by Cassia Leo
“I’m very happy to have you.”
“So am I, Goldie.”
We snuggled in silence for so long my mind began to wander to the places I usually tried to avoid. The dark corners of my mind where thoughts of death and loneliness grew like poisonous vines. The place where I relived the worst night of my life, and allowed myself to wonder if they had suffered.
I shook my head to clear away the images. “What do you want to happen to your body when you die?” I asked Dylan, hoping to gently steer my mind away toward a less gruesome aspect of death.
“I want to be cremated,” he replied instantly. “Then, I want my ashes attached to fireworks. And when they’re shot into the sky, the ashes will explode into a cloud of dust, and the fireworks will spell out: DIRECTED BY M. KNIGHT SHYAMALAN. And then I’ll come back to life. It will be the best twist ending ever.”
I smiled as I squeezed him as hard as I could. “I love you.”
He kissed the top of my head. “I love you most.”
Part 3
FIRST SIGNS OF LIFE
“Stop watering the weeds in your life and start watering the flowers.”
Chapter 17
Jack
My gaze flitted toward the sparkling bottles of bourbon behind the bar. I wanted to hurl my glass of club soda at the wall and throw back half a bottle of the first liquor I could get my hands on. Anything to drown out the words in Drea’s latest text message, which were playing on a loop in my sober brain. “Her doubts are taking root. If you don’t get back here soon, you’re going to lose her.”
The irony was that, during dark and desperate moments like these, this was when I wished I could call Laurel most. But I wasn’t ready. I didn’t deserve to hear her voice. Not yet.
And I was going to play this right. I was going to make sure Brandon paid for what he did to us. Only then would I deserve another chance with my pixie.
I sighed as I opened up my Facebook app and saw the same inane speculation in the Justice for Jack Stratton Jr. group. Laurel had deleted her social media accounts within a few weeks after the murders. I couldn’t even check up on her via ordinary Facebook stalking. Instead, I settled for looking through the albums in my Photos app.
I started with the honeymoon album. God, she was majestic in that wedding dress. But when we got on the private plane, and she pulled that white satin ribbon out of her hair, I was floored. Her blonde hair spilled over her shoulders in tousled waves, her full lips shimmering with the sheen of saliva as she got on her knees and began undoing my trousers.
I skipped past the photo album containing the pictures of the day we moved into our old house. I didn’t want to see how ecstatic and painfully oblivious we were. Instead, I opened up Junior’s birth album.
As I scrolled through the photos, an aching lump formed in my throat. I laughed to myself when I saw the picture of Laurel holding up her T-shirt to reveal the panda face she’d drawn on her pregnant belly. But my favorite was the picture I’d taken of Laurel and Junior on our first day back from the hospital.
Laurel still had a slight pooch on her belly—evidence that Junior did in fact exist. Her eyes were closed as she cradled Junior in her arms, her nose resting on his soft forehead. I imagined she was sniffing him. She loved the way he smelled.
“What the fuck are you doing?”
My gaze snapped up at the sound of my best friend Nate’s voice. “Hey, what’s up?” I said, clicking off my phone screen as I slid off the barstool to greet him with the usual handshake-slash-one-armed-hug. “Thanks for coming, man.”
He shook his head as he sat on the stool to my left. “Do I ever say no to you? Where’s Barry?”
I looked at the time on my phone screen. “Should be here soon,” I said, glancing over my shoulder. “There he is.”
Drea’s husband Barry walked in the restaurant and bypassed the hostess to join us at the bar. He nodded at us as he approached. “How’s it going, mate?”
“Could be better,” I replied as he took the stool on my right. “Did that board meeting happen yet?”
We shook hands and he passed me the USB drive I’d asked him to create with all of Jade’s and my work files. I was surprised at my own sleight of hand as I slid it into the sleeve of my button-up.
Barry let out a breath through pursed lips. “Not yet, but I’ve heard rumblings about a possible meeting next Monday. My educated guess is it’s just a formality. I saw Kent pulling Jade aside a couple of hours ago.”
