Losing It All

by Wilde, Kati

  All right. For now. I signal to Barb for another, then start in on the application again. “Middle name?”

  I know it. Saw her diploma, her passport. But this way, she’s talking.

  “Abigail,” she whispers.

  I fill out the next bit and then hit the following section. My gut tightens up. “You want to take my last name afterwards? Or use your own? Or hyphenate? There’s a list of options here.”

  “What options?”

  I drop down the list and she begins reading them, sounding out the hyphenated versions under her breath. “Faraday-Wall doesn’t have a nice enough rhythm, does it?”

  Sounds real nice to me. “It’s whatever you like.”

  “The only ID that I have says Faraday.”

  “That’s true. But you could keep using that passport for a while and be fine.” I gesture to the screen. “This mostly only matters if we end up in court.”

  “Oh yeah.” She sits back. “Just use Wall, then. So we’ll present a united front. A…stone wall.”

  Shit. I shake my head, but at least she’s back to giggling again.

  “Maxine Wall,” she says, trying it out. “Maxine…Abigail…Wall. That’s pretty good. You know who the most famous Faraday is?”

  “Who?”

  “A guy who invented the Faraday cage.”

  A cage? “You shitting me?”

  She shakes her head. “But it wasn’t a cage to keep people in. Or not really. It shielded whatever was inside from electromagnetic waves. You can shoot lightning at it, pew! And you’d be okay inside. A car is kind of a Faraday cage. That’s why you’re okay in one during a lightning storm. But motorcycles?” She sputters a laugh. “Just toast.”

  That’s true. “I know a story of a biker who stopped to piss by the side of the road, got hit by lightning—and because his boots were insulated, it grounded through his dick and that stream of piss.”

  She sputters again. “Are you serious?”

  “Dead serious. I bet I can find the news story once I’m done with this.”

  “Was he able to use it again? Or was it completely fried?”

  Not something I ever thought about. Or wanted to think about. “Not sure.”

  “I just hope he changed his road name to Lightning Dick. Or—oh my god—Lightning Rod.”

  I mess up my social security number three times, trying to type it on the phone’s little keyboard while laughing. Then ask for hers, while she’s still able to remember.

  “This is ready.” I tilt the screen in her direction. “You press that submit button and we’re good to go.”

  She doesn’t hesitate, and makes a drunken ‘boink’ sound effect when she pushes it.

  “So, that’s it? We’re married?”

  “Not until tomorrow. This is just for the license.”

  I tuck my phone away. Barb shows up and trades out Maxine’s drink for a fresh one before leaving again.

  “Ooh,” Maxine coos with a teasing grin. “Another cherry. You want this one?”

  Fucking killing me. “Nah. It’s all yours.” And as she pops it into her mouth, I can’t stop watching. Can’t stop myself from saying, “But you’ve got to tell me why you decided to wait for marriage.”

  “Okay, but…” She leans in and whispers with sweet cherry all over her breath, “It’s a really stupid story.”

  “And I want to hear all of your stupid stories.”

  “Then you’re in luck, because I have a lot of them.” She waggles her eyebrows. “Okay, so…when I was a sophomore in high school, there were three girls who got pregnant all at once. Not ‘all at once’ magically. But like…around the same time.”

  Not magically pregnant. “I got it.”

  “And one of them was a girl who was like…the girl. Smart and good at sports and everyone said she was going to Harvard or something. But she didn’t. Instead she dropped out. One of the other girls did, too. And that one was really sad, because the guy said they always used condoms, so they broke up because he thought she was cheating. But it turned out to be just the condom failing. So I thought… Nope. Not going to risk any of that. And decided to wait for marriage.”

  “That’s not a stupid story. Protecting the future that you wanted sounds damn smart.”

  “Real smart,” she agrees with a slow, bouncing nod. “But I still had a few boyfriends. And made out with them. That was fun.”

  Lucky bastards. “I bet.”

