It feels good. It’s not like he’s the first one who has told me I was missed. My mom and dad flew up for a weekend at my place when I got home and it was nice. Texts and calls came in a flurry for a week after my arrival from aunts and uncles and any family member who knew I was deployed. Then it stopped. And life goes on. Coach and my boxing family celebrating my safety and homecoming is icing on the cake.
I drain my beer. “Well, then who is going first? I need a workout!” I yell. Men cheer and we all make our way into the gym. Several beers, and two deep, bloody gashes later, I’m ready to go home and I’m fucking worn out. The sun set long ago. There’s also no way I can drive my truck the few miles down the road. I call the number which contacts the always-on-call-designated-driver, fucking-new-guy, SEAL to come pick me up. It’s a service to keep everyone safe, and it’s a way to make the new guys earn their stripes.
When he shows up in a jacked up truck, I hop in. I’ve showered and Coach bandaged my chin and cheek to the best of his ability. I might need a medic to look at it, perhaps give me a kitchen stich job.
“Hey, man. Thanks for picking me up. Can you bring me to Morganna’s? You know the place?” There’s no way I can remember her physical address right now. I could look it up, but I’m sure he knows exactly the house I’m referring to. I try to explain to the best of my current, drunken ability.
He nods. “Yeah, I know the place. Doing a little boozing with your boxing?”
I laugh. “Celebrating a little, yeah. Those two things don’t go well together, obviously.” I point to my fucked up face. He laughs, puts the truck in gear, and heads to Morg’s. When we get close I start getting wound up like a fucking top. I miss her and it hasn’t even been twenty-four hours since I last saw her. I have it so fucking bad. Playing it cool and distant in hopes of earning my pride back isn’t going to work for very long.
I pull out my cell phone with the intentions of texting Morg when I see about ten missed phone calls—a few from Morganna and several from Phillipe. “What the fuck,” I mutter under my breath. Staring straight ahead, wide-eyed, I listen to the first voicemail in the queue—the one from Phillipe earlier this afternoon.
Listen, Steve. We know who super creepy stalker is. Call me back as soon as possible. Toni the bloodhound put the pieces together.
Okay, that makes sense. Now I have someone to kill. Check. My heart rate speeds, and my fingers shake as I play the next one.
It’s him. My God, Steven it’s him. Please pick up your phone. Please.
Morganna’s voice is a pleading whisper. Those are the only two messages. The last one came in just minutes before. The rest are just missed calls from earlier in the day. Panic wells in my chest…a feeling so severe, I’ve never experienced it before. Though my mind is still foggy drunk, I know it’s bad. Heightened awareness of everything is a symptom of panic and I start surveying everything from my window.
“Drive faster!” I bark. The new guy swerves around the corner heading to Morganna’s house. My foot beats the floorboard and my hands bang the dashboard in a tap, tap, tap rhythm. My mind spins. Who is it? Who could it be? Why is she so scared? Did she call anyone else? Just minutes ago. I can’t be too late. Why didn’t she say more?
We slide into her driveway, skidding wheels and hot brakes, and that’s when the bottom of my stomach drops out of my asshole. Not literally, just proverbially. The shock is that jarring.
Her front door is swung wide open and from my vantage point I see him—the goddamned motherfucker extending a handgun in front of him, eyes trained on whoever is there. I jump out of the truck and head for the light of the front door, and toward a scene from my worst fucking nightmare.
His black handgun sweeps left as he takes aim at me. I stop dead in my drunken tracks.
Morganna
Alex.
I’ve been so stupid, so naïve, so unlike myself these past months that I never put the clues together. Alex, the guy I’ve dated and shared intimate details about my life with, is actually Penelope’s ex-husband, David.
He’s a master. Because I never met with David in person and because he’s disguised his looks to such a degree, it never crossed my mind that Alex could be the scorned, wife beating, ex-husband of one of my clients. When my detectives lost his trail several months ago I figured he moved to Europe to be an asshole to someone new. Parading around as someone else never crossed my mind. His cover was extensive, his game was perfect. He snared me without any work at all. Hook. Line. Sinker. He was patient, methodical, and scrupulous with details of his life. I never saw where he lived, and never questioned it because I was too wrapped up in my own life. His being at my beck and call was a convenience.
