Beautiful Rush

by Rose, Emery

  While I contemplated the likelihood of seeing Deacon again, the conversation moved on to other things. Like Eden and Killian’s honeymoon. They were going to the Greek Islands because Eden had apparently mentioned it to Killian once. So, he’d arranged the whole honeymoon and had wanted to keep it a surprise, but Eden pried it out of him when he told her she’d need a passport.

  “Are you up for a shopping trip for the honeymoon wardrobe?” Ava asked as we left the coffee shop. It was a cloudless June day and I was eager to drive. Fast. Shopping was one of my least favorite activities, and not on today’s agenda.

  “I think I’ll pass. But have fun.”

  They exchanged a look and I had a bad feeling they were about to bring up another topic I didn’t want to discuss.

  “So…we never really talked about the trial,” Eden said, feeling me out. She and Ava had come down to Miami for a few days to support Connor when he took the stand and to ‘meet’ my parents. To say that they hadn’t been impressed with my mother or my father was putting it kindly. Not that they’d voiced their opinions. The expressions on their faces spoke volumes.

  I shrugged. “We all know what happened. There’s nothing to talk about.”

  “Okay. So, you’re good with it,” Ava said, her voice doubtful. “You know you can always talk to us, right?”

  “We’re here for you if you need us,” Eden said.

  “Thanks. I’m good though. Really.” I flashed them a smile. They returned my smile with a skeptical look, but they didn’t push it. We hugged goodbye outside an upscale boutique with surfboards and tropical print bikinis displayed in the window, their first stop on the shopping trip. After promising to meet them for our pre-wedding manicures and pedicures on Friday before the rehearsal dinner, I walked down Bedford Avenue, caught in the flow of pedestrians. I dodged a group of tourists in Yankees ball caps and I Heart New York T-shirts who stopped to take photos of hipsters eating brunch at tiny sidewalk tables barely big enough to hold their Mimosas and craft beer. Funny that I loved living in cities, yet I hated to feel crowded. I turned down the next cross street and picked up my pace, intent on getting to my Charger and hitting the open road.

  5

  Keira

  As I drove the narrow, twisty road, I envisioned my father relaxing on a beach in The Caymans. Teaching me to dive. To play chess. Letting me take the wheel of his sleek boat. Tucking me in at night when I was a little girl and he was still my hero. Back when I was too young to understand how my father made his living, too young to question why I never went anywhere without a bodyguard. I had worshipped him. And even though my mom was not as generous with her love and affection like my dad was, I had put her on a pedestal right next to my father.

  I used to feel like there wasn’t enough room for me in my parents’ relationship. My mom went along with everything my father wanted. She’d never once stood up to him. My mother was happy to bury her head in the sand, pretend she didn’t know what he really did outside of running a nightclub. Even after it was all spelled out in that courtroom, she still chose him.

  Sometimes I wondered who had committed the greater crimes—my father or my mother? Or maybe it was me. The Judas who betrayed her own father.

  I pulled over at a scenic overlook perched on a steep, rock cliff and got out of my car. I climbed onto the stone fence that acted as a guardrail and dangled my legs over the side of the hundred-foot drop to the river. Sliding my phone out of my pocket, I called Connor. While I waited for him to answer, I watched the kayakers in the river. He answered on the third ring.

  “What’s up?”

  “I’m on that road you like to ride your Harley on. Hawk’s Nest Highway.”

  “It’s a good place to go to clear your head.”

  “Yeah, it is.” In the background, I heard music but not the buzzing of tattoo machines. “Are you with a customer?”

  “Just sketching. I’m good to talk.”

  I closed my eyes and tipped back my head, letting the afternoon sun warm my face. “I don’t really have anything to say.”

  “That’s okay too. I’ll just hang on the line and listen to you breathe.”

  I laughed and we stayed silent for a while. With Connor, I never felt like I had to fill up the silence. But I was more honest with him than with anyone else. “I don’t regret what I did, but that doesn’t make it any easier.”

  “I know, babe. I’m sorry.”

