A Capital Mistake

by Kennedy Cross

  “Noah, don’t—”

  “No, congratulations Savannah. What a cause for celebration. I’m really glad you—”

  “Stop! Please, Noah.” Finally her eyes find mine. “I knew this was going to happen, but I can’t do this right now, and you can’t fault me for moving on. I can’t just—”

  “Moving on?” I cough out a humorless laugh. “You think this is about ‘moving on?’”

  “He’s gone, Noah. He’s gone and we can’t do anything to bring him back,” she says. “I’m trying my best to accept that.”

  Her words are needles to my skin.

  “Well, not that I don’t appreciate you finding a new toy to compensate for my brother’s absence, but god dammit, Savannah. What about Grayson? Where the hell are your priorities? You have a child with a heart condition that could kill him.”

  “Don’t say that,” she sputters, tears thickening in her eyes. She goes to reach for Grayson but I turn away and she grabs my arm instead. “Noah, please!”

  “Why should I? He needs help, Savannah. Not another sibling.”

  Her tears break through and spill down her cheeks. “You don’t even know what—”

  “Oh, what don’t I know?” I interrupt. “Please, tell me what I’m missing. I’ve been out there risking my—”

  I cut myself off.

  She covers her face and I hold Grayson tight to my chest. “Everything’s okay, buddy.” I kiss the top of his head. Savannah leans back against the car while I open its backseat door.

  “I’ll see you soon, all right?” I give him my pointer finger and he curls his tiny fist around it. “Just hang in there, okay?”

  I sit him in his car seat and try my best not to break his hold on my finger while I buckle him in. “All right, I love you little man.” I kiss his forehead once more and it takes everything I have to pull my finger out of his fist. The moment slows as I hold his face in my gaze while closing the door.

  In two steady strides I’m back in my own driver seat.

  “Good luck with moving on,” I say, twisting the keys in the ignition. “I hope this new baby is the replacement you’re looking for.”

  I slam my door and throw the gear in reverse.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Noah

  My foot barely leaves the gas pedal as I drive.

  I can’t stand the idea of Grayson sitting unattended while Savannah’s engrossed with some guy. Even if he was asleep. The kid deserves her undivided commitment. What if he had another heart-rhythm scare and had to be rushed to the hospital? His condition isn’t a movie that you can pause and resume.

  And now she’s having another one.

  Grayson is fighting for his life and she’s going to add another infant to the mix.

  I press the brake for the first time, slowing the car as I turn into my driveway. I’ve had my window down the entire way, but for the first time I feel the gust of the wind.

  I need to grab my camera and go get lost for the day. Maybe I’ll pack the tent and go sleep—

  My train of thought derails the second I catch sight of a black F-150 parked outside my house. I throw my foot back on the gas and build some speed before skidding to a stop beside it. My tires fill the air with a loud skirt. I kill the ignition and prepare for the last person I want to see right now.

  “Hello Cliff.” I slam my door and stride through a cloud of smoke drifting out his open window. Behind me, the door of his F-150 creaks open and dirt crunches as he steps out.

  “Thought you was at church or somethin’,” Cliff says lazily, “But you ain’t really the church goin’ type, are ya?”

  “You have a real knack for showing up at the wrong time, you know that?” I turn to face him as I unlock the front door. “I’m not really in the mood for chitchat right now.”

  Cliff brings his cigarette to his lips and inhales a long drag while staring back at me. He drops the cigarette and crushes it under his boot. “You gon’ invite me in?”

  I step into the house without bothering to close the door behind me. A second later, Cliff’s boot heels clunk loudly against the floor.

  “I saw you came in the truck,” I say, retrieving an empty glass from the cupboard. “You got nothing else to do on your day off?”

  His boots clink into the kitchen. “I just thought we could have a little conversation, you and I.”

  “You’ve really got to get yourself some hobbies.” I pour a splash of gin into my glass and top it off with tonic water. “You ever thought about fishing?”