Toni called me today when she saw images of me and Alex posted online from the gala. She just happened to be filing cases and the images from Penelope’s divorce, and recognized him with the new shorter haircut. I didn’t believe her, but when I started questioning Alex about his past, he knew something was up. I sent a few texts and then he stopped responding to me altogether. I reviewed the security footage over and over and, sure enough, the hooded man in the video had a similar, slumped-over posture. After that the avalanche of idiotic details I should have picked up on ate me alive. Why was he always so forgiving? Why exactly was he at my beck and call so frequently? I’m a tough personality to to deal with. And, in light of my relationship with Steven, to still hang around? These are glaring things now, but my Steven induced insanity caused me to turn a blind eye to many things.
Steven hasn’t answered his cell phone for a few hours and I have no idea where he’s at. I’m not sure what to do with the information. Is Alex dangerous? Yes. Would he harm me? I did take him for all of his worth in the divorce case. He lost everything…every single red cent. The thought crosses my mind to call the cops just to report him as a possible threat, but I’m questioning everything and I want to make perfectly sure the crazy story I’ve concocted is, in fact, true.
I text Phillipe one more time to see if he’s been able to find Steven. He hasn’t. My mind is whirring with all the possible scenarios and I can’t take it anymore. I rub my temples and pray the correct answer forms on it’s own. Someone knocks on my door…three, loud pounds that shake the doorframe. I narrow my eyes, automatically on guard because they didn’t use the doorbell. Any of my trusted friends would just walk in.
Alex has a key, I remember. I gave it to him in an attempt to make my life easier. I wouldn’t have to be home when he came over. He could just come right in. Butterflies invade my stomach and the living room spins to the right a touch. Shock. Terror.
Bouncing a knee up and down, I dial nine-one-one, the number that I never thought I’d ever have cause to dial. As I talk to the operator and explain the situation and give her my address, I head to my bedroom and into the expanse of my closet. With shaking hands I pick up the gun. In the quiet house I hear a key slide into my lock and someone enters. I mumble the new details to the operator and then hang up the phone. I try Steven one more time, leaving a pleading voicemail when he doesn’t answer.
“Where are you, you fucking whore!” Alex’s voice echoes from downstairs. I throw a hand over my mouth to stifle a small scream. Tiptoeing down the hallway, I pass the portrait of me on my wedding day and edge closer to the balcony that overlooks the foyer. “I know you’re here!” he yells, his voice far deeper than I’ve ever heard it. He’s a completely different person.
My stomach churns with fear and dread. My life will end tonight because I fucked over a lunatic. A tear trickles down my face, mostly from anger.
I lean over the edge and see Alex holding a small black handgun by his side. I creep down the stairs, taking one at a time, hoping to just get close enough to put a hole where I want one. I take a deep breath and try to remember everything I know about my gun and about making a clean, effective shot. Steven’s words trickle in. Speed. Surprise. Violence of action.
“Oh my God,” I mouth when I realize it’s either him or me. T
he police won’t be here for at least another ten minutes. I could lock myself in a bedroom and wait. That would be the most rational decision. I take a step back up the stairwell, landing softly.
Rational thought processes take a nosedive when I see headlights out my front window and then a truck squealing into park—definitely not the police. A second later, a bulky figure hops out. Steven. My heart skips at least five beats before it starts working again. He has no clue what he’s walking in on. I can’t breathe. All plans for my own safety die. Protect him. I must protect him.
“I’m here,” I warble, words broken.
Alex grins a wicked smile and takes aim at me. I hide the gun behind my back. He notices Steven, his gun turning to point in the only direction I don’t want it.
“No!” I yell, shaking my head. “Leave him out of this. You’re upset with me!”
