The Golden Hour

by L. M. Halloran

  “Do you think Vivian will…” I swallow the words, afraid to even say them aloud.

  “Not a chance. She’s my mom, so yeah, I’m getting her a lawyer, but I heard the tape from that night. What she did to your mom, our dad, the shit she said…” She shakes her head. Her lower lip quivers a moment before she squares her shoulders and lifts her chin. “It’s about time someone in this family besides you did the right thing. She’ll pay for her crimes. I promise.”

  For all that we share a father and grew up under the same roof, Ellie and I are cut from separate cloth. We might never be close, or even friends, but I’m suddenly overwhelmed with deep love for her. For the woman she’s become in spite of our family.

  “I’m proud of you,” I tell her.

  She smiles softly. “I’m proud of you, too. You turned out to be a total badass.” An SUV pulls up to the curb beside us. She waves to the driver, a handsome African American man who smiles back. “This is my ride. Don’t be a stranger, okay? Or disappear again.”

  “Deal.”

  “Oh, I almost forgot—this came to the house for you.” She pulls an envelope from her purse and hands it to me. No return address. My name and the Calabasas address handwritten on the front. Ignoring it for the moment, I hug my sister.

  This time, she hugs me back.

  When she’s gone, I walk to a small shaded area on the outside of the building and lean against the stucco wall to open the letter. Inside is a single sheet of paper with only a few lines of text, penned by the same masculine hand that addressed the envelope.

  After much thought, we’ve decided not to seek recompense for your deeds. Consider your life as payment for ridding us of your troublesome family. Let this be the last time we hear your name.

  D.A.

  My arm falls, leaden, to my side.

  D.A. can only be one person—Dimitri Avellino. My father’s cousin, head of the Avellino family in Chicago, who had his own son murdered for being gay and his niece killed for trying to escape. Who, with a single order, could make me disappear for good.

  My head drops against the wall. Hysteria bubbles in my throat, but I choke it back, swallowing repeatedly until the sensation passes.

  Inflaming the other side of the family was always a risk, of course. One I weighed against the likelihood they wanted Vivian gone as much as I did. Having a woman in charge of the family out here must have been a thorn in their side.

  Until this moment, though, I don’t think I realized just how real the threat was. Or maybe deep down I believed I wouldn’t make it out of this alive. Either way, I’m glad I never met any of the Chicago family, and with luck I never will.

  For a few minutes, I stay where I am and breathe. In for four seconds, out for six. In. Out. Until the tremor in my hands fades. Until my heart rate lowers. Until the haze clears from the edges of my vision.

  Wilson said having anxiety, and more specifically panic attacks, is normal given the circumstances. That in all likelihood, I have post-traumatic stress. She thinks I’d benefit from steady therapy, potentially some medication to help me through the next few months or years.

  I know she means well. And there’s a solid chance she’s right. But for now, I’ll breathe.

  And be thankful for my life.

  For today.

  Finn and I are having dinner tonight with Rabbit and her boyfriend. I can’t wait to see her and meet her love—have her meet mine. Hug her and actually see what color her hair is.

  And then?

  I’m going home.

  Epilogue

  Five Months Later

  “Here, you look like you need this.” My mom pushes a frosty bottle of beer into my hands, then sits beside me on the bench. “I’ve never seen them take to someone so fast.”

  Across the backyard, I can barely see my girlfriend’s head beyond the three-woman wall of my sisters. Compared to Callisto, the lot of them are Amazons. But I hear her voice, clear and confident. Her laughter, unrestrained, with that touch of smoke that makes me think about things I shouldn’t be thinking about while sitting next to my mom.

  “She’s holding her own.”

  My smile is smug. “That she is.”

  “If you want to head inside, I’ll take over out here for a bit.”

  All three of my brothers-in-law are watching sports. They’re nice enough people, but I’d rather stir-fry my own balls.

  “I’m good, thanks.”

  This is exactly where I want to be.

