No Magic Moment

by Angel Payne

“Not yet.” His shoulders developed a full hunch from tension. “I will, just not…now. This isn’t the kind of thing divulged over wine and dinner.”

  Understanding struck again, this time square in my balls. “Holy fuck. You and Margaux did get horizontal, didn’t you?”

  “What?” He whirled. “No! Christ.”

  I pushed out a heavy breath. “Thank fuck.”

  He turned. Resumed the pacing thing. This gait, I recognized. It belonged to the Killian Stone of the family’s prime scandal days, a guy resolved to meet every crisis head-on, march through the crucible and emerge on the other side stronger for it.

  What the hell was he about to tell me that met such criteria?

  “Last year, when I vanished from the grid, I existed in some low places, mentally and physically.”

  I leveled a questioning stare. “So? We’d all suspected as much.”

  “I missed Claire…like the fucking sun. That was why I kept moving. Too long in one place and I’d begin to think about what an ass I’d been, what a failure the world had painted me to be…how I thought I’d failed her.”

  “‘The world’?” I snorted. “You mean the three-point-five percent of the population who gave a damn about your real birthright? The herd of sheep led by the ‘financial experts’ who take consulting gigs with news media just to write off their facelifts and bad toupees?”

  Before I finished, he’d pivoted around, arms folded, a cocky smirk spreading his lips. “Funny how small it all seems now, right?”

  So this was what the view looked like—from the corner one had just painted themselves into. “Do you have a real point?”

  He turned and restarted the methodical pacing. “I stayed on the move. Couldn’t stay in one place for too long. If I kept moving, nothing would…hurt. Didn’t have a rhyme or reason, just shifted to the places where it became easiest to lop off more pieces of myself and leave them behind.” He stopped. The hunch of his shoulders got bigger. “By the time I hit the other side of Texas, I wasn’t sure who the guy in the mirror was anymore—not that I was peering at too many mirrors by then. I just…couldn’t figure it out. Who the fuck had I become? The only answer that made any sense was the face I couldn’t forget, mirrors or no.”

  I nodded in quiet understanding. “Claire’s.”

  “She knew…everything,” he confirmed. “You know that, right? All of it, all the secrets about me. Even before Trey took them public, she knew them and she didn’t care. She knew me, loved me, for me.” He lifted his head, illuminating the new torment across his features. “Then I left her.”

  For a long moment, I studied that prominent profile. Amazing. Even in the midst of a self-flogging, Killian Stone was the picture of composed command. I wondered if the guy had ever lost his shit, even in front of Claire.

  Finally, I asked, “Why?” Asked, not accused. I was sincerely curious about what had driven him to vanish from society for half a year.

  His reply was simplicity and complexity in one. “I was lost,” he explained. “He was lost. At least I thought so. The man Claire Montgomery had fallen in love with, everything I assumed she valued in him, was stripped away after Trey worked his magic with my reputation. Once I ran off after that bar fight, I was stupid enough to think I’d embarked on some romantic vision quest, out to find the man I really was…”

  “And you learned Yoda was actually just a Muppet?”

  We shared a short laugh.

  A very short laugh.

  “Trouble is, it took me four months to realize it,” he uttered. “And when I did, the need for her—to see her, to hear her—hit me like one of the trucks parked outside the Texas burger dive I sat in.” His face contorted harder. “Like she was the key…back to me.”

  I didn’t say anything. Talking got difficult when a guy felt like someone had pried open his head, dug out his most terrifying thought then let that oh-so-awesome freak flag fly.

  “One of the drivers lent me his phone. I couldn’t punch in her number fast enough.”

  My heavy swallow matched his. “But she didn’t pick up?”

  “Oh, she picked up.”

  “And?”

  “And I couldn’t say a fucking word.” He slowly shook his head. “From the moment she uttered her greeting, it was—well, it was hell. She had no idea it was me on the line and I still heard it all in her voice…the pain she’d been through…the battles she’d waged to get through the days we’d been apart. Until then, I had no concept of what I’d done to her. She’s such a rock, you know?”

  I didn’t disguise my disappointment. “Rocks break.”