  “And maybe in college, I might have eventually changed my mind. But then I transferred back and was living at home with Grandpa again, and even without waiting for marriage, I’m not built to just hook up with someone. Not that I met anyone who really tempted me. But even if I had, taking someone home might have felt…disrespectful. Because he was really religious. But also not at all.”

  “What’s that mean?”

  “He was a pastor before the boating accident. Then he just…lost his faith in God. Still believed He existed, just didn’t believe in Him anymore. So he stopped preaching. Didn’t make Matt and me go to church, either. But he was still a really moral man. Still taught us good and bad. Just without the religious stuff. Does that make sense?”

  “Yeah, it does. So he’d have been disappointed if you didn’t wait?”

  “No.” With sadness darkening her expression, she shakes her head. “He told me once, ‘Don’t wait if something makes you happy. Because you don’t know when it’ll be gone.’ That wasn’t about sex, really. But I think he would have viewed it the same way if I’d met someone who made me happy. It took me a while to really learn that lesson, though.”

  “Not waiting for the good stuff.” Dessert. Sex.

  “Yeah.” Her gaze lifts to meet mine, emerald eyes big and imploring. “Do you believe in God? Or that we’ll be punished for the bad stuff we do?”

  So damn cute. With my forefinger, I tap her up-tilted chin. “So drink number four is when you go deep and philosophical? That’s good to know.”

  She catches my hand. “But do you, though? Do you think intentions matter?”

  I can’t resist those eyes. “Never thought about it much. Why? You worried you’ll be punished for not being a virgin?”

  “No. I don’t think sex makes anyone bad.” Her lips tremble. “But after what I did to you? I really, really wanted to save you.”

  Ah fuck. “You did save me, Maxine. You truly did.”

  Filled up all that emptiness.

  Eyes swimming, she shakes her head. “I meant to. But the entire plan went to shit.”

  “What plan was that? Because I guarantee you, whatever it was, it didn’t go to shit. I’m right here. I’m fine.”

  “But you would never have been hurt or in the Cage. If I’d just…” Those tears slip over. “If I’d just looked at Gunner a little closer. Because I meant to get you safe with your friend and tell you everything, even though Victor was listening in. And I knew he’d kill me for it. Then I thought Gunner was that blue-eyed devil. So you weren’t safe. But when I tried to get you out of there, Victor caught up to us and I just… I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry.”

  My chest is real fucking tight. “What are you talking about?”

  “At the tavern,” she sobs quietly.

  Yeah, I got that. “What do you mean, Victor was listening in?”

  “To my wig. So I couldn’t warn you off without him knowing.” She bravely swipes at her eyes. “Though I was going to. I thought someone had to do something right. And it needed to be me. So I pretended to play along. Pretended to spike your drink. But Victor caught up to us and drugged you anyway.”

  My heart’s completely gone. Just a big mess left. “Was that why it took so damn long to get my bloodwork cleared to fight? He pumped me full of something else?”

  “Because I didn’t get you outside fast enough.” Her face crumples again. “It just all went to shit. And I didn’t save you. I just made it all worse.”

  “Hey.” My throat’s so damn raw, my voice is nothing but a croak when
I cradle her cheeks between my hands—and search hard for something to say. “Listen. Maxine. Listen. It’s not your fault. You’ve got nothing to be sorry for. Because those fuckers were going to get me anyway. They made a deal with Strawman to take me, so one way or another, they’d have gotten to me. And I’m not sorry at all that it happened this way, because I met you. I wouldn’t trade that for anything. Okay?”

  She just cries harder, so I pull her in and let her bury her face against my chest. Fucking stunned that my heart’s still beating when it feels like it should be exploding.

  I wouldn’t have cared if she’d drugged me. I held onto that anger for a long time while I was so goddamn empty inside, looking for any excuse to keep her close. Telling myself she had to pay. But it didn’t matter later. Not after that hole in me started closing up. After I started pulling my head out of my ass. Because I sure as hell couldn’t blame her for spiking my drink if it meant saving her own life or avoiding the kind of punishments they’d have handed out to her.

