by Billie Dale
The old gossiping ladies claim the first cut of love's sword is the deepest. As cheesy as those words are, they are accurate. Preslee laughed when I offered to follow her to the Golden State. She considered me weak and needy because my eyes misted when she cut me at the knees. Scoffed about immaturity and boasted wanting space to grow and become adults.
All these years later, hearing her name drives a stake through my dead heart. The beating organ I use to stay alive and the very one she colored black.
Here she is, at my mercy. Cue the evil bwaahaha.
Disgruntled and dragging ass, I forgot my fur-lined coat. My balls froze to marbles hours ago, but the person behind the wheel sends my temperature soaring with rage.
Sunglasses hide my shock when I see her head of auburn hair. Fatigue swallows her oceanic orbs as they rake up and down my chest. Magnified by the strength of her glasses, her appreciation over my growth spurt, and years spent honing my body, shows with each swipe of her tongue across her bottom lip and flutter of her eyelids. I’m not the short, scrawny boy she knew, nor am I the pushover she once controlled.
Her batting lashes and lip biting might work on surfer boys, but it won’t save her from this ticket. I’d take her to lockup if I could find a reason, if only to prove her insignificance. Satisfied with her dropped jaw and wide are-you-kidding-me glare, I return to my SUV feeling her eyeing my every move. My craving for vindication festered for almost a decade. We were young, needed to grow and spread our wings...blah…fucking blah. I moved on with my life, but part of me knew she would return one day. Underneath my hardened exterior, hidden in a compartmentalized piece of my brain, lives the carefree love we shared. Her calloused dismissal stacked the bricks to the wall around my heart, turned me into a man who no longer believes in love outside genetics.
Only a person related to you is worth taking a chance on and even then, it’s a risk.
∞∞∞
Inside the station, my thick-heeled boots pound on the floor, eating the distance to my office.
“Hey, Chief.” Sergeant Williams waves, speeding his steps to catch me before I shut my office door. “Some detective called three times asking for you. He won’t talk to anyone else and refuses to leave a number.” Trepidation hangs in his hunched shoulders and foot-to-foot shuffling, while his eyes bore holes in my shoes. My officers know I hate insufficient information. Add in my hostility fueled by exhaustion plus Preslee and the sum equals a tired, pissed-off boss.
Red hair, blue eyes…red hair, blue eyes…kissable, fuckable lips…AHHHH! She’s a paused video I can’t fast forward. I prefer her blonde locks, but I’d be a lying asshole if I said the vibrant hue framing her face isn’t hot as hell. No. No. Nooooo! Pull your head outta your ass, Joey, she’s the antichrist who Lorena Bobbitted your heart. Revenge. Karmic justice. Big tits. Upturned nose….FUCK. MY. LIFE.
Williams backpedals, scurrying in a stuttering mess from my open door.
“Ya ole bear. Hornet bite your ass this morning?” Trudy hovers in my doorway. “Stop making your officers piss themselves, Josiah Carter.” I cringe at her use of my full name. From Williams’ retreat, I must’ve verbalized pieces of my inner monologue. “Gotta a detective on the line demanding to speak to you.”
“Tell him we’re in the middle of an inclement weather state of emergency and I won’t be available for a few days. He can email me if it’s important,” I snarl. Lowering to sit, I pause before my ass hits the cushion. “Fuck it.” I stand, deciding my paperwork can wait; I leave.
Trudy blocks my path with a burgeoning motherly lecture tightening her face. The station is so quiet I hear my stomach growl. “Hell’s bells,” Trudy grumbles. “Y’all need to relax, starting with you, Josiah. This place used to bustle with chatter and laughter, but you’ve made it a tomb.” She points the tip of her cane at me. “Chief Buford would stick his foot straight up your ass if he saw you making his cherished officers shit themselves daily. Want to keep this job? Stop acting all anti-people. The board won’t appoint a tyrant.”
Her mention of Buford Beaumont knifes my chest. I’m the youngest chief to sit behind this desk in the history of Seven Mile Forge, but only because the town's beloved Buford died six months ago. He was my mentor, the man I hoped to be, which is why he handed me the reins after his first heart attack. The third one did him in. Another reason to guard your heart and why I rule my employees with an iron fist.
