge on my hand, and starts covering my cut. “So I chose psychiatry. I don’t regret that decision.” Even though I listen to her, the thought doesn’t let go of me, gripping me so hard I start to remember snippets about her life I never paid attention to.
Whenever I studied her files, all I cared about was finding her weakness so I could use it against her. Or I searched for anything that could convince me she was indeed drunk. I didn’t much care about her family besides the fact that she didn’t have one. “Where are your parents?” I hear myself asking, and she raises her surprised gaze on me.
“You don’t know?”
“Your file said no family. Are they dead?”
“I grew up in the system,” she says and finishes bandaging me up, tying up the knot between my thumb and index finger. “Try not to get it wet till morning, and I’ll check it tomorrow. I think the swelling will go down, and then you won’t have to wear it anymore. Right now, I’m playing it safe, since the cut is so deep it might get infected easily.” She removes the gloves, throwing them in the trashcan a few feet away from us, and honestly, I don’t give a fuck about my hand right now.
So when she wants to step away from me, I grab her hips, bringing her between my spread legs, and she gasps in surprise, her hands pushing at my chest. “What are you doing?”
“Did you have a pen pal? A guy you exchanged letters with?” I ask the question not caring how insane it might sound to her, needing to know if my fleeting suspicion is correct or not.
Although I’m not sure what I will do once I hear her answer.
Because if all along I hurt the girl from my childhood whose shitty life never deprived her of her hopes and dreams, so she still worked her ass off toward her degree, then I’m an even bigger monster than I’ve anticipated.
The clock inside the room ticktocks loudly, with each tick speeding up my heartbeat in anticipation of her answer.
Even if her answer will break the last sane part of me.
Phoenix
His hold on me tightens, his fingers digging into my hips, and I try to wiggle free once again, but his hands are like steel chains wrapped around me, keeping me in place and not letting me avoid his overpowering presence.
Placing my palms on his shoulders, I push firmly, thinking it will do the trick, but he only traps me between his legs harder and orders, “Answer me.”
What the hell is going on with him? “Yes, I had a pen pal as a kid. Who didn’t?” My generation still grew up during the time when technology didn’t rule this world, so I’m sure it’s not that uncommon. And besides, what does this have to do with us anyway? “Zachary, please let go,” I repeat, but his muscles ripple under his shirt while once again the grip of his embrace is so strong I gasp when discomfort rushes through me. “You’re hurting me.”
“What was his name?”
“What?” I ask, momentarily forgetting about his stupid question, and then yelp when, with one last attempt to escape, I fall on him. I have no choice but to circle my arms around his neck to keep from slipping to the floor.
“What was his name?” His fingers thread in my hair, and he tilts my head back, our gazes clashing, his so blazing I’m surprised I’m not burning from it. “The pen pal.”
This is the most bizarre conversation I’ve ever had with a patient, and considering I worked in psychiatry, that’s saying something! That’s what I get I guess for wanting to be a bigger person and help him out, even though I knew he was a dick.
His current actions proving it. “Zach, okay? His name was Zach, and I saw him twice before he ditched me during our scheduled date. So, for the love of God, would you please—” I pause midsentence as realization hits me so hard I sway a little and my mouth drops open in shock, thousands of thoughts rushing through my mind.
But the most prominent of them all?
It can’t be true.
However, all the dots and fleeting memories from the past about Zach, my Zach, start to add up to one big puzzle with the pieces unknown to me back then.
How rich he was.
How much he hated his family.
Cocky, arrogant.
My hand fists his shirt, bringing us closer of their own accord as I lean toward him, whispering, “You’re Zach? The Zach I exchanged letters with?”
He growls, his chest vibrating under my hold. “Yeah.”
“Oh my God!” I exclaim, momentarily forgetting how I’m a thirty-two-year-old woman whose life he destroyed, and I’m back to being a giddy ten-year-old who wrote to him for the first time. “I can’t believe this!” Without thinking, I hug him close, muttering, “You were an awesome pen pal.” He tenses in my arms, but then his hands wrap around me, pressing me against his chest, and a smile spreads on my mouth.
Who would have thought? How amazing is it that I’ve finally met the boy….
And with this, darkness bursts my happy bubble, reality slipping in—the cause of us meeting.
My body freezes. The air sticks in my lungs as his masculine scent disturbs my nose, and I quickly step away from him, so quickly and unexpectedly he has no choice but to let go.
“Fate certainly has a sense of humor, doesn’t she?” I prompt, folding my arms, and he gets up, his expression determined as he walks toward me, but I take a step back again, hoping he will get the fucking hint to stay away. “Who knew that the boy who used to be so kind to me would end up being my worst nightmare?” I finish, forgetting about the stupid truce when disappointment runs through me, destroying the one good thing I had in childhood.
Our letters were rare and almost nonexistent, but somehow, I felt like somewhere I had a best friend who would listen to me no matter what I had to say.
He gave me the sense of security of not being alone in this big
world where no one ever wanted me, and he supported me in my dreams in his weird way and even managed to give me unforgettable gifts. For most people, it’s probably nothing, but for a foster kid who never felt special ever…
He was the whole world, the best, even if he was still mean and never hid the fact that he couldn’t care less what everyone thought about him.
“Phoenix,” he starts, but I shake my head, not wanting to hear whatever he has to say.
All this right now is not his problem; it’s mine. I built a perfect boy in my head who somehow I thought was close to me. Ironically, even after he didn’t show up for our meeting, I excused him in my head and thanked him for Sebastian.
Well, that’s one gift he took away, so maybe I shouldn’t have been so grateful for my husband.
“You didn’t come,” I say, and to his shock judging by how his eyes widen. “It should have a been a clue from above to stay away from you. But here we are.” A humorless chuckle slips past my lips. “Fate managed to connect us after all. Gotta say, I wish she hadn’t.” I cover my mouth with my hand, oddly not feeling like crying, yet I’m afraid a sob might slip out. God, I was never an emotional person, but ever since meeting Zachary in real life, I’ve been nothing but an endless supply of waterfalls.
“I came. A minute after you left.” I look at him, seeing sincerity on his face as he continues, “We tried to catch you, but you caught a cab and drove off. And then you didn’t answer any of my emails.” He sounds annoyed by this, yet only one thing stands out from his words.
“Who is we?”
He goes completely still, his jaw ticking, the only indication of his emotions before he finally replies, his voice detached, but I see that every word is difficult to pronounce for him. “With Angelica. That’s where we met. We had a cup of coffee and started dating a few months later, after we met again at one of the charity events the Kings organized.”