by Cassia Leo
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.”
Sean had his beefy arms crossed over his chest, shaking his head as he watched the scene. “Did you hear that last gunshot? It didn’t sound like it was coming out of the house toward the robot. Am I the only one that heard that?”
“You think there’s someone in there with him?” Matt asked, a bit too eagerly for my taste.
Sean continued shaking his head. “I can’t say for sure, but I think he took himself out. I haven’t heard any more noise coming from inside the house since that last gunshot.”
My stomach balled up like a fist as I suddenly found myself wishing that Sean was wrong. I didn’t want Brandon to die. I wanted him to live the rest of his miserable life tortured by the memories of the despicable things he’d done.
Most of all, I wanted Laurel to have the option to forgive him. That was a decision she should be able to make.
Before I could stop myself, I began running toward the armored SWAT vehicle where officers had taken cover.
“Get back there!” an officer in full tactical gear roared at me.
I stopped about thirty feet away from the SWAT vehicle and held up my hands. “Don’t shoot him. He’s my wife’s brother. Please don’t shoot him. Please.”
The back of the vehicle was open, and Officer Hodges could be seen looking at a bank of at least six screens with camera feeds from the robot. A sudden small explosion made my ears ring. A moment later, the color video feed cleared up as the dust settled.
“You need to go back there to the press area,” the officer repeated his command.
But my eyes were glued to the screen Hodges was watching. It didn’t take long for the lifeless body of Brandon Huxley to appear. He was sitting on the floor, his body slumped against a TV tray and wood-paneled wall.
“Suspect appears to be down,” Hodges relayed the grim news as he turned his attention to the infrared footage displayed in the top left screen. “Standby for confirmation.”
It took almost thirty minutes for Brandon to be confirmed deceased. When they rolled out the body bag on the gurney a couple of hours later, Detective Ava Robinson asked me if I wanted to see his face.
I started to nod my head, and Ava reached for the zipper on the body bag.
“No, I don’t want to see him,” I blurted out before she could unzip.
Her caramel skin gleamed in the shitty sodium light coming from the trailer home behind me. “You sure?”
I nodded. “I’m done with death. I have to get home to my wife.”
“I understand. If you don’t mind, I’ll need you to come in to the station any time between nine a.m. and six p.m. tomorrow to give a written witness statement before you leave for Portland.”
“Of course,” I replied, feeling so exhausted, it was a wonder I was still standing upright.
A tired smile flickered on her face. “Best of luck to you, Mr. Stratton.”
“Thanks. I’m definitely going to need it.”
I left Sean next to his cherry-red Porsche with a generous payment for his services, and a promise to return soon to grab a beer. “If I can ever do anything for you… or Rosie, you name it. She deserves justice, too.”
Sean flashed me a shrewd grin. “There’s a sound my brain made when I was at war with everyone and everything I thought was standing in the way of finding Rosie’s killer. It was a loud, screeching wail. Well, sometimes it was loud, sometimes it was faint, but it was always there.” He paused for a moment as he seemed to get a bit emotional. “It took me a long time to realize that it was Rosie, screaming at me, trying to tell me to let go of her.” He stood tall and nodded. “I made peace with not knowing a long time ago. You take care of yourself, Jack. I hope you never need my services again.”
I nodded. “Ditto.”
Chapter 20
Laurel
I didn’t sleep in on my birthday. Instead, I woke with my alarm at six a.m. I made a pot of coffee and sat down in my mother’s office — my new office — and began working on the Barley Legal Speakeasy app. But within a few minutes, I found myself wanting to work on the PTSD app I’d discussed with Isaac.
What the hell. It was my birthday. Today, I would indulge myself a few hours to work on something I cared about.
First, I had to download the app Isaac recommended. Once the app was on my phone, I began looking through it, and I couldn’t stop myself from getting emotional as I realized how great it was. Whoever created it obviously tried to make the best app they possibly could to help veterans heal. But they had forgotten the rest of us. Those of us who hadn’t gone to war, but were still fighting a losing battle with our memories.
After thoroughly inspecting the app, and doing several of the exercises, I felt calmer and more determined than I had in ages. I made a list of topics I would need to study before I could even begin working on a PTSD app for civilians. I wanted to know everything there was to know about the subject, and everything the experts still didn’t know. If my app helped just one person deal with non-combat-related trauma, it will have been worth it. Whether it was a rape victim or a mother who’d found her son’s dead body, we all deserved every possible resource available to heal our shattered spirits.
After purchasing a ton of books on Amazon and subscribing to a dozen different medical journals, I felt satisfied that I was on the right path. For the first time in years, my life had purpose.
I worked on the Speakeasy app for a couple of hours, focusing my efforts on the mad lib game. Barley Legal Adult Mad Libs would be played with a group of friends who would each fill in the blanks of a mad lib describing a barely legal scenario. When finished, the app would scramble the mad libs so that each player had to read another player’s mad lib aloud. The first person to laugh had to take a sip of their drink. If the person reading the mad lib laughed, they had to finish their drink.
This app was definitely going to need a very prominent legal disclaimer: Barley Legal is not responsible for anything illegal, dangerous, unsafe, or downright embarrassing that may occur while playing Barley Legal Speakeasy. Drink and play responsibly.
Every time I ran the code through the compiler and got an error, a song would play in my head. It was a cynical little tune that Jack and I used to sing when we studied together during our last year at OSU. 186 bugs in the code. 186 bugs. Take one down, patch it around... 223 bugs in the code.
God, I missed him.
When I was done working, I took a very long, hot shower and took my time getting dressed and doing my hair and
makeup. Drea, Barry, and Dylan would be here around six p.m. to take me out to dinner for my birthday. Then, we were coming back to my house to test out some classic drinking games to see which ones I could modernize for the Speakeasy app.
“That dinner was fabulous,” I said as Barry drove us back to my house from the restaurant. “I wish I’d gone to Renata sooner.”
“I can’t believe you live in Portland and you’ve never been there until now,” Dylan remarked.
I rounded on him in the back seat. “Uh, until a couple of months ago, I hadn’t lived in Portland for eight years. The waitress said the restaurant has only been open for four years. Cut me some slack, you fucking hipster.”
Drea cackled. “Oh, my word! And she’s only had one glass of wine,” she said through her laughter. “May God have mercy on us tonight, Dylan.”
“Good God, we are in for a show tonight,” he replied with a cheeky grin. “But I’ll get her back when we play Barley Legal adult charades.”
I shook my head as he made the universal pantomime for sucking cock. “You’re going down, brother. Down to Barley Legal Town.”
“We’ll see who’s going down after three or four drinks, Miss Hot Mess.”
“Are you three usually this delightful to each other?” Barry asked in his deep British accent; the accent that prompted Dylan to whisper in my ear at dinner, “Is this Denzel Washington’s British younger brother? Like, holy shit. Do you know any ugly people?”
When we got to the house, Barry and I prepared the drinks and snacks and laid them out on the dining table in the breakfast nook, while Dylan and Drea sat on the sofa, holding my birthday gifts and whispering to each other in between fits of laughter.