His crazed eyes turn to gaze at me. “Upset with you? You took everything from me. I can’t get a job. I don’t have a cent to my name. Penny, that stupid cunt, got it all. It’s your fault. I should have killed her when I had a chance. Maybe that’s where I’ll go next, after I watch blood spill from your lying mouth. You took everything and you are so fucking stupid that you didn’t figure it out, did you? ” Alex asks, still aiming his gun at Steven, a scowl of frustration smeared across his face.
“Morganna!” Steven yells.
I hold my breath at the sound of his voice. “Don’t come in here!” I beg. After the words leave my mouth, I realize I should have said the opposite if I wanted him to obey me.
Then Alex fires his gun out the door in a rapid, unskilled manner. Quicker than I thought humanly possible, Steven barrels into the room, weaving back and forth to make himself a harder target. It’s obvious to both of us that Alex has no idea what he’s doing with the weapon. Steven tackles him to the ground in the next second, but not before Alex shoots off a few more rounds in my direction. Steven seems slow, clumsy…drunk. No. This can’t be happening.
I make a decision, one that I’ll regret for the rest of my life. I pull the gun out from behind my back and point it at Alex’s head. “Speed,” I whisper and pull the trigger. The gun’s recoil is strong. The bullet hits the wall behind the men. Steven’s eyes widen in surprise as he struggles to get the gun out of Alex’s hands.
Closing one eye, I take aim again and squeeze the trigger.
The bullet spirals out of the barrel and hits him in the stomach.
Steven.
I hit Steven.
The smell of gunpowder scents the air.
Red. Red. Blood.
Sirens. Police swarm the living room. Someone takes the gun from my hands.
Steven.
They arrest Alex. He’s screaming. Irate. Insane with blood lust—a man completely unhinged.
I fall to my knees over Steven, unfeeling of everything. I’m numb as I stare at the deep red wound, pulsing blood, dripping onto the white marble. My heartbeat shatters my eardrums, as I process what I’ve done—the scene too surreal to be considered anything but a nightmare.
“Steven,” I whisper, tears I have no control over sliding down my cheeks and dripping off my chin into a puddle of his blood.
I touch the pooling blood next to my knees reverently. His eyes are closed, his hair still wet from a shower he probably took only minutes ago. Minutes before I shot him. His massive body is still, so unlike it usually is. Laughter is absent. Love is absent. Life is absent.
Cradling his face in my hands, I wail out his name over and over. Although it’s just his name I’m saying, I’m thinking of every memory we’ve shared over the years. Time stands still. Seconds fill a lifetime. A familiar sensation wells in my chest. Loss.
Steven.
Paramedics bump me out of the way, and someone tries to usher me away from his body, but I refuse to leave. I hear clips: …smell alcohol. Bleeding out. Find a pulse? I want to see everything. Hear everything.
If I don’t, I won’t believe the incomprehensible truth. I killed Steven.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
Steve
“SHOULD WE LET her in here?” my mom says, worried. I can visualize her twisting a tissue in her hands, looking to my father to make the decision.
As expected, my dad’s deep tenor cuts in. “She killed him for a whole twenty minutes. I think she deserves something for that. Release the predator, doctor. Send her in,” he says.
“Don’t say that!” my mom snips. “I can’t believe you’re joking about something so serious. It’s Steven’s health, for crying out loud.” I guess I’ll live, then. Dad’s cracking jokes, which is a rarity, and mom isn’t catatonic. I open my eyes. It’s a painful process and the lights are far too bright—they blur my vision.
“Twenty whole minutes?” I ask, trying my best to smile. My mother lets out a high-pitched squeal and leans down to kiss my cheek. My dad chuckles under his breath and runs a hand through my hair, scrunching it like he did when I was a boy.
I turn my eyes to see him, his eyes crinkling at the sides—just like mine do, except with deeper lines. “Too stubborn to die and too dumb to live,” he admits. I laugh, but it hurts and turns into a small cough. My stomach is on fire.
Mom places a hand on my shoulder. “Calm down, sweetie. Don’t talk at all if it hurts. You’re going to be okay. You’re okay.”
“The bullet missed all of your vital organs by centimeters. It’s actually miraculous,” Dad says, his eyes drifting to the window. “You were lucky. He didn’t want you up there quite yet.”