I shook my head. “He really thinks Jade is going to choose to stay there? Man, I knew Kent was out of touch, but I didn’t know he was blind.”
Barry and Nate both ordered a beer. Nate tried to order me one, but I told the bartender not to bother.
“I’m trying to cut back,” I said when Nate shot me a look of disbelief.
He nodded. “Damn. You really are turning over a new leaf.”
I chuckled. “I don’t know what the fuck I’m doing, but I sure hope it works.”
“Now you’re sounding like me, every day at work,” Barry said, grabbing the pint of beer the bartender slid in front of him.
I shook my head. “You are aware that, until the board votes me out, I’m technically still your boss.”
Barry nodded. “Mm-hmm. Doesn’t change the fact that I don’t know what the fuck I’m doing half the time.”
I lifted my glass of club soda. “To being clueless.”
“Here-here,” Barry said, raising his pint and taking a few large gulps.
“How’s your brother doing?” I asked Nate.
Nate’s brother Matt had been working for me as a full-time bodyguard, up until a few weeks ago when Laurel’s bodyguard, Ace, and Isaac got in an altercation. I told Matt, and the other two men on our four-man security detail, to take a few weeks of paid time off while I figured things out.
“He’s having the time of his life, getting paid to play CoD.”
“Can you even call yourself a gamer if you only play one game?” I replied jokingly. “I guess I’m happy to enable his gaming addiction.”
“He’s just trying to lay low and be on standby in case you need him back.”
I nodded. “That’s good, because I do need him. I want him to come with me to Boise. I’ll give him a call when I leave here.”
Nate took a long pull on his beer and set it down gently on the mahogany bar top. “So, are you going to tell us what the fuck you’re doing over there?”
“I can’t. Not yet, anyway,” I replied, pushing my now-empty glass toward the bartender. “But I’m pretty sure it’s all coming to a head tomorrow night. That’s all I can say for now.”
Barry shook his head. “Well, I’ll tell you one thing, mate. According to Drea, if you don’t get your arse to Portland and get down on your knees to beg Laurel’s forgiveness sometime in the next, oh, five minutes, Laurel is going to start sticking her neighbor’s willy in every one of her orifices. Orifices…? Orifi? What’s the plural for orifice?”
“Did you just say willy? Actually, forget that. Did something happen between Laurel and her neighbor?” I demanded.
Barry scratched the scruff on his jaw. “I reckon you’d better ask Laurel that question. I’m just the messenger.”
I let out a sigh. “Sorry, man. Didn’t mean to get worked up. I’m just… I’m pumped to have this whole thing over with.”
“Well, you said it would be over tomorrow night, didn’t you? If I were you, I’d plan to be in Portland the next day.”
I didn’t like the way Barry was hammering this sense of urgency. It put a wild fear in me, like something had already happened between Laurel and Isaac, and no matter how fast I got to Portland, it wouldn’t be fast enough.
“Thanks for the heads up,” I said, grabbing my newly-filled glass of club soda. “But I need to trust that I’m making the right decision.”
I drained my glass and left Barry with my gratitude and a promise. I assured him that when I was inevitably bought out of Halo, he would
have a home at whatever new venture I started down the road.
“Go do your thing, brother,” Nate said, as I got up to leave. “We’ll keep an eye on Laurel’s orifices.”
“Don’t make me knock you on your ass,” I warned him, unable to keep myself from smiling as I left the restaurant.
But as I got in my truck and headed away from Hood River toward the airport, I wondered how long it would be before my smile returned. If tomorrow night didn’t go as planned, I might not earn my way back into Laurel’s good graces. Actually, and possibly more importantly, if tomorrow night didn’t go as planned, I might not make it back to Portland alive.
Chapter 18
Isaac
I thought getting myself shot a few weeks ago was as bad as I could fuck up. But it seemed I kept finding new and glorious ways to turn my life upside down. Now, I’d gone and kissed a married woman.
