Too Late

by C. Hoover

  Her shine has worn off. She’s a dull toy now. Too many kids have played with her.

  Damn shame.

  It won’t be long, though. I’ve figured out where to get to them. It’s just a matter of how.

  I lie back on the couch and close my eyes. I slip my hands in my boxers, wondering when I’ll stop having to think about Sloan just to get off. Even hating her as much as I fucking hate her, she’s the only thought that can get my dick hard.

  I think about pre-Luke Sloan. I think about the first night I kissed her in that alley. I think about the fact that my lips were the first to ever touch hers. I think about how fresh and innocent she was. How fascinated with me she was. How she looked at me like she couldn’t get enough. Like I was God Himself.

  I miss the Sloan I fell in love with.

  Just when I’m getting nice and hard, someone knocks on my door.

  “Fuck.” I groan and pull my hands out of my pants. This dude has the shittiest timing. I stand up, wondering if the weight of the ankle bracelet will ever stop feeling foreign to me. Three months of this and I’m about to go fucking crazy. No way I can make it three more. I might as well invest in NyQuil stock and sleep my way through the next three months.

  I look through the peephole and then unlock the door to let Anthony in. He already knows not to say too much out loud. I’m not stupid, I know those fuckers probably have my house bugged.

  “Hey, man,” I say, grabbing the backpack from him.

  “Hey,” he says, glancing around like a paranoid twit. “Found that coconut cake you were looking for.”

  Coconut cake is code for computer. Bakery is code for Sloan.

  I refuse to use either of the two computers still left in my house. When the District Attorney is trying to build a case against someone, they don’t just leave their computers in their house. They confiscate them. The fact that both of my computers are still here proves they want me to search stuff because they’re watching me.

  Just to piss them off, I’ve spent a good hour every day using the computers to search things like, ”How to find redemption through Jesus Christ.”

  I even click on church podcasts and let them play so they’ll think I’m actually changing for the better. Hell, last night I took it so far that I created a Pinterest account. That’s right. Asa Jackson has a Pinterest account. I pinned recipes and inspirational quotes for three hours straight just to confuse them.

  What a ridiculous fucking world this is.

  I take a seat at the dining room table and open the backpack. It took me a month to finally find a guy I knew wouldn’t rat me out. I have too much information on him. He’d go to prison for life if he ratted me out. Besides, Anthony is desperate enough for easy money, he’d probably agree to kill Sloan and Luke for less than I paid him to get this laptop. The only downfall with Anthony is that it has taken him for fucking ever to finally pin down Sloan or Luke. He somehow found a guy who was able to locate an address for them. I didn’t ask too many questions because the less I know about his methods, the better, in case they come back to bite me in the ass. But I’m almost positive there’s a crooked fucker in Luke’s department that spilled the beans for even less than Anthony demands from me.

  That’s the thing about humans. We’ll all do despicable things for money.

  “Did you find the bakery?” I ask him. He nods.

  Fucking hell.

  He found the fucking bakery.

  “I went and checked it out myself.” He smirks. “You were right. That’s a nice fucking bakery.”

  I ignore the fact that it feels like my guts are lodged in my throat because he’s telling me he saw Sloan, and I focus on the fact that I’m pretty sure he just said Sloan was hot. Who does this fucker think he is?

  “What’s so special about this bakery, anyway?” he asks, kicking back in his chair. He’s wanting to know why I forked over a clean ten grand for a computer and her address. Another five grand was promised if he was able to get some actual surveillance footage, proving that she actually lives at the address.

  “That bakery is one of a kind, Anthony,” I say as I pull the laptop out of the bag. Anthony wrote all the instructions down for how to access the surveillance footage he’ll be uploading for me. Also in the bag is a Wi-Fi box set up in his name so it’s not traceable to me in any way.

  “Did you get any cupcakes at the bakery?” I ask him. Cupcakes is code for surveillance footage. We sound like two tools with all this baked goods talk, which is why I switch it up every time he comes over. Last week it was TV shows.