  But that’s not what she did. Instead she tried to save me…knowing that she would have died for it. She’d been willing to trade her life for mine. A stranger who wasn’t worth even one of her tears.

  I can barely fucking deal with that. Except to let her cry. And think back to everything I can remember from that night. Of her tossing the wig while running ahead of me. Of looking down at her, feeling real pissed off and seeing her eyes filled with fear.

  “I’m the one who slowed us down, wasn’t I?” I realize. “You told me about Gunner, and I stopped you right there.”

  She hiccups against my chest. “But I should have seen that he wasn’t—”

  “Nah, there ain’t no telling Gunner’s brothers apart. So listen. You seem real determined to blame yourself for this. But let me share my part of the blame, too. We’d have made it out of there if I hadn’t lost my temper and stopped listening to you.” Already she’s shaking her head, saying something about how of course I’d trust Gunner over some strange girl, but I pull back, make her meet my eyes. “See? You did your best with what you knew. I did my best with what I knew. Now you tell me: what more is anyone supposed to do?”

  “I don’t know.” She wipes her face again. “There’s probably an answer. But I’m too drunk to think.”

  Nah. Her drunk side runs a little silly and a little sad, but doesn’t slow her thinking much. “That’s what you wanted tonight, yeah?”

  She nods. Then says in a whisper, “You don’t have to be sorry, either. For the cabin. I liked making you feel good.”

  And she was also carrying a whole load of guilt over something that wasn’t her fault. But I can’t say that because it’s my brain that’s suddenly working damn slow, my cock hard as fuck and all I can remember is how she felt. How she tasted. Because making you feel good is a hell of an understatement about the effect she has on me.

  That effect means I can’t risk dwelling on how she liked it. Not while I’m still wrecked, knowing she’d have sacrificed herself for me. Not while I’m aching so bad and need’s clawing me up inside. Because I just might ask her to make me feel so damn good again.

  While she’s drunk and grieving. And while feeling a guilt that she shouldn’t be feeling.

  Her waxing philosophical is a whole lot safer. So I tell her, “I figure that if there really is someone up there, they’re telling me I ought to be sorry. But they aren’t waiting to punish me. They’re doing it now.”

  She scowls. So damn cute. “Punishing you how?”

  “By letting me be so close to you.” But not having her. It was only yesterday that I was last inside her but feels like forever. But it hasn’t been forever. Instead, forever is what’s stretching out ahead of me. “And getting a real clear look at how I don’t deserve you.”

  Her chin wobbles. “Being with me is a punishment?”

  Ah shit. Me getting philosophical is a big mistake, if that’s what she comes away with.

  “No, Maxine.” I catch her face in my hands. “You’re the best thing.”

  She pulls in a trembling breath—then goes utterly still, gaze fixed on mine. The flush drains from her skin, leaving her deathly pale.

  “Maxine?”

  She begins shaking. “Can we leave? Right now?”

  “Yeah, but—what’s got you spooked? Did you see someone?”

  “No.” Her eyes are wide, her pupils huge. “I don’t know. I just want to go. I need to get out of here.”

  “Then we’re going.” Not trusting those whisky legs to hold her, I haul her up into my arms, gaze sweeping the bar. No one that wasn’t here before. Yet she’s shivering and her breaths are shallow, panicked as she buries her face against my neck.

  Then I hear it. That fucking jukebox. Playing one of Elton’s greatest hits.

  “It’s just the music, angel,” I murmur against her ear as I’m carrying her out. “Just the music. You’re safe.”

  Maxine lifts her head, listening. Then buries her face in the crook of my neck again, half crying and half laughing against my throat. “That stupid tiny dancer.”

  Tension easing, I ask her, “You want me to go back and get the rest of that bottle?”

  “That’s okay.” Her reply is a laughing shudder against my skin. “I think I’m done.”

  Yeah, she is. Nodding off by the time I cross the short distance to our motel room, and fully asleep before I put her to bed—then lay down with her, because I’m still watching over her. I shouldn’t still be holding her, too.