I punch my hands through the sleeves of my coat. Trudy’s hand on my forearm stops me. “I watched you grow up in this station, hanging on your momma’s skirt and playing under Beaumont’s desk. You go home, rest, and when you come in here tomorrow, you’re gonna be nice and fun. No more of this hard-ass with a chip on his shoulder shit, or I’ll beat some sense in you with my walking stick.”
Her silver-streaked hair gleams under the fluorescents and frustration hardens her warm chocolate eyes. Gertrude Bradley has been SMFPD’s dispatcher for as long as I can remember. She timeless. The only sign of her sixty years is the gray in her hair and the tiny wrinkles around her eyes. Her face hasn’t changed since I was three years old, tagging along to work with my mom.
Amanda Holmes, my ma, worked as Buford’s secretary, retiring when he died. I progressed from the pesky toddler interrupting everyone’s day to the interim chief.
When Preslee ground my heart to dust, I hemmed, hawed, and turned my life into a shitshow. After my third run-in with SMFPD, Buford enlisted tough love, turning me from troubled screwup to super cop.
Three
Preslee
Sammy’s wedding planning is the distraction I need. After a quick visit to Double V, I arrive at Carmichael Plantation ready for a shower. My twin, Hendrix, is in Los Angeles on a job and Aunt Vivianne is fighting the man at some save the whatever rally in Florida.
Home sweet home. I can’t wait for the comfort of patchouli and boho chic confines of the ginormous mansion on the hill. The tall pillars welcome me. Inside I step toward the sprawling staircase, when my eyes catch on the stiff furniture cluttering the living room.
The plantation has many pretentious rooms, but my aunt’s anti-establishment style affords it a lived-in, welcoming feel. This is not the same home. Curious, I inch toward the parlor.
“I wondered if you’d forgotten your way,” calls out from behind, drawing a shriek from my lips. I spin meeting the eyes of my grandmother.
Dressed in a cream pantsuit without one blonde hair out of place, she’s coiffed Southern royalty. I’d comment on her sour pucker causing wrinkles, but Gayle Carmichael is the Botox Queen of the South. Her ability to make such a face through the tightened skin is an anomaly akin to the reason she’s standing in the foyer of my childhood home glowering at me.
To my understanding, the house should be empty yet here she is. The overhead crystal chandelier highlights every piece of pristine furniture filling the room.
Our parlor is what most consider a living room. Many make-out sessions took place on the high-back, crushed red velvet couch while playlists burned on CD’s provided the music. Hell, I lost my virginity with my backside sunk between the cushions and Gilmore Girls on the television. Sammy and Hendrix did their schoolwork in here and it’s the place my brother’s musical genius teemed with life.
Or it used to be.
White. I mean holy crap-don’t-breath-cause-you-will-stain-something colorlessness. A fluffy sheep shag couch, with curving swan heads on the arms, matches two overstuffed chairs with a marble oval table in between. A ginormous polar bear skin rug covers the floor with its mouth open and teeth exposed. The only color in the room is the black baby grand piano shoved in the corner.
Even the rustic brick around the fireplace is white and it reeks of pine trees. Aunt Viv left three days ago. How in the hell did Nona find enough to time to overhaul this place? All my aunt’s watercolor paintings… gone. Her handpicked, gently used furniture replaced with stuff I’m afraid to sit on.
My grandmother watches my mouth open and close, u
nable to formulate words, but something clues her in. “Don’t you love it? Now it’s decorated as an Old South plantation should be. Shame on Vivianne for defacing the family property that way.”
“Right. Uh…Nona, what are you doing here?” I answer, shaking my head because when Viv sees all her stuff gone, the South will see another Civil War.
“Couldn’t allow my only granddaughter to come home for the first time in nine years to an empty house.” She tsks. “Besides, I wanted to see you.”
“I’ve been in Cali this whole time but you wait until I come here?”
“That state’s full of free-love potheads preaching peace.”
“In the 60s maybe,” I grumble, feeling her snobbery weighing down my shoulders. “Care to explain why it’s whiter in here than it is outside?”