  That was the beauty of Connor. He never tried to bullshit me or tell me everything was okay when he knew it wasn’t. He’d been through too much in his life to throw out false platitudes. I was screwed up about this and he knew it.

  “Are you on the rock cliff?”

  “Yeah. With the river and valley below.”

  “That’s how it is. Peaks and valleys. Some days you’ll feel like you can scale a mountain and other days life kicks you in the ass and you’re laid low. Getting to the top of that mountain feels like an impossible task. But if you take it one step at a time, you will reach the top.”

  He was speaking from experience. Connor had struggled with drug addiction for years. He’d hit rock bottom and had lost everything, including the girl he loved. But now he was clean and sober, had been for more than two years and he and Ava were on solid ground. “And then what? I’ll be king of the mountain?”

  He chuckled. “Exactly. Then you look around, snap a few selfies, give yourself a pat on the back, and climb back down.”

  “Wow. All that work for nothing. What’s the point of climbing a mountain?”

  “To get to the other side. You don’t come back the same way you went up.”

  Connor was only four years older than me, but he was an old soul. Deeper and wiser than most guys his age. “You’ll be a good sponsor someday.”

  “Thanks.”

  “What are you sketching?”

  “A mountain. For you.”

  I smiled and leaned back on my hand, conscious that if I leaned forward, I would very likely plunge to my death. That was me though, wasn’t it? Always pushing the limits. “What kind of mountain?”

  “A big rock candy mountain. Do you want an inky black sky with stars or a sunrise?”

  He might be joking but maybe not. I considered the question, wondering if there was a right or wrong answer and what mine would mean. “I want a strawberry moon.”

  “Good choice. Did you see it last night?”

  “Yeah. It was beautiful.” It was pointless to ask if he saw it. I knew he had. Connor was a moon and stargazer, an artist and a dreamer. Ava’s nickname for him was Rocket Man. I’d never asked why but I’d drawn my own conclusions. It probably had to do with the Elton John song, and his druggie years, and the way his feet never seemed to be planted on solid ground, the opposite of Killian who was steady and grounded. If Killian was the rock, Connor was the moondust.

  “Hey,” I said. “I’ll talk to you soon.”

  “Call me anytime. Day or night.”

  “Thanks. I will. You’re my two in the morning person. I hope Ava doesn’t mind sharing.”

  He chuckled. “As long as it’s you, she’s cool with it.” He paused a beat. “We all love you, you know.”

  I blinked back tears. This was why I’d sacrificed so much. To be able to be in my brothers’ lives, to try and catch up on all the years I didn’t even know they existed. To try and make up for the sins of my mother and the sins of my father. My brothers wouldn’t agree, but I felt like I owed them for everything they’d been robbed of, for the life they’d been subjected to after my mother left them with that monster who had raised them. And then again for the way my father had set up Connor.

  Of all my father’s crimes, and there had been many, what he’d done to Connor was the hardest one to forgive. He’d used Connor as a pawn in his sick and twisted game. Had used his connection with the dirty cops in his back pocket to get Connor arrested for drugs he hadn’t bought and had coerced him into playing the role of informant. All so that my father could get r
evenge on a dealer who had cheated him out of money. My father’s men and the dirty cops had confiscated the drug dealer’s drugs and cash and killed him, execution-style. No mercy. No remorse. He hadn’t even needed Connor’s help. He’d done it to teach him a lesson because Connor had come down to Miami, looking for my mother, and had asked too many questions about my father’s business.

  I was proud of Connor for taking the stand and testifying against my father. I’d watched my mother’s face while Connor was on the stand, but it had given nothing away. It was almost like she’d convinced herself that Connor and Killian weren’t really her sons. It scared me that she had the ability to do that.

  “Love you too. Bye Connor.”