  He smirks again. “Yeah, they’re in the bag,” he says, pulling out more sheets of paper from the backpack. He unfolds one and points to an email address and a password, letting me know that’s where I can find all the footage.

  My pulse is raging inside me and I’m trying to calm it down, but it feels like my heart is in the middle of a fucking mosh pit.

  I want Anthony to leave so I can pull up the footage. I need to see her. It’s been three months since I’ve been able to lay eyes on her. I need to fucking see her.

  I stand up and walk down the hallway to retrieve the money I owe him. I toss it on the table and point at the door, letting him know he’s no longer needed today. He slides the envelope in his back pocket. “Anything else you need? I can stop back by tomorrow.”

  I shake my head. “Nope. I’ll let you know when I run out of cake.”

  He grins and heads for the front door.

  I set up the Wi-Fi and log in to the account. There’s a message along with the email that links to the Dropbox. The message is from Anthony.

  Recorded about eight hours of footage yesterday and cut it down to actual visual of the couple. Got a couple of minutes of some dude leaving and returning. Halfway through the footage, you’ll see the girl take out the trash. End of footage shows both of them. I’ll record more this week. If you want, we can set it up on a live feed that you can access from this computer. Takes two seconds. Just let me know.

  I email him back before I even download the footage.

  Of course I fucking want live feed. Why the fuck are you just now telling me this?

  I hit send and then download. It takes almost five fucking minutes to download the video in the Dropbox. Once it’s complete, I get up and lock the front door. I don’t want any interruptions.

  I also make myself something to drink because my mouth is fucking dry. I feel like puking, just thinking about seeing her for the first time in three months.

  I sit back down at the table and hit play. The video is thirteen minutes long. Three minutes is of Anthony just focusing his camera on the front door of their apartment. The angle is high, like he’s filming from the second floor of the apartment complex.

  I knew wherever Luke and Sloan were staying, Luke would be extra paranoid. He’s probably personally hired someone to make sure no one is watching the apartment while he’s not there. I had Anthony rent out an empty apartment in the complex with a view of their front door, just so he could get good footage without being obvious by sitting in a parked car.

  At three minutes and thirty-one seconds into the video, the front door to their apartment opens. Luke walks out, glancing left, then right. I like that he’s paranoid. I like that every time he opens the door to his apartment, he’s thinking of me. Wondering if I’m there, ready to get my revenge.

  The film cuts out and then back in.

  That’s when I see it. The front door begins to open.

  I see her arm as she swings a trash bag out and onto the ground next to the front door. I barely get a glimpse of her hair as she slams the door shut again. It looked like she was trying to hide. Like she fears she’s being watched. She’s scared to be there alone.

  Fucking Luke just leaves her there, all alone, probably for several hours a day. I don’t care if he needs to work to pay their bills. If that were me and I was with Sloan, I’d fucking find a way to protect her. If I knew there was a guy out there who posed a danger to h
er, she’d never leave my fucking sight.

  That’s my first clue that he doesn’t love her like I do.

  Like I did.

  I don’t love her anymore.

  Do I?

  Fuck.

  I rewind the clip no less than twenty times, watching that arm as she swings the trash outside. Watching her hair sway over her shoulder as she slams the door. My heart speeds up every time I watch it and slams to a stop every time the door closes.

  Fucking hell. I do. I still love her.

  I fucking love her and it’s killing me that she’s alone in that apartment, too scared to even open the door all the way. That stupid fucking bastard just leaves my Sloan all alone and scared while I’m locked in this stupid fucking house and can’t get to her, thanks to him.

  “I see you, baby,” I whisper to the computer screen. “Don’t be scared.”

  After a few more replays, I finally let the video continue. It skips forward to a few hours later. Luke’s car pulls up in front of the complex. He gets out and opens the trunk. He begins to pull groceries out of the trunk.

  How cute. The motherfucker went grocery shopping for his fake little family.