  “Sometimes I think that nothin’ I say gets through to you unless I’m standing in front of your face,” he says. There’s the sound of a stool receiving his bulky weight as he sits down.

  I turn to face him. “What about knitting?”

  Cliff leans back, props both feet on the island and glares without saying a word. After a moment of holding his stare, he breaks the silence.

  “What kind’a host doesn’t offer his guest a drink?”

  I cut my sip short to answer. “The kind whose guest sponsors a local AA program.”

  “I’ll take a bourbon and water. Make it strong.”

  “I guess someone like you doesn’t worry about DUI’s, huh?” I ask, turning to grab another glass out of the cupboard.

  “I said water too, didn’t I?” His southern drawl morphs into harsh sarcasm as if I can hear the smirk on his face.

  Cliff drops his legs from the counter when I slide his bourbon over to him. He takes a long gulp before leaning back and propping his feet right back up again.

  “My brother’s probably rolling in his grave right now watching you slurp that after all the years in AA you two spent together,” I say.

  Cliff coughs a raspy chuckle. “Oh, please. That boy loved those meetings and all them folks in ‘em. I was just doin’ him a favor.” He takes a swig. “And you can tell him I never stopped drinking anyway. Your brother was always a little naïve for his own good.”

  “How admirable of you.”

  “Don’t blame me. Sponsoring those AA members is great for the public image,” he says. “Voters in this county are a bunch’a drunks.” He takes another swig and punctuates his sentence with a wink.

  “Well, I’m sure the respect is mutual.” For the first time I sip from my drink as I take a seat across from him. I throw my feet up in imitation.

  Cliff eyes me like he’s trying to burn the smirk off my face. Slowly, he drains the contents of his glass.

  He drops his feet and slams the empty glass on the table. “Put your damn feet down. We need to talk.”

  “Oh, and here I thought you showed up just to share a drink.”

  He slaps my feet off the counter. “If you ain’t in the mood for a long chitchat then you best start talkin’. What in the hell happened on Thursday?”

  “Let me think; I woke up. It was a nice day so I decided to go for a walk and take some pictures before—”

  Cliff beats the granite with his fist. “Do I look like I’m in the mood for jokes?”

  “Here’s a joke for you—” I lean in for the first time. “—you barge into my house and talk to me like I’m a kid in timeout instead of thanking me and Owen for keeping the three of us from going to fucking prison, isn’t that kind of funny?”

  Cliff crosses his arms and leans back in his chair, the ends of his stubby mustache curling into a smirk. He’s faking a calm demeanor but there’s anger burning in his eyes.

  “Speakin’ of Owen,” he says, “I guess I ought’a tell you I talked to him before comin’ over.”

  “You think I give a shit?”

  “See, I bring it up because I have a pretty good idea of what went down with the two of you. Exactly what happened, and… what didn’t happen,” he says.

  “What the hell does that mean?”

  “I think we’d both agree that boy ain’t necessarily the sharpest tool in the shed.” He chuckles and sarcastically shakes his head. “But even he knows how to use a weapon.”


  “So that’s what this is about?” Finally I give in and laugh. “That’s why you sat out there waiting for me to get home? Just to say that? You know neither one of us actually shot at anyone, right?”

  “I know you sure as hell didn’t,” he barks. “I ain’t even sure you know how to use that revolver of yours.”

  “Cliff, do you really think things would’ve gone better if I had shot her? Huh? Are you fucking insane?”

  He crosses one leg over his knee and raises his shoulders in a phony shrug. “I guess we ain’t ever gonna know, will we?”

  “Jesus Christ.” I down the rest of my glass. “I can’t believe I’m having this conversation with you of all people. Did you forget that we got away? Huh, Cliff? Did you forget that we’re not also wanted for murder right now?”

  “Don’t give me none of that bullshit,” he spits. He drops his leg from his knee and narrows his pudgy eyes. “If your partner ain’t have the balls to press his trigger than you two would be a pair of fresh meat right now.” He snickers. “And you ain’t cut out for jail life, I promise you that.”