  After we hung up, I stayed firmly planted on that stone wall for hours. My butt went numb from sitting on the hard surface and my skin tingled from all the sun I caught. But I stayed. Cars flew past but thankfully none of them stopped and nobody invaded my solitude. I stayed long enough to watch the sun set in a glorious burst of pink and orange and then I got back in my car and drove home. As usual, I drove too fast, like the hounds of hell were chasing me and I needed to outrun them. I vowed to stop dwelling on the past. I couldn’t fix it or change it. Thinking about it was a waste of time and energy. From now on, I’d live in the moment.

  With that resolve in mind, I was so cheerful on Monday morning at work that Tate kept giving me funny looks. Panel beating, one of the new skills he’d patiently taught me, didn’t usually elicit chortles of glee. He should know by now that my moods were as changeable as the phases of the moon but apparently, he didn’t.

  “What’s the big smile for?” he grumbled as he came to supervise my work. Earlier, we’d removed the dented door of a van and set it up on a stand which saved my knees from having to kneel on concrete for long periods of time. The key to doing a good job at panel beating, I was told, is patience and light blows. Fifty to a hundred soft blows of the hammer rather than a few hard bashes which would be far more satisfying but less effective. Tate had taught me how to listen to the sound the hammer was making as it hit the metal with the dolly underneath, and I felt like I’d gotten the hang of it. Enough to be left unsupervised, for the most part.

  I winked at him. “I got lucky last night.”

  He snorted and shook his head. Pete, one of the mechanics, wandered over to join the conversation, wiping his hands on a greasy rag he pulled out of the back pocket of his coveralls. He was around Tate’s age, in his forties, with a barrel chest and a deep baritone voice. Sometimes he sang Elvis tunes while he worked. If the mechanic gig didn’t work out, he’d be a good Elvis impersonator. Tate, on the other hand, was lean and wiry and not much taller than my five foot nine. You’d never catch him singing. He was tough and hardened by a life in an MC followed by a stint in prison for armed robbery. Tate was Connor’s NA sponsor which always surprised me. He wasn’t exactly a chatty guy, but I guess he gave tough love and from what I’d heard, he had helped Connor turn his life around. Just by being there and never giving up on him. Which I suppose is what people really need when they’ve hit rock bottom.

  “Who’s the lucky guy?” Pete asked, a true romantic if there ever was one.

  “I was joking. I didn’t get lucky. I have no time for guys. I just love my job.” Which was true. I loved this job. It was also true that I didn’t get lucky. I hadn’t seen Deacon since Friday night and probably wouldn’t see him again if his last disappearing act was any indication.

  “You should make time,” Pete said, scratching his head with grease-stained fingers. Like Tate, he rarely wore gloves to protect his hands which meant they were never clean, even after scrubbing them with the orange-scented GoJo, the pumice hand soap Tate kept the restrooms stocked with. “A young girl like you…you need to have some fun. Get out there. Before you know it, you’ll have a mortgage, two kids to put through college, and a wife who complains that you never send her flowers anymore.”

  I’d heard it all before. Pete was always telling me I needed to get out there and have fun. Meet a nice guy, go on dates, enjoy my youth. He married his high school sweetheart and when I asked him once if he ever regretted not playing the field, he said no. When you find the right one, you don’t think about what you missed out on.

  “You should send Angie some flowers. Go do it right now,” I urged. “Better yet, make a video of you singing an Elvis tune and send it to her.” Not that I was a romantic, but Pete loved his wife and talked about her all the time. Maybe she just needed to know that.

  Tate eyed the Honda on a hydraulic lift that Pete had abandoned for this conversation. “Replaced that transmission yet?”

  Which was enough for Pete to return to the job at hand, his plans to woo his wife put on the back burner. Having exhausted his conversational skills for the day, Tate pointed out a few dents I hadn’t fixed yet and watched with an eagle eye as I wielded my ball-peen hammer. After a few minutes of supervision, he nodded to indicate that I was doing it right before he retreated to his office. Before he walked away, I reminded him that he promised to teach me cutting and welding. He responded with a grunt which I always chose to translate as a yes. If I asked often enough, he’d eventually get around to it, if only to shut me up. I knew he only gave me the job because he loves Connor, but I worked hard and did everything he asked of me without complaining. I didn’t want him to think I was a rich princess from Miami who was afraid to get her hands dirty.