“This house survived the Blue and the Gray. It’s been standing tall and strong for 159 years, marking the Carmichael family line, and it deserves better than my daughter’s flower-power hodgepodge.”
“You live on the Upper East Side of New York City, in a penthouse. I think you lost claim on your Southern heritage the second you stuck the stick up your ass.”
She waves off my jab. “Nonsense. I’m still the leader of SMF Belles, which is how I know SMFPD stopped you for speeding two hours ago.”
Damn gossip mongering old blue hairs. Can’t fart crossways in this damn town without it spreading like wildfire. “Stopped at Double V first. I’m tired, hungry, and need a shower. You didn’t redecorate my room, did you?”
“You’ll love it.” She winks.
“Damn,” I huff, dragging my feet to the stairs. The wheels of my suitcase bang each carpeted step on my ascent. At my door I pull in a deep breath, preparing for what I’ll find behind the thick oak.
Green. Varying shades from lime to forest and some I never dreamed existed. The walls, curtains, carpet, and bed resemble the carnage of Slimer from Ghostbusters exploding.
I was the unique teen who enjoyed the beat of her own drum. My best friends were my genius brother and equally Brainiac, Sammy Lee. As the twin sister of a prodigy, I fought to stay out of his shadow. Found out when I was five, I needed glasses. At eight, I learned no amount of physical activity worked off my extra pounds. A round body just added to my character. Short, stout, and almost blind, I owned my flaws to detour bullying assholes.
My brother and I grew up in run-down villages where water and food were scarce. Places our clothes, hair, and social status took a back seat to survival and disease prevention. We homeschooled a few hours each day but spent most of our time playing with the local kids, while Mom figured out ways to provide clean water and Dad treated the sick.
We lived happy until an attack on one settlement jeopardized our lives. My parents claimed we went to live with Aunt Viv because of Hendrix’s synesthesia, but we knew they were scared.
Humanitarians to the core, it was the hardest decision they ever made. The work they do is too important to leave, so my brother and I adapted. We eased their guilt with assurances and promises. Most think them callous for dumping us, but we told them to stay.
When we arrived Stateside, Nona’s house was where we landed first. After a month living in the city, I picked up on the ways my twin and I would never blend in. Hendrix turned almost mute and climbed so far inside himself Nona threatened therapy. To pull the focus off him, I used her credit card to add purple streaks to my hair and purchase matching frames for my glasses. The final straw was when I bought a whole new wardrobe full of retro band tees and tie-dye.
Mom and Dad deemed Hendrix too fragile and sent us to Kentucky. Aunt Vivianne finished her backpacking through Europe and agreed to live with us on the plantation, so long as Nona Gayle stayed out of it.
Aside from a random visit, it’s gone well until now. My grandfather’s last middle finger to his overbearing wife was leaving the house to my parents. He believed they’d preserve its integrity where Nona would’ve bulldozed it and built a spa. This puke-colored room is one of the many reasons my aunt kept her away.
I came home for safety, craving the comforting nostalgia of my poster-covered black and purple walls, the memories of my CD collection providing the soundtrack to all my best teen moments, and reliving moments when my life didn’t suck. Instead I’m stuck with baby shit hued renovations.
Four
Preslee
My cell rings alerting a FaceTime call. Hendrix’s smile lights up my screen when I connect.
“You could’ve warned me, asshole,” I snap, stealing his hello.
“Nah, the Nona experience is better when it’s a surprise,” he responds. His head angles left and right. “Where the hell are you?”
“In. My. Room.” I emphasize each word.
“Shit. Why is it so…” he hesitates, “…green?”
“Somehow our grandmother redecorated the entire house in three days. You should see the parlor. I think the Stay Puff Marshmallow Man took a shit all over it. The only color is the piano. Aunt Viv’s gonna drop dead from a coronary when she sees all her stuff gone.”
“Wait. She got rid of everything? Where are my instruments, computer, and compositions?” His voice edges toward panic. “I had dozens of near finished projects. Preslee, you gotta to find out what she did with twelve years’ worth of my work.”