  “Oh yeah? And what, you’d just be scot-free?” I huff a laugh without humor. “I think you’re forgetting that you’re involved in all of this. If Owen and I go down, you go down too.”

  “I guess that’s exactly why I’m here.” He kicks his stool out from under him and takes a step toward me. “I ain’t ever goin’ down ‘cause of your coward ass, you understand me?” He points a thick finger a few inches from my face.

  I stare back at him, unwavering. His wheezing breath reeks of burnt tobacco and whiskey.

  “Pour me another drink,” he says.

  I reach for the bourbon without breaking our stare and shove it in his chest. “Pour it yourself.”

  Cliff grabs the bottle, this time neglecting any water as he pours. I take a seat on a stool.

  “She really twisted your britches, huh?”

  My heart stops in my chest as I picture Sophia. “What’d you say?”

  “The teller at the last spot, the one that cost us money.” He slaps the counter and relief overtakes me.

  “They knew about us. Did Owen tell you that?” I ask calmly. “That teller said she wouldn’t open it because they had been warned.”

  Cliff scoffs. “Course they have. That don’t—”

  “The Feds are getting them to resist,” I continue. “They’re bucking policy just to try and nail us. We need to lay low for a while. Two months.”

  “What?” he roars. I feel a small protest in my own chest too, but I have enough saved up if Grayson has an immediate emergency. This is what needs to be done.

  “You heard me,” I say. “For two months Owen and I won’t so much as speed, and you keep your ears open. At the end of March we’ll reevaluate.”

  “There ain’t shit to reevaluate, son,” Cliff spits. “I ain’t wastin’ two months.”

  I lean over the island. “I didn’t even want to hit that spot. I said it was too soon and you didn’t give a shit. Your greed is going to get us all fucked.”

  Instead of the furious outburst I was expecting, Cliff leans back, crosses his arms, and fills his chest with a deep breath. He stares at me before shifting his gaze to his glass, slowly twisting it in his hand as if examining the contents as a heavy silence fills every inch of the room.

  “You know something?” he finally says, shaking his head in mocking disappointment. His eyes move from the bourbon onto me. “You’re brother wasn’t half the pussy you are.”

  That’s it.

  A rush of fury erupts in my chest. My muscles tense and before I know it I’m an inch from his face.

  Cliff stands.

  “Gimme your best swing, son,” he whispers between his teeth. “We both know where that’ll get’cha.”

  “Get the hell out of my house,” I hiss.

  Cliff brings his glass to his mouth and swallows the rest of the bourbon in one gulp.

  “I’d have a nice long chat with your boy if I was you,” he drawls, slowly meandering toward the door. He lingers while turning the handle. “He ain’t a genius, but he seems to understand the use of… physical persuasion, shall we say.”

  He tips his hat, steps out, and gently shuts the door behind him.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Sophia

  Going for a run doesn’t help to erase the bitterness that’s been anchored in my stomach since I woke up this morning. I fell asleep in Noah’s arms not expecting that I’d wake up in an empty bed with a note bluntly stating that our acquaintance is over.

  I refuse to chalk my bitterness up to heartbreak, but I can’t refuse that it’s something close. Too close, considering the brief amount of time we’ve known each other. And telling myself that I’m no worse off than I was at the start of my suspension five days ago feels like a self-patronizing slap to the face.

  I am worse off.

  First, I was pushed away from my job, the one thing that gives my life a purpose. And now this. Even running felt more like dragging my hollow frame around the neighborhood.

  Noah is the only thing outside of my job to make me feel. And he’s gone.

  Nothing left but my own stupidity. I was so infatuated with his personality, his pictures, his sarcasm and humor that I led myself to believe that Noah also had more than one night in mind.

  Wrong.

  All his teasing and charming and charisma were nothing more than a vehicle toward his end goal. I can see that now. But how foolish of me not to expect it from the very beginning. That’s why people go home with someone they meet in a club.