  He walks them to the door and uses his key to unlock it. He tries to push it open, but it’s still locked from the inside.

  Smart girl. Never trust a single lock.

  Sloan opens the door to let him in. Luke disappears inside the door as Sloan walks—no, she practically fucking skips—to the car. She’s smiling. She reaches into the trunk to grab some groceries when Luke walks back outside, holding up his hands. It looks like he’s telling her to stop, that he’ll get the groceries. He points at her, toward her stomach, and says something to make her laugh. She presses her hands against her stomach and that’s when I see it.

  That’s when I fucking see it.

  I pause the screen.

  I stare at her hands, pressed against her stomach. I look at the smile on her face as she stares down at her hands, holding her belly. It’s barely noticeable under her shirt. Barely.

  “Motherfucker.”

  I’m frozen. Counting days, months, trying to make sense of this.

  “Motherfucker.”

  I don’t know a lot about the circle of life. The only time I ever knocked up a girl, I forced her to get an abortion because she wasn’t Sloan. But one thing I know for a fact...it takes at least a few months for someone of Sloan’s size to start showing.

  A few months ago...it was me who was inside her. It was me who was making love to her at night.

  Luke had her once during that time.

  I had her daily.

  “Motherfucker,” I say again, smiling. I can’t help it. My whole face breaks out into a huge fucking grin. I stand up, needing to take a moment to breathe. To regain my bearings. For the first time in my life, I feel like I might pass out.

  “Holy shit,” I say, staring down at the laptop, paused on my Sloan. “I’m gonna be a dad.”

  I sit down again and rake my hands through my hair. I stare at the screen for so long, it starts to get blurry.

  Am I fucking crying?

  I wipe my eyes and sure enough, there are tears on my hands.

  I can’t stop fucking smiling. I zoom in on her stomach and then lift my hand to the screen. I place my hand right over both of hers, on top of her stomach. “Daddy loves you,” I whisper to our baby. “Daddy’s coming for you.”

  I unlock the door to our apartment and wait for Sloan to unlatch the deadbolts.

  All five of them.

  I hate that we have to be paranoid. I hate that I call her every hour just to check on her, even though I know she has 24/7 surveillance parked right across the street. I hate that we’re the ones who are forced to hide, even though Asa is monitored and on house arrest until his trial, which will, without doubt, put him behind bars for a while.

  I don’t know how the last couple of months have affected Sloan. I tried to talk her into seeing a therapist, but she insists she’s fine. Or she says she will be, once Asa is behind bars.

  There’s no possible way for anyone to remove an ankle monitor without it notifying the police, so that’s one small reassurance we have. If Asa does something stupid and decides to leave his house, we’ll know within ninety seconds. But it isn’t Asa I’m worried about—it’s all the people he has on his side who will do his work for him.

  The judicial system in this country is fucked, to put it lightly. It feels like Sloan is the one being punished, simply because people like Asa are considered innocent until proven guilty in a court of law. I keep telling myself that we’re lucky he got house arrest. The judge could have allowed him to post bail and walk around free until he faces trial.

  We have that much on our side, at least.

  It hasn’t been so bad until a few days ago, because he was recovering from his gunshot wounds in the hospital. But now that we know he’s healed and at home, with visitors free to come and go as they please, we don’t feel as safe as we’ve been feeling. I attached the extra four deadbolts to the door yesterday for added protection.

  We’re two hours away from him now and no one outside the department knows where we’re staying. It takes me over an hour just to drive home every day because I take so many side roads, just to ensure I’m not being followed. It’s exhausting. But I’ll do whatever it takes to keep her safe, short of walking through Asa’s front door and putting a bullet in his forehead.

  I hear the deadbolts unlatch and as soon as she begins to pull the door open, I slip inside and shut it. Sloan smiles and stands on her tiptoes to kiss me. I wrap an arm around her waist and kiss her back as I spin her to where I can reach the deadbolts and lock them. I try not to make it noticeable, because the more I worry, the more she worries.