The shake of his image tells me he’s pacing. Nona chooses this moment to appear in my open door.
“What do you think of your modern design?” she cheers.
“WHERE IS MY MUSIC?” Hendrix yells.
I flip my phone, turning his angry red face to her. “Surprise! I wanted to show you when you came home. I commissioned a construction company to build a studio in the basement. Your things are stored safely in one of the spare rooms until it’s done.”
His sigh echoes through the room and while I can’t see him, I hear his tension melt with it. “Where are my and Aunt Viv’s things?” I ask, hopeful.
“I didn’t touch Vivianne’s room. Everything else I removed was donated to the local thrift store.”
“My CD’s, books, DVD’s, and posters? You donated them?” My heart hurts over the loss of my memories.
“No reason to hang on to all that nonsense,” she responds, walking away.
Phone crushed in my hand, I meet my brother's eyes. “Go to Dotty at New Again. No way she’s been able to off-load it yet.”
Some of my anger fades with the balm of his words. Seven Mile is too small for my things to be gone already. I resolve to visit Dotty’s secondhand store, New Again, first thing tomorrow morning. Kicked back on my bed, I ask about his current job.
He rags on the producer being an ass for ten minutes before in true random Hendrix style blurts, “Oh, the strangest thing happen earlier today. A guy at the craft service table asked for you.”
“That’s not too uncommon. Could be I worked with him.”
“This guy ain’t no actor. He said you two were old friends, but he lost your contact information and wondered if I’d give it to him. When I countered with an offering to deliver a message with his number, he winked and said to tell you Curry James says hello. Crazy, right? This little white guy shares the same name as a basketball star?”
The hair on my arms stands on end as a chill rakes down my spine. “Right. I need to go. Can I call you later?”
He cocks a curious brow but agrees. When his call ends, I tap Detective Highland’s name in my contacts.
Before he finishes saying hello, I cut in, “Tell me you found him.”
“Miss Carmichael,” he drones. “We’re still searching.”
“He found my brother and I think he knows where I am,” I blurt, relaying the incident with Hendrix.
“Relax. Him using Curry’s name doesn’t mean he’s found you, but with the seven degrees of separation, it won’t be hard for him to figure it out. You’re all over social media with your friend, Samantha, who is engaged to Mazric Vortex, which leads to Curry James. You might be on hiatus from the socials
, but the internet never forgets. I accessed multiple pictures of you two from the last handful of years. You returned home hoping to hide, but it was never guaranteed.”
“Is Hendrix safe?” I fret.
“He’s not in any of the photos we collected from your apartment. Perhaps this guy knows he’s your brother, therefore, not a threat. I’ll send a sketch artist to the set so we can finally have an image of this guy.”
“NO!” I shout. “I haven’t told my people what’s going on yet. I’ll draw and send it to you.”
“You’re leaving friends and family unsuspecting, Miss Carmichael. They can’t protect you if no one is aware there’s a threat. I’ve tried contacting your local PD, but connecting with the chief is impossible. This person’s been on you for seven years and with recent activities, he’s devolving. You need to come clean before he hurts more than your pet.”
At his mention of my only companion for five years, my heart aches. I still can’t believe he’s gone. “I will. When my brother comes home, I’ll gather everyone. I’m not telling this story more than once. Hendrix got a good look at him. As soon as I finish talking to him, I text you the sketch.”
“Watch yourself, Miss Carmichael,” he warns, disconnecting the call.
Pencil in hand and drawing pad on my lap, I redial my brother.
“What’s up?” he says when the call connects.
Phone propped on a pillow; I wave my supplies so he sees what I want to do. “I need to you describe the guy.”
“My wonder twin powers are pinging. Tell me what the hell is going on.”
“Just describe him, Hendrix,” I snark.
Anxious and shaking, I dropped the pencil to paper as he lists characteristics. When he’s finished, I show him what I drew and he confirms it’s the guy. A balding, Phil Collins look-alike, who I’ve never seen in my life. I have no idea who this person is or why he’s stalking me.
“I’ll text this to you and I want you to show it to security on set. If they see him again, they need to call Detective Brick Highland.”