  Not in hopes that it’ll lead to a home cooked dinner date.

  Not in hopes that it’ll lead to numerous dinner dates.

  Not to find love.

  Love.

  I swallow the lump in my throat and collapse into the couch, flipping on the TV. I showered when I got back from Noah’s, hoping to wash off the filth of feeling used. Which it didn’t. But I need another one now. The sweat from my run is crispy dry on my forehead, but I don’t have the energy. Not right now. I’ll shower later and try again to wash away the filth. That, and my memory of the last four days.

  The channel is fixed on some version of a show that revolves around a poor young women with a newborn whose father could be one of a handful of guys where a paternity test will reveal who’s not the father, ending with the woman leaving in tears while the man beats his chest in celebration. Hooray for reality TV.

  Today’s victim is a thin woman with bleached blonde hair. The volume is a quiet mumble, but I don’t have the slightest urge to turn it up. Sound isn’t required for these types of shows, not to mention that most of the dialogue is so vulgar that the network beeps it out anyway.

  Although, the child is adorable. He’s a young boy with curly brown hair and a complexion slightly more bronzed than his mothers. The poor little guy. I can only imagine the conversations looming in the future, waiting for him to see the way his baby picture was plastered on the television while some host paraded his mother around the set.

  The poor young woman stands and points as someone enters stage left. I mute the TV and grab my cellphone.

  I’m not really thinking as I dial, but Nora’s on the other end before I have the chance to hang up.

  “Hi Nora,” I deadpan. “Are you at the hospital?”

  “Nope. I’m off today. Just running a few errands right now. Shit—that reminds me, I forgot dog food. Damn it.” She sighs in frustration and I stay silent, listening to her fiddle with something. “What’s up? What are you doing today?” she asks after a beat.

  “What do you think?”

  Nora sighs another sigh that’s noticeably heftier than her first. “I think you know what I want to say to that.”

  “If you even hint at another night out I’m going to hang up and block your number,” I say, and Nora laughs without me. It was only half a joke.

  “Ugh,” she groans. “I feel bad about that. That guy was a creep, but I
shouldn’t have made you act like a cop. It was your night to forget about that and it kind of backfired.

  “Uh, to say the least,” I retort. “But don’t feel too bad. You gave me a good excuse to never go out again.”

  Nora’s reply is a mixture of groaning and laughing. “Sophia…” she grumbles. “This suspension is turning you into quite the Debbie-Downer.”

  I’m tempted to fire back, but it stays lodged in my throat. “I’m on paid-leave,” I mumble instead. My tone causes her to pause.

  “I didn’t mean—”

  “I slept with him,” I say.

  “What?”

  “Noah.” There’s a weight to his name as it leaves my mouth. “The guy who saved our asses from that creep. I slept with him. Last night.”

  She squeals with delight. “So that’s why you’re calling,” Nora exclaims. “Sophia Bell, roping them in from the club. Look at you. Way to go girl!”

  “No, not way to go,” I say. “I feel disgusting, Nora.”

  “What? Why?”

  “I hate one-night-stands. You know that.”

  “That’s true. But, I mean, this isn’t your first…” she says. I swallow my response instead of replying. “Sorry, that sounded way worse than I meant. I’m just confused. He must have called you, yes? So what were you expecting when you two—”

  “Sex,” I say flatly. “I was expecting sex. But last night was our second date and that was the first time we slept together.”

  “Whoa,” Nora bellows. “Second date? And this is the first I’m hearing of it? What the hell?”

  “You better tone it down a little or this might be the last,” I say. Which is a joke, but it makes my point well enough. “This isn’t cause for celebration,” I add.

  “Why not? This is exactly what I was hoping for,” she says proudly. “And by the way, it’s not a one-night-stand if it was your second date, girl.”

  “It feels like it was. He was already gone when I woke up this morning and he left a note saying never to call him again. I feel gross and used.”