Judging by the dozen or so missed calls on my phone from my mom and Emily, I was once again falling into my old pattern of avoiding the people who cared about me. I couldn’t bring myself to take their calls. I needed to focus on one thing right now, and one thing only: going to my therapy sessions and taking care of my house. That was it. Everything else would have to take a back seat.
I tapped the back of the flathead screwdriver with my mallet to remove the last pin, then I slid the front door off its hinges. I grunted, ignoring the pain in my thigh as I hoisted the door up and centered it on top of my head so I could carry it down the porch steps. Each stair I descended felt like jamming a screwdriver in my right thigh, but I managed to maintain my hold on the solid maple door.
By the time I reached the backyard with the door, sweat dripped down my brow and into my eyes, and the feathered white clouds had turned a thick steel-gray. I’d have to hurry up and paint this door before it started raining again.
As I stood next to the two wooden workhorses I’d set up in the backyard, I steeled myself for what I had to do. Lifting something heavy was difficult with one bad leg. But gently laying a heavy slab of wood down onto a small work area took even more strength and control.
I drew in a deep breath and let out a loud grunt as I attempted to set the door on top of the workhorses. I groaned as the door landed wrong. Unevenly balanced, the ninety-pound door slid off and landed on my foot.
“Fuck!” I cursed as the door fell against the workhorses and knocked them backward into the old Mustang I’d been restoring up until I got shot. “Damn it!” I shouted at the dent it made in the passenger door, and Boomer barked at me as if I were yelling at him.
“Are you okay?” Laurel’s voice called to me from the other side of the backyard fence, prompting another bark from the dog.
“Just fine!” I called back, then I pointed at Boomer. “Quiet.”
I had to get this mess cleaned up before Laurel came over here and tried to help me again.
“You don’t sound fine,” Laurel called back at me.
“I swear, I’m fine.”
The soft sound of her laughter sent a chill over my sweaty skin. Something about that laugh drove me crazy.
I shook my head as I attempted to bend over and pick up the door without squatting. Of course, picking up a ninety-pound slab of solid wood without using your legs was a terrible fucking idea. It was begging for a back injury. But I didn’t have time to mess around with this fucking door anymore.
“Hey, cripple. Need some help?”
I turned my head toward the sound of Laurel’s voice and spotted her standing in the middle of my driveway, between my truck and the back end of the Mustang. She was pulling off her gardening gloves and wearing a shit-eating grin.
I laughed and shook my head as I stood up straight. “You get a real kick out of seeing me struggle. Don’t you?”
She cocked an eyebrow. “Oh, yeah. I stay up all night thinking of ways to keep you crippled so I can keep coming over here and doing all your housework. You’ve discovered my master plan.”
“You’re a regular ol’ Annie Wilkes, huh?”
“I’m your number one fan.”
We both laughed at the reference to Stephen King’s Misery, then she helped me get the door properly mounted on the workhorses. As I fetched a pail of black paint and a couple of roller brushes out of my garage, I was sure glad Laurel didn’t seem to be holding a grudge over that kiss. In fact, as we both painted the door and shared some light banter, I wondered if maybe she didn’t consider the kiss a mistake. I sure as hell didn’t.
I laughed when she brushed a loose piece of hair out of her face and smudged black paint on her temple. “You’ve got paint on your face.”
She gasped. “Oh, shit.”
“Here, I’ll get it,” I said, reaching for her face with my hand, which was also smudged with black paint.
She jumped back to avoid my hand and ended up dropping her roller brush on her foot. “My Uggs!” she cried, then she burst out laughing as she scooped up the brush. “You’re dead!”
I couldn’t run from her with my bad leg, so I had to settle for standing my ground as I tried to fend her off. “Jesus, woman! You’re crazy!”
She kept laughing as she rolled black paint over my cheek and forehead. And the sound of her laughter made me want to throw her down and do filthy things to her right there in the pumpkin patch I’d planted in June.
Damn. June seemed like just yesterday, yet Laurel didn’t show up at her mom’s house until two months later. And here we were, not even three months had passed since she dropped a plate of cookies on my driveway, and so much had happened since then.