  He smacked a hand on the wall. “They also survive.”

  “A lot of times, after breaking.”

  “Not a lesson I didn’t learn, my friend—the hard way. I turned to dust, because I’d done the same to her. I had no clue what to do for her—or for me, at that point. I couldn’t speak.”

  “Not one word?” I fired back. “As in, letting her know you were okay and not balls-up in a gutter somewhere? Telling her you missed her? That you still loved her?”

  “I was a moron.”

  “Damn right you were.”

  “Selfish.”

  “Still no argument.”

  He cocked his head, exposing his face fully to me again. “That wasn’t even the end of it.”

  Surprising, how his confession wasn’t a surprise. I lifted a black stare, the same one I used on Keir when he dropped in a workout surprise of fifty more soft-sand burpees. “Shit.”

  He coiled and uncoiled his fists. “After I gave the driver back his phone…I asked if he knew where I could get a gun fast.”

  I shot back to my feet. “What the fuck for?”

  He gazed back out over the water. Other than that, he was as unreadable as the walls around us.

  “Killian?”

  More of the human stone wall impersonation. The harsh jerk of his shoulders didn’t herald unicorns and pixie dust either. “As I said, I was in a bad place.”

  “You don’t fucking say.” I wasn’t bound to the granite-for-blood thing, and thank God. I stomped from one end of the little shore to the other. “How much of a bad place?”

  “I’m still here, aren’t I? I got as far as buying the thing, making off to the bathroom then lifting the barrel to my mouth—then stopped cold, trying to remember if I’d ever read anything about the proper angle for blowing one’s brains out.”

  “Christ fucking wept.”

  “Now you understand why I didn’t tell anyone I’d returned to San Diego and was living on the yacht.” His eyes raced with determined shadows. “I refused to be away from her any longer but couldn’t be near her, either. Not in that fucked-up state.”

  “I take it you found a good shrink, too?”

  A smile floated across his lips. “I saw Doc Straten before even moving my shit aboard the Queen.”

  “And he was the one who encouraged you to paint.”

  “Smart young bucko.” His smirk widened before totally fading again, committed once more to his audition for gargoyle status. He did prove his feet still worked, turning toward me once more. “That hour, alone in that bathroom with that gun, was the most selfish thing I’ve ever done in my life, Michael.”

  I stopped and pounded a stare into him. “Don’t think I’ll deny you that one, either, man.”

  He took another step. Raised his chin and folded his arms as if he moved through water, graceful but resolute. “So when are you going to pull the gun out of your mouth?”

  Now I was the frozen one. A thousand daggers of ice in one’s bloodstream usually does that. After a breath finally made its way to my lungs, I blinked in harsh disbelief.

  Idiot.

  How the hell hadn’t I seen that coming from a hundred miles away?

  The answer hit with furious clarity.

  “You’re pushing apples and oranges,” I seethed. “Freud-talking your cash-out from humanity doesn’t erase the fact that you did it, or the agony you
caused. It sure as hell doesn’t qualify you to read the roadmap in my head.”

  He cocked an eyebrow. “Didn’t know that shit was such a state secret.”

  I stabbed a figure between his chest and mine. “We aren’t the same, Killian. This isn’t the same!”

  “Hmmm.” He rolled his head a couple of times, a deceptive ode to relaxation. As he fastened his stare to me once more, nothing about him was remotely relaxed. “I’m not sure whether to call bullshit on your ass now”—in one lunge he pinned me against the rock, forearm caging my sternum—“or maybe now. Yeah, this is better.”

  I growled and shoved back. Kil pressed in harder, backing up the motion with a glare dark as coal, snorting like a damn rhino.

  “Fucking hell!”

  “Took the words right out of my mouth.” He bared his teeth—the rhino turned black adder. “That’s a good thing, considering I’d get myself all riled up and want to turn this into a true choke hold.” He cocked his head, looming closer. “Not that it won’t be out of the question, once I consider the state you left my sister in.”