  On the other side of the backyard, Aunt Molly is teaching my oldest nephews—eight and ten years old—how to grill the perfect steak. Two more boys and three girls, all under the age of seven, are destroying Mom’s garden as they chase butterflies and squeal over earthworms.

  I’m technically in charge of the tiny savages. Five minutes ago, they were shoving dirt clumps under my shirt and spitting on my shoes. Since no one’s bleeding and no one’s crying, I decided I’d earned a little break.

  If I keep this up, I’ll be Uncle of the Year in no time.

  “Did she see the news last night?” asks my mom, her voice pitched low.

  And just like that, I’m not thinking about the kids anymore. After a heavy swallow of beer, I nod. “Detective Wilson called before the story broke.”

  “Is she okay?”

  “Define okay.”

  “Fair enough. How about you? How are you doing?”

  I shrug. “It’s a mixed bag. I’m relieved, and I’m pissed she won’t stand trial. She deserved to suffer more. Does that make me a shitty person?”

  “No. It makes you human.” She takes a swig from her bottle, her eyes soft on her grandkids. “I feel the same way, but mostly I’m glad she’s gone.”

  Yesterday morning, Vivian Avellino was found dead in her cell from an apparent suicide by hanging. Good fucking riddance with a side of enjoy roasting marshmallows in Hell, right?

  If only the heart were so simple.

  Luckily we have a routine in place for when the past bites us in the ass. And it has. Repeatedly. Like when Ellie made the decision to withdraw from UCLA due to several instances of violent harassment. Consequently, after spending a week with us she decided to reenroll and change her major to prelaw. I kind of like her now. She reminds me a lot of Callisto.

  More fallout came, heavy and spiked, when families of victims found at the ranch began to step forward publicly to condemn the Avellinos. Even Callisto wasn’t spared the vitriol. And when Lizzie refused an insanity defense. And a week after that, when Wilson informed us that six of the seventeen bodies had been conclusively linked to the youngest Avellino.

  We’ve accepted that the emotional shockwaves will continue, possibly for years. And though we’re insulated somewhat in Solstice Bay, there’s no umbrella for emotions.

  So, when the past hits, we keep to our routine. We don’t immediately talk about our feelings or dissect our thoughts.

  We hike, bike, or run.

  After news of Vivian yesterday, Callisto needed to run. I let her set the pace, push herself as hard or as little as she wanted to. Six miles later, we ended up deep in her favorite forest, and then we ended up naked. I have nail marks on my ass, and she has bark-burn on her back.

  In a few days, we’ll do the so-called normal communication stuff. Hash out our conflicting responses to Vivian’s death. Be honest with each other. Move forward.

  Maybe our method isn’t the most conventional, but it’s ours.

  “Are you going to tell her you bought the house? The one she’s been talking about for weeks?”

  I give her the stink-eye. “No, and you can’t let it slip, okay? It’s a surprise. No telling Aunt Molly, either, because she can’t keep a secret to save her life.”

  My mom nods in agreement, smiling as she gazes across the yard at my sisters and Callisto, all of whom are laughing.

  Her eyes well up, smile fading. “I wish…” She trails off, shaking her head. “Don’t mind me. Senior moment.”

  “Stop
,” I say gently, shifting closer so I can put my arm around her shoulders. Squeezing her to me, I kiss her graying curls. “You don’t have to do that anymore. Not with me. I wish he were here, too.”

  Looking up at me, she whispers, “He’d be so proud of the man you’ve become.”

  “Shit, Mom.” I wipe my leaking eyes. “Way to pull out the big guns.”

  One of my nieces—Jessie, I think—screams like her arm’s being sawed off. It’s horrible. Bloodcurdling. I leap off the bench like an Olympic sprinter and run full tilt down the grassy hill. Ten feet from the kids, my sneaker catches a root and I trip, slip, and slide the rest of the way. Seconds later I’m crouching before Jessie, whose face is bright red as she wails. Tears roll down her chubby cheeks.

  “What’s wrong? What happened?” I pant at the other kids, who stand nearby shrugging and wearing various It wasn’t me expressions.

  Jessie lets out another mind-numbing scream and holds out her thumb.