There’s an IV in the hand I lift to rest on his fingers. “Of course he didn’t. I have to give mom a grandchild first,” I quip. She wants to swat me, but she wouldn’t dare. Vaguely I remember what happened in Morg’s foyer—the struggle that shouldn’t have been a struggle because I was doused in beer, and then Queen Morganna deciding to take matters into her own hands. It happened so quickly. Seconds. All I remember is the rage I felt at seeing the STD threatening her…with a gun.
High heels on polished concrete make a very specific sound. I hear her before I see her. My parents look over their shoulders. Mom smiles. Dad shakes his head.
“Hey killer. He’s awake,” Dad says. Morganna stays silent.
Reluctantly, Mom rises from the bed. “We’ll give you two some time to talk. But don’t talk too much. It hurts, remember?” She presses her lips on my forehead and leaves, taking my father with her. I’d talk to Morganna, regardless of pain, until I ran out of oxygen and died…again.
Morganna takes a few more steps. She comes into view, her tight blue jeans and black fitted t-shirt accentuating her beautiful curves. Her gray eyes glass over as she sniffles and brings a tissue to her eye. I clear my throat.
“I always figured you’d be the figurative death of me. Never thought you’d be responsible for my actual death,” I quip. It’s probably in poor taste, but I want her to know that I can joke about it. She breaks down, tears flowing wildly, sitting next to me on the bed, unsure where on my body is safe to touch. “You’re not in handcuffs. That means that didn’t arrest you?” I ask.
She shakes her head, irritated with me already. “I don’t even know what to say. I’m sorry seems weak in light of what I’ve done to you,” she whispers, her soft hand trailing over my hand and arm. “I never deserved you, Steven. Never. I’m sorry for everything. For everything.”
I take a deep breath and relish the burn. “I’m going to make this easy on you. I love you. I want you to be mine forever. We’ll start over…again, beginning now.” Leaning down, she places her lips on mine. It’s a perfect kiss. It says more than “I’m sorry” ever could. It says she accepts my offer. It says we’re still connected despite everything we’ve been through.
She pulls away and her gaze is deep as she looks into my eyes. “ How can you forgive me that easily?”
“You didn’t do anything malicious, M. I should have known you wouldn’t need rescuing.” I grin. “It’s probably eighty percent my own fault. I drank too mu
ch,” I admit turning my face away. Her cool hand against my cheek forces my face toward hers again.
“Alex or David is a crazy lunatic, Steven. Even if you weren’t drunk he would have been nuts. He literally, and I do mean literally, has nothing left to lose,” Morganna says, her hand still on my face. I like it.
With the hand that doesn’t have an IV, I pull her down next to me on the bed. She curls her legs in and snuggles next to me, careful with my stomach. “He should be six feet under right now,” I growl into her ear.
Anger spreads quicker than the pain meds I’m hooked up to. I meet her gaze, then think better of it and focus on the ceiling.
“I’m sorry I wasn’t there, M. I should have checked my phone. I should have done a lot of things differently. Overprotective to a fault…except when I need to be.”
When we were young I saved her, just barely, from getting her lights punched out by the head cheerleader. Something about Morg telling her that her brain was as short as her skirt really pissed her off. Morganna is a lot of things, but a scrapper isn’t one of them. We can add not sufficient in a gunfight to that list.
She shakes her head vehemently. “No. I should have done a lot of things differently. I was the flaming idiot. I still don’t know how I overlooked something so large, and come on…my shooting?” She closes her eyes. “Horrendous. I wasn’t using logic or common sense. Emotions took over.” Blinking away tears, she changes the subject. “He’s in jail. That’s next best to six feet under. He won’t get out…ever. Especially if I have anything to do with it,” she proclaims. “The new guy, Dax, came in after you and was able to get the gun away from him before the police arrived.”
Adrenaline makes you do crazy things. Morganna is a testament to that. I owe Dax a thank you. His stripes are officially earned. He did sober what I was barely managing to do drunk. Let’s be honest, what I failed to do at all.
The Crazy Good SEAL Series: Books 1-3 Page 56