  I relented on the escape effort, though not without a deep snarl. My lungs stretched for air, heaving my body beneath his clutch. Jackhole. He knew what a mention of Margaux would do to me. “You think I enjoyed any part of what I did?” I countered. “Any part of those decisions? Any second of hurting her like that?”

  His glare turned incredulous. “That’s what you’re calling it, eh? Hurting her? Awww. So noble, so tragic. Poor, poor Saint Pearson. You had to hurt her to save her, yeah?” He nodded, seeming to reach a secret satisfaction. “No wonder you’re sleeping for shit. And I’m really fucking glad.”

  I grimaced as if hit by a toxic stench. “Margaux is strong.”

  “Just like Claire was?” he countered. “Like a rock, right?”

  “I’ll be a blip on her radar in a month!”

  He released me with a brutal shove. Laughed without a shred of mirth. “Holy hell. That bubble of delusion you’re living in must be such fun, Pearson. But hey, you’re right on target, calling out my bad in comparing my fuck-up to yours. I got that all wrong, considering I slept next to hobos with a better grip on reality than you.”

  “Shut up.” The words were weary and angry and frustrated, perfect accelerants for the rage that finally exploded, driving me away from the wall. “Shut up, okay?”

  “Not a problem.” He spun toward the passage that led back out to the orchard. “Mustn’t dent the bubble, after all.” Stopped short to swing the side of a fist into the tunnel’s support frame. “Man, I was a moron…thinking you were made of tougher stuff. That supporting Claire through all my bullshit would help you save Margaux from yours.”

  He’d barely uttered the words but the cavern’s ventilation picked them up, blasting them back through the air. Not that he needed the architectural help—after speaking the words that delivered my second paralysis of the night.

  Save.

  Margaux.

  “Save Margaux.” I’d said it so many times over the last month. As a vow, as a credo, as a promise, as a fucking plea to any higher power willing to listen—but never like this. The words crawled from my gut like a question, tearing past every conviction I’d had since deciding to let her go, in those bleak hours in the UCSD waiting room. I’d never known terror like the slime that crawled over me that day. As my exhaustion had progressed, the memories of Mom received nerve-shaking overlays. I began to see Margaux’s face and body covered in bruises and blood, instead. When Margaux finally appeared in the waiting room, I’d been petrified to look. Was she real…or a wraith?

  It was the worst moment of my life. But it had given me the courage to make that clean break. Snap her off, set her free…keep her safe.

  I’d clung to that feeling just to keep going. Remembering the fear meant keeping alert, staying alive…staying sane.

  Remembering the fear.

  Welcoming the fear.

  “Holy. Shit.” Both words choked up from my gut.

  It’s paralyzing you, Michael…trapping you…

  “Holy. Shit.” It needed to be repeated.

  Mom was right. And fuck me, Killian was right. I was so addicted to fear, I’d woven a damn superhero suit out of it—‘to keep everyone safe.’

  You fucking fraud.

  The suit wasn’t to keep everyone safe. It was to keep everyone out.

  Even myself.

  Now, I was trapped inside the thing—even with the knowledge of Declan’s carcass at the bottom of the Atlantic—with the zipper glued shut.

  “Killian!”

  He scuffed to a stop outside the tunnel’s entrance. Said nothing as I caught up, though his face reflected something new. I prayed like hell that it was hope.

  “Did you drive the Aston Martin up?”

  He cracked half a grin. “Knowing I was going to get in some mountain hairpins? What do you think?”

  I smiled back. It was damn awesome to be feeling the vibe behind it again. “Can I talk you into pushing the RPMs higher back to the city? With a guest passenger?” Though the car came damn close, I wished it was a space-age transporter. Every cell of my body threatened to explode with the need to crush my princess in my arms again.

  Kil split a blinding grin of his own. “That is entirely possible, my friend.”

  A sensation surged me, strange but welcome. It took a couple of seconds to recognize it. Exhilaration. Despite that, as we walked back to the main house, the suit of fear tightened again. “Shit. What if she refuses to talk to me? What if I’m too late?”

  Kil grunted and punched my shoulder. “You want to give my sister more credit than that?”

  “What the hell does that—?”