  “Boo-boo! Boo-boo!”

  I take her hand gently, examining her finger for a wound. Bee sting, splinter, cut… There’s nothing. I turn her hand over. Then examine the other hand. All perfectly unharmed—if dirty—skin.

  Jessie shoves her thumb back in my face.

  “Kiss the boo-boo!”

  I carefully kiss the tip of her thumb. She pats my head like I’m a good boy, then jumps up and runs to join her cousins. I gape after her.

  From the other side of the yard comes a chorus of feminine laughter.

  “So gullible!”

  “Wrapped around her little finger!”

  “You’ll never learn!”

  I salute my sisters with a middle finger before falling onto my back to admire how the late afternoon light caresses the branches of a nearby elm. Here, surrounded by my chaotic, colorful, forgiving family, with the distant rush of the ocean in my ears and fresh air on my face, I have no regrets. Everything is fucking perfect.

  Sunlight fades as the main reason for my happiness bends over me, her smile hitting me right in the heart. Brave, beautiful woman. My fingers twitch for my camera—an impulse that’s been coming with increasing frequency.

  “I think I might try nature photography,” I tell her. “Trees are cool.”

  Eyes narrowed, she sees right through me. “Are you ever going to take my picture?”

  “What makes you think I haven’t?”

  Her nose wrinkles. “Creepy.”

  “Only creepy for you.”

  She laughs and offers me a hand. I make it to my feet, then tip up her chin and kiss her soundly.

  “Little Jessie has your number,” she says when I release her.

  “I know.” I hang my head. “I thought I’d finally found a woman who needed a hero.”

  Callisto smirks. “You’ll always be the hero of my heart. Does that count?”

  “It sure does, princess.” I kiss her again. “I’m going to take your picture tonight. And tomorrow, and the next day, and probably every day for the rest of your life. The only rule is you have to be naked.”

  She giggles. I grab her ass and lift her into me, angling my head for better access to her mouth.

  From behind us comes exaggerated gagging and vomiting noises. My oldest nephews. They’re little fuckers, just like I was. But I have the upper hand—their mom told me my tattoos scare them a little. Setting Callisto down, I face them.

  “Run,” I growl.

  They scream and take off at a sprint toward the house. My arm draped around Callisto’s shoulders, I watch them disappear.

  Eventually, she asks lightly, “You’re not going after them, are you?”

  “Nope. Suckers.”

  Head thrown back, she laughs and laughs. Her dark eyes shining, cheeks rosy with life. Her spirit so fucking bright it hurts to look at her. But I look at her anyway.

  My fierce princess who didn’t need a prince.

  Thank you so much for reading Finn and Calli’s story! Reviews help readers find new authors and books, so if you have a moment, I’d be grateful for a brief review on Amazon, Goodreads, or wherever you like!

  Don’t want to say goodbye to Finn and Calli? You don’t have to! Sign up for my reader list to receive a bonus epilogue.

  Finally, are you itching for a look inside Crossroads, the BDSM club featured briefly in TGH? Turn the page to read the first chapter of PERFECT VISION, Dominic and London’s story >>

  PERFECT VISION

  "A heart-poundingly twisted tale of love and betrayal."

  Book Club Gone Wrong

  1

  A few of my mental screws are loose. Why else would I be sitting on a bench in a brightly-lit hallway beside two women doing sexed-up Edward Scissorhands impressions? Halloween was four months ago.

  Their black latex bodysuits have cutouts around the shoulders and waist, highlighting their toned, tanned bodies. I can’t even imagine the crotch-sweat happening right now. What if they have to pee? Is there a zipper down there?

  Defying logic, they don’t look uncomfortable as they chat and laugh quietly. In fact, they look like they’re exactly where they’re supposed to be. Like they belong here. I’m clearly missing a big piece of the puzzle. Did I overlook some fine print in the email? Was there a specified dress code?