Laurel’s laughing fit got the best of her and she gave up trying to paint my face so she could catch her breath. “Sorry. I got carried away.”
I smiled. “No need to apologize. I know how that goes. In fact, I should be the one apologizing.”
“For what?”
I tilted my head. “For the other day. For kissing you.”
She pressed her lips into a hard line and nodded. “Right. Well, now that that’s out of the way… How’s the treatment going?”
I chuckled at her desperate need to change the subject. “If I’m being honest, I don’t know. Some days I think it’s working like gangbusters. And some days I feel like… I guess I’m afraid I’m gonna start pushing everyone away again.”
She smiled at my admission. “Have you ever considered that they might fear they’re pushing you away, too?” She looked away quickly, before I could answer her question. “Maybe we should try the shooting range again.”
I handed her a clean rag so she could wipe the excess paint off her hands and face. “Are you sure you’re ready for that?”
She shrugged. “I can keep pushing the tough stuff further into the future, or I can just face it now and move on.”
I shook my head. “PTSD is not something you can cross off your to-do list,” I said, taking the paint-stained rag from her. “You need to be prepared that you might never be able to pick up a gun, and that’s totally okay. You shouldn’t push yourself if you’re not ready.”
“I’m ready.”
“How do you know that?”
She flashed me a gorgeous grin. “Because I’ll be there with you.”
Chapter 19
Jack
This was the last place I wanted to be on a Friday night, especially since it happened to be Laurel’s thirtieth birthday. Two hours into the police standoff at Brandon Huxley’s double-wide trailer in the Bonita Springs Trailer Park community, officers used stun grenade launchers to fire four flash bang grenades into his home. But Brandon must have taken cover, because he continued firing his weapon at police just seconds later.
E.T., the bomb disposal robot driven remotely by Officer Hodges — a rookie member of the SWAT team — was rolling toward the front door of the mobile home now, attempting to deliver a telephone to Brandon so he could communicate with crisis negotiators. We watched from a few hundred feet away, behind the press cordon. Nate’s brother Matt — my former bodyguard �
�� and Sean flanked me, all three of us sporting bulletproof vests taken from Sean’s considerable arsenal.
So far, having my hoodie pulled over my head had allowed me to remain unrecognized. But as more news vans arrived, I knew I wouldn’t remain anonymous much longer. Still, I didn’t care how long this standoff dragged on. I wasn’t going anywhere until this was over and Brandon Huxley was either dead or in custody.
Bullets pinged off the metal robot as it maneuvered around the porch and began rolling up the steps. E.T., as the robot was nicknamed, had been manufactured to withstand the force of detonated explosives, and this idiot thought he could disable the robot with a few bullets. It was too bad the Boise PD didn’t have the funds for one of those new virtual-reality-controlled bomb disposal robots. I’d give both my arms to be able to go Terminator on Brandon Huxley.
As this thought occurred to me, a pang of guilt squeezed my insides. Whatever Brandon was, he was still Laurel’s brother. And part of me — the part of me that had clung to my humanity by a thread for the last two years — knew that Laurel, and her big heart, might mourn the loss of this sibling she never knew. The last thing I wanted to do was give her another reason to grieve.
I didn’t know if Brandon and Laurel were full-siblings or half-siblings. But I knew Laurel deserved to find that out for herself. Though, the thought of enduring a drawn out legal trial, and having to possibly go before a jury and describe the events of that night, was not something I wanted to put Laurel or myself through.
I wouldn’t shed a tear if this standoff ended with Brandon Huxley fatally wounded. Neither would I celebrate the death of a man who was obviously mentally ill. Whatever the outcome was, I had faith that Laurel and I would face the aftermath together. Stronger.
The crisis negotiator spoke to Brandon on the bullhorn. “Brandon, we need you unlock the front door to let the robot in. The robot is carrying a cell phone so we can communicate privately without the bullhorn. If you don’t open the door, we will have to use a mild explosive to blow off the lock. In that case, you’ll need to get at least fifteen feet away from the door so you’re out of the blast radius. Open the door, Brandon.”