  “Pack a bag, dumb shit. You’re not too late.” He slanted a knowing glance. “Just one helpful hint, if I may?”

  “Yeah. Of course.”

  “Keep your head out of your ass this time, yeah?”

  * * * *

  “What’s going on?”

  Mom appeared in the doorway to my room, obviously startled by the way Kil and I had barreled into the house. Poor woman probably hadn’t heard that much pounding on the stairs since I was eight, dragging in my friends from our superhero skirmishes in the orchard to demand an afternoon snack.

  I looked up, bolting my stare to hers, not even trying to hide the swell of feeling that overtook me. Instantly, her eyes bulged.

  “Michael.”

  Air burst off my lips. A laugh? A sob? No. Neither. The moment surpassed those boundaries. It was too damn surreal. Too damn good.

  “Mom.”

  “Michael?”

  Just like that, a grin split my lips. “Dec is dead.”

  She plunked onto the bed. Her hands shook in her lap. “Wh-what?”

  “It’s true.” Killian inserted it, as if he knew she needed the outside confirmation.

  “Oh my God.” Her face twisted on a sob as she rose again, crushing me with a hug. “Oh, thank God.”

  I returned the ferocity of her hold until my shoulder was soaked with her tears—the best puddle I’d ever wear in my life. I was still smiling as she finally pulled back, though a new frown crumpled her features.

  “So…where are you going?” She scowled at my bag.

  “Kil’s driving me back to the city,” I explained. “He’s got his Aston Martin so we’ll fly.” Right now, that was exactly the intention. “I’ll come back for the truck this weekend, and to check on you.”

  Her excited smile formed at last. “And it won’t be Killian driving you?”

  I leaned and kissed her cheek. “That’s the idea, mama bear.”

  She let out a squee then hauled me into another stranglehold. “Holy shit! At last!”

  I chuckled. “Guess I’ll bring a big bar of soap with me, too.”

  “Pssshhh. Just go get our girl. Shoo, both of you.”

  I didn’t need to be told twice.

  * * * *

  By the time Kil dropped me at the
El Cortez, the setting sun danced with dramatic clouds across the downtown skyline. I thanked him—well, tried to—then took a moment to look around before entering the building. The gold and gray twilight washed over the neighborhood, turning the pavement and walls and windows into something ethereal. The transition between day and night was one of Margaux’s favorite times of the day, when she could simply stop and be. I wondered if that was how I’d find her…and if we’d be able to borrow some of Mother Nature’s alchemy for ourselves.

  Just one magic moment. Please.

  I yearned for it so badly, I stopped and prayed for it.

  As the elevator took me higher, my pulse pounded my body like artillery tests from Pendleton, shaking every foundation until the roots of my teeth rattled. My sweaty palm slipped on my duffel’s strap as I readjusted it against my shoulder. The ding at the fifteenth floor jolted me like rifle fire.

  “Man up, candy ass.” I channeled the determination into every stride toward the condo door. I didn’t dare think of it as our condo door again, though I went ahead and grabbed the proverbial bull by fishing out my key and testing it in the lock.

  It still fit.

  The door clicked open.

  My chest turned into a nuclear test range.

  I wasn’t sure what to expect when I walked in—or that she’d even be home. It had just felt right to come here. At this time of night, we were usually on the couch making fun of the trashy TV gossip shows or on the patio having dinner and trading sarcasm—mental stimulation usually ending in fun of other kinds.

  Right now, I just hoped she wouldn’t toss my ass back out into the hall.

  Music. An alt rock station.

  I kicked up half a grin. No surprise there. Our debates about the merits of Led Zeppelin versus Coldplay were a running joke in our relationship. Or had been.

  Two factors turned this particular discovery into a surprise. One, the Coldplay tune was coming from the kitchen. Two, Margaux was singing along to it. And she wasn’t alone.

  I stopped short after the air itself delivered surprise number three.

  It smelled like cookies. Actual, baked-in-the-oven, non-burnt, tons-of-butter-and-other-crap cookies.

  I dropped my bag as quietly as I could. Just as carefully, stepped around the corner.