  But I can’t fucking help myself.

  33

  Maxine

  Okay. I’m done crying. Mostly.

  Stone is so wonderful, I don’t know if that makes it easier or harder. If it was just me, alone, I would have no choice but to buck up and get through. But he’s here taking care of me, giving me someone to lean on…and maybe I’m letting myself cry more than I would otherwise. Because I know he’s here to hold me when I need him to.

  But no more. Crying’s over.

  My head’s a fuzzy mess when we ride out in the morning, my stomach full of the greasy breakfast that Stone swore would help with a hangover. I don’t know if the food helps anything, but holding him does—and so does sitting on that rumbling, powerful bike with the scenery flying by. For the first time since leaving the Cage, I feel both safe and free. And even though the hurt and grief are still a dull and constant ache in my chest…just being here with Stone—and knowing that we’re doing something about Papa—makes it all so much easier to bear.

  Then Stone has to go and ruin my pledge not to cry by being wonderful again. Because he didn’t just pre-register our license. He also booked a honeymoon suite and a bridal package at a little chapel inside the hotel, complete with a beauty spa visit and a wedding dress for me. I assumed we’d be standing up together in our grimy motorcycle gear, but Stone says something about making this look good for the courts later, so that it appears we got married for all the usual reasons instead of planning a murder.

  But it feels like all of the usual reasons. In the spa, I cry my makeup off when it hits me that Matt won’t be there to give me away. Then I tear up again as I take the short walk down the aisle. Stone’s waiting for me in a rented tux, and I laugh a little to see it—because the suit fits him perfectly, so perfectly, wrapping his tall, muscular body in those gorgeous threads. Yet it doesn’t fit him at all. Nothing could truly contain him. I knew that from the first moment I saw him in that video fighting against Paladin. Even then, noticing the sheer vitality and strength and life that seem to simply explode from him. For a while, in the Cage—after Crash—that vitality had dimmed.

  No more. As Stone takes my hand, as he tells me that I look absolutely fucking beautiful, that vitality seems to shine from him again, warming me all the way through. Filling me with it, too.

  I feel as if I’m glowing when I say my vows—to a man who, only a day ago, swore never to touch me again.

  But he does kiss me when the officiant declares us hu
sband and wife. Maybe only to make it look good for the courts and for the photos that come with the wedding package. Oh, but it must look so good—slow and deep and sweet, with his big hands cupping my face and his powerful body pressing close to mine. When he finishes, his kiss eases back into a smile against my mouth, and I laugh even as the tears start up again. But happy tears, this time.

  I don’t know why I’m so happy. But I am.

  I can’t stop smiling when Stone swings me up into his arms and carries me through the lobby. We receive small smatterings of applause—and in the elevator, we’re given knowing looks that make me blush and turn my burning face against his shoulder. He carries me over the threshold into the honeymoon suite before setting me down.

  The suite is decorated in the Vegas version of elegance, with gold and white everywhere. A huge four-poster bed has its own room. Rose petals are strewn across the duvet cover. My heart rate spikes when Stone tugs his bowtie free, regarding me with a hot look that I know so very well. My skin tightens with anticipation.

  Then my heart flops painfully into my stomach when he turns away and says gruffly, “I’m heading down to the hotel gym. Blowback sent photos of doctors in Nevada who might fit the doc’s description if you want to start going through them. I wrote the password on that notepad over there.”

  The password to his laptop. Because we’re married now. And I’m the info girl.

  “Okay,” I whisper to no one. He’s already in the bedroom changing into his gym clothes. I’m all alone, sitting down on a pretty white sofa in a pretty white dress, booting up a computer so that I can find the man who ordered my brother’s murder.

  But I’m not crying anymore. I’m not.

  At least not until Stone is gone.

  * * *

  He’s gone for two hours, but I never end up crying. I’m just…numb. And Stone looks completely done in, sweat-soaked and beat, as if he spent the entire time pounding himself to exhaustion.