  Besides, I loved working at the garage. Loved the idea that I could fix what was broken. Cars made more sense than people. You could identify the problem and find a solution. You could restore a car damaged by rust or lead or a collision to its factory state. You could poke around under the hood and figure out why it’s leaking oil or refusing to start when you turn the key in the ignition. You couldn’t do that with people. People hid their lies behind a smile, said one thing when they meant another, and even if they were physically fit and strong, that didn’t necessarily mean they were healthy or of sound mind.

  You couldn’t fix another person’s soul or their conscience or their black hearts.

  But today I wasn’t thinking about that or the metaphorical mountain I had to climb. I was just living in the moment, comfortable in my environment amidst the loud noise of a busy Brooklyn garage that smelled like motor oil and testosterone.

  It was a good day. An honest day. And I didn’t take those days for granted.

  Later that evening when I went to work out at Killian’s gym—MMA Defiance & Fitness—I slid the brown envelope of cash under Ava’s locked office door. She was the director of Killian’s foundation, in charge of fundraising and administrative duties and had shot down the board’s suggestion that they rent her a separate office space, claiming that the money would be more wisely spent by going back into the program. So, she’d taken over Killian’s office and handled all his membership dues and accounting as well.

  Killian was in the cage with Nico who he was training to follow in his UFC footsteps and his entire focus was on Nico. He didn’t even notice me stopping by the office before I breezed past him, intent on getting to the locker room and then the cross-trainer.

  “Keira,” Killian called after me. I turned and flashed him a big smile. He climbed out of the cage and came to stand in front of me. Killian’s appearance and demeanor could intimidate lesser mortals. He stood with his legs slightly spread, hands on his hips, his electric-blue eyes boring into mine. The muscle in his jaw was ticking so I knew he was angry about something.

  “Hey, Killian. What’s up?” I asked, all light and breezy, my smile still intact.

  His eyes narrowed. Uh oh. Except for the apartment situation, Killian had never been upset with me. But I was used to tough guys, so I held my ground. “Where have you been getting all that money?”

  I should have known he’d eventually catch me. Killian didn’t miss a trick. Luckily, I had a lie readily available for this very moment. “I’ve been selling all my stuff. At the pawn shop and consignment
shops. I had a lot of designer items. People pay good money for them.”

  His eyes lowered to my Louis Vuitton bag. Other than my Moncler jacket because…warmth, this bag was the only designer item I’d kept. Call me shallow but I liked a nice bag to go with my gangsta chic style—tonight it was ripped jeans, a Dope T-shirt, and backward ballcap. “I’ve pretty much sold everything now so that might be the last donation.”

  He relaxed his stance but crossed his arms and tilted his head, trying to decide if he should believe me or not. His brow furrowed in concern. “You sure you’re okay for money?”

  I nodded.

  “Your rent’s not cheap and neither was your car,” he pointed out.

  “I’ve got it covered.” Selling the Porsche and my jewelry had given me enough money to buy the Charger and subsidize a big chunk of my rent. After that money ran out, I’d figure something out. Maybe I should have sold my designer goods and the set of Louis Vuitton luggage instead of donating them to a thrift store, but I hadn’t, and I could live with that.

  “Tate’s paying you decent money?” Killian asked, not one to drop a topic until he’d explored every nuance and was satisfied with the outcome.

  I wasn’t making a ton of money. I was an apprentice, still learning the job, but Tate was paying me a fair wage for someone just starting out in bodywork. I didn’t want any special favors. “He’s paying me good money. I’m doing fine.”

  Killian nodded. “Okay. But if you’re ever short on money, let me know.”

  “I will.” Killian was generous and despite the tough guy demeanor, he had a big heart. He would do anything in his power to protect the people he loves. Somehow, I had become one of those people and I didn’t take his loyalty for granted. But I would never ask him for money, and even though he knew that, he nodded as if he was satisfied with my response.