  Here to interview for a bartending position, I’m wearing skin-hugging black pants, my comfiest ankle boots, and a tight black T-shirt—a nice one, flattering and new. Black on black, but actual, practical clothing. I look good. Sleek and professional, my dark blond hair pulled back and my makeup perfect thanks to YouTube tutorials.

  What I saw of the newly constructed nightclub on my walk through was modern and on trend. White walls. Discreet lighting. Various seating areas—tables, couches, chaises—that in my former life I wouldn’t mind enjoying on a night out. A huge, sleek bar I can definitely see myself behind. Zero indication that the intended clientele are people with latex fetishes.

  The online job advertisement had been oddly obscure, the description of the club vague and heavy on words like exclusive and private. God willing, the club’s exclusivity doesn’t translate to obligatory background checks for employees. Either way, the gamble is one I have to take. Despite working part-time at two other bars, I have fourteen dollars in my bank account. Living alone in Los Angeles is not cheap.

  The fluorescent lights overhead are giving me a headache, and the presence of four closed doors in the hallway feels increasingly ominous. Clearly television has rotted my brain, because for several minutes I entertain the possibility I’m in a horror movie. Any second one of the doors will open and a clown with a chainsaw will jump out.

  To distract myself, I stare at the tantalizing glow of the Exit sign at the end of the hallway and fantasize about running away. Far, far away where no one knows my name. Maybe I should have left the country when I had the chance, before my savings disappeared into the pockets of impotent lawyers.

  Among other things—like grief and rage—what stopped me then was one of my mom’s favorite catch phrases. No matter where you go, there you are. In our childhood home, a sign with the words hung in the entryway where it couldn’t be missed. And it’s true.

  There’s no running from the past—it comes with you. Nearly three thousand miles between me and the past, and it’s with me all the goddamn time.

  “I’m sorry, we’re being so rude! We don’t mean to ignore you, we’re just super excited.”

  Grateful for the reprieve from my chaotic thoughts, I turn toward the voice. The latex women are smiling at me. Besides the dominatrix gear, they look… normal. Gorgeous, polished Los Angeles women. In latex.

  “I’m Maggie, and this is Beatrix,” says the woman closest to me.

  I force a smile. “I’m London, nice to meet you.”

  “You too,” gushes Maggie. “What are you interviewing for?”

  “Bartender,” I reply, but it comes out like a question. “Is that, uh, what you guys are here for, too?”

  They giggle like sch
oolgirls. “Oh no,” says Maggie. “We’re auditioning.”

  Auditioning?

  As I open my mouth to ask for what, the door just past our bench opens.

  A smooth, deep voice says, “Maggie and Beatrix, come in.”

  Their immediate nervousness is palpable. I have a feeling—a bad feeling—about what they’re auditioning for. They stand up, smoothing nonexistent wrinkles in their latex, and turn toward the open door.

  My desperation for this job takes an immediate step to the back shelf. I blurt, “You don’t have to do this.”

  Hair flies as the women’s heads whip around. Instead of the embarrassment or affront I expected, they wear twinned expressions of anger.

  “Honey,” snaps Beatrix, “you have no idea what you’re talking about.”

  “That’s enough,” says the man, still unseen in the room beyond. “Come in, ladies.” When they hesitate, he says calmly, “Now.”

  His tone holds no edge, no emotion, but the power of it echoes down my spine.

  “Yes, sir,” the women say in unison.

  They slip into the room and the door closes.

  Dive into PERFECT VISION, available on Amazon and Kindle Unlimited!

  Acknowledgments

  I’d like to thank caffeine for allowing me to write and finish this novel while packing a house and driving a thousand-plus miles with a nervous dog and a four-year-old and finally reaching our destination only to unpack the bajillion boxes so recently packed, none of which contained my husband’s beloved cutting board (much to his everlasting dismay) and if he ever reads this he’ll know that I didn’t misplace that old, stained, bacteria-ridden piece of wood but cackled as I threw it away.

  But the real hero is Summer Camp.

  Dearest Summer Camp, I see you. I appreciate you. I owe you my sanity, my husband owes you his life, and my readers owe you for this book. Never stop, Summer Camp. We need you.