  She pulls back as I’m latching the last deadbolt. I can see the concern flash in her eyes, so I redirect her.

  “Smells good,” I say, glancing into the kitchen. “What are you cooking?” Sloan is an incredible cook. Better than my own mother, but I’m not telling my mother that.

  She grins and grabs my hand, pulling me toward the kitchen. “I’m not sure, to be honest,” she says. “Soup, but I just threw in what sounded good.” She opens the pot and dips a spoon in, bringing it up to my mouth. “Taste it.”

  I sip from the spoon. “Holy shit. That’s delicious.”

  She grins and puts the lid back on the soup. “I want it to simmer for a while, so you can’t have any yet.”

  I pull my keys and cell phone out of my pocket and toss them on the counter. Then I reach down to Sloan and grab her, lifting her up into my arms. “I can wait to eat,” I say as I carry her to the bedroom. I toss her gently onto the bed and crawl up her body. “Did you have a good day?” I ask, planting a kiss to her neck.

  She nods. “I got an idea today. It might be dumb, though. I don’t know.”

  I roll onto my side and stare down at her. “What is it?” I place my hand on her stomach and inch her shirt up so I can touch skin. I can’t get enough of her. I don’t remember a time in my life that I’ve been with a girl I couldn’t stop touching. Even when we’re just lying here having a simple conversation, I’m either tracing patterns over her stomach or up and down her arms, or touching her lips with my fingers. She seems to like it because she’s the same way and I definitely don’t mind.

  “You know how I can cook pretty much anything?”

  I nod. She really can.

  “I thought about compiling some of my best recipes and making a cookbook.”

  “Sloan, that’s a great idea.”

  She shakes her head. “I wasn’t finished.” She lifts onto her elbow. “There are too many cookbooks flooding the market, so I want something to stand out. I want it to be different than the rest of them. So I thought about playing up the fact that I learned to cook so well when I was practically forced to cook every night by Asa. So I thought the title could be something funny, like, ’Recipes I learned to cook while living with my asshole, cont
rolling ex-boyfriend.’ And then I could donate half the proceeds to victims of domestic violence.”

  I give her a moment, to make sure she’s done sharing her idea.

  I’m honestly not sure what to think. Part of me wants to laugh, because she’s right, a title like that would be catchy in a strange way. But part of me cringes that Asa is the reason she cooks so well. Because he was controlling and she had no choice. It reminds me of the first time I took her out to lunch and she acted like she’d never been to a restaurant before.

  “You think it’s stupid,” she says, falling back onto her pillow.

  I shake my head. “Sloan, no. I don’t.” I cup her cheek with my hand so she’ll look at me. “It’s a catchy title. It would make people look twice, that’s for sure. I just hate that it’s so...accurate. It would be funny to me if it was a joke, but it isn’t. That’s really why you cook so well, and I fucking hate that son of a bitch.”

  She forces a smile. “Thanks to you, that’s not my life anymore.”

  I constantly have to remind her that I didn’t save her. “Thanks to you, that isn’t your life anymore.”

  She smiles again, but since the moment I walked through the front door, her smile has seemed forced. Something bigger is bothering her and I don’t know what it is. It could just be the stress of being locked in an apartment all day. “Are you okay, Sloan?”

  She waits a second too long to nod, which lets me know she’s not okay.

  “What is it?”

  She sits up on the bed and begins scooting off of it. “I’m fine, Luke. I need to stir the soup.”

  I grab her arm to stop her. She stays at the foot of the bed, but doesn’t turn back to look at me. “Sloan.”

  She sighs with her whole body. I release her arm and then join her at the foot of the bed. “Sloan, he can’t leave his house, if that’s what’s bothering you. We’ll know if he does. Not to mention the surveillance outside. You’re safe.”

  She shakes her head, letting me know that’s not why she’s upset. She isn’t crying, but I can tell by the small quiver in her lip that she’s about to.