by F. G. Adams
Her voice turned softer, saddened, and in pain she said, “She misses you and Sage, sweet girl. Terribly. Baby is growing up fast and she said to make sure and tell you ‘everything is going to be alright’.”
I gasped and tears spilled down my face. It was our code. Our cipher to each other when things weren't right in our world. It was a comforting phrase we've used when all hope seemed out of reach.
“Thank you, Grandma. Thank you so much.” In between sobs, I echoed, “Everything is going to be alright.”
“That is correct, sweet girl. Perk up! I love you, Jocelyn.”
“I love you too.”
After I hung up with Grandma, I sought out Sage to share the news. Knocking on her door, I heard her respond, “Come in.”
“Hey, baby sister. May I come in for a few minutes?” I relinquished a smile and her face instantly lit up.
“Sure. What’s up, Buttercup?”
I giggled at her comment. She’s using the nickname I gave her long ago. Sage has such a way with words. She tunnels her pain through comedy and always speaks what’s on her mind. At the same time, Sage is a force to be reckoned with; she’s going to make the Blackwood name extremely proud one day.
“I’ve got some news I wanted to share with you.”
I shut the door behind me because we didn’t need any unwanted guests or eavesdroppers.
“Really? Spill it, JoJo.”
“I just got off the phone with Grandma.”
“And …?” The anticipation was thick in the air as pools of water rush into our eyes.
“Everything is going to be alright, Buttercup. She’s good, Harper’s good. They are doing just fine, according to Grandma.”
Relief stormed its way into both of us as we huddled together in a warm, sisterly embrace. I didn’t realize I’d been holding my breath for months, waiting for any kind of news about Fallyn and little Harper. Sage continued to cry as I ran my fingers through her long dark hair, singing The Little Mermaid’s “Part of Your World” softly to her, soothing Sage and alleviating a small amount of my own discomfort for a brief time.
Shortly after, I was studying my history books. The rumble of a motorcycle drew my attention. The sound imparted a sense of relief, staunching the sting out of my most recent bout of numbness. My body was stiff and my eyes ached from the crying. It didn’t help that I’d rubbed them over and over as I tried to study for my final exams the next week. My mood was a little better, thanks to the phone call with Grandma.
The familiar chimes of the doorbell played loudly throughout the house, a song of Bach’s “Minuet in G Major”, which had me pausing to listen for who had come to visit.
The motorcycle. Oh, no. It was Keagan. My consciousness poked her head up, sending a spike of adrenaline coursing through my body.
Momma came to my door and rapped lightly.
“Jo, honey. Keagan is here to see you. Can you come out?”
Momma sounded skittish and distressed. Another round of guilt enveloped me, but I answered.
“Yes, ma’am. I’ll be right there.”
I paused and stared into the mirror, my lungs inflated at the sight. My hair was in ringlet tangles, mussed up on one side. My green eyes were dull and comatose from the stress of my present situation. My appearance was appalling and I pondered on why anyone, especially Keagan, would take interest in me. I hurriedly tried to run a brush through it with no avail, giving up because the brushing was causing me unwanted pain, so I opened the door to go see Keagan.
Minutes passed as I watched Keagan from the darkened hallway. He hadn’t noticed me yet and I was pleased. I enjoyed him from my unobstructed view and he was breathtaking. Why hadn’t I noticed this before? His hair was cut shorter on top, more of a buzz cut, which accentuated his jaw line and revealed his flawless perfection. I couldn’t see his eyes from this angle, but I imagined they were a stormy blue, the color they’d been lately when he tried to talk to me. His eyes were the window to his soul, confessing his mood, wants, and desires.
My feet were anchored to the hardwood floors, not daring to budge in my position forward or backwards. I felt trapped in emotions that were unsafe, unacceptable, and scared me to death. He didn’t need this pathetic rendition of Jocelyn Blackwood. I would only bring him further down into my depths of depravity, and he’s too perfect for that. I had to let him go. I hope one day I could reach out to him again, thank him for his friendship. Not today, though. On this day, I would surrender to the self-torture I was willingly inflicting upon myself.
My decision was made. Before he saw me, I moved quietly back into the shadows of the hall, back to my cave of loneliness, my hiding place. Momma could take care of sending him away. I was too vulnerable at that point in time. My resolve would crumble if I talked to him. It is what it is. It was what it was, protecting Keagan and myself from the affliction of getting too close to another person or loving that person had to be.
I couldn’t take the chance of being crushed like that ever. Lesson learned from Fallyn leaving me and the pain that came with it—her pain she’s enduring on a daily basis. I did Keagan a huge favor by letting him go, because consequently, in the end, everyone leaves.
Why the hell am I here again and how the hell do I get myself into these situations? I’ve asked myself those questions at least a hundred times in the last hour. I gaze around the seedy bar. The smells of sweat, smoke, and booze permeate the air. The dim lit bar is a hole in the wall, floors covered in peanut shells and wrappers. I’ve been staking out my suspect for the last week—another undercover mission for Trident Securities. This time, the stakes are high and failure is not an option, especially with the people involved with the Cabricci Family.
Paul “Gunner” Tavers is known to drop in and party with the owner of this fine establishment, along with half the club from Phantom Prophets MC. I blend well with the patrons. Today, my polished bald head covered with a skull cap, trimmed goatee, and leathers fit in with the crowd of bikers sitting across from me at a table. I look like I belong here. Who would have thought? Little Keagan Fontneau would hit a growth spurt at twenty and not stop.
So much has changed in my life since I graduated high school. I joined the Army and soon after was knee-deep in shit I never anticipated happening. War is brutal and ugly. It can rip your soul to shreds and leave an empty man walking. The things I have seen or done in the name of serving my country make my skin crawl. Every life I took is burned into my memory. I wake up some nights in a cold sweat seeing faceless victims dead. I’m a decorated veteran now, honorably discharged after serving my country for eight long years. Battle weary, scarred inside and out. I often reflect on the day I signed my life away, how my pop felt and his words that I’ve carried with me through it all.
It was Monday and my pop and I were meeting with an Army recruiter after school to decide my future. I’d known serving my country was inevitable, being from a military family. Choosing the Army as my branch of service was a shock to my parents at first. They were warming up to the idea of me being a ground pounder. But I didn’t think I would have doubts about enlisting. Those doubts all stemmed from a green-eyed beauty who didn’t even care if I existed anymore. I knew what was expected of me and I would do it. I wished I had more time to help Jo come back to the land of the living.
The door chimed, announcing entrance as we entered the recruiter's office in a strip mall on the outskirts of Lakeview. My senses were inundated with smells of Pine-Sol and shoe polish. I smiled because it reminded me of home. The room was set up in straight lines and hard angles, from the lone desk to the stately American Eagle and flag pictures hung on the walls. Crisp, clean, and organized.
“Hello,” a deep voice from the corner of the room addressed me and my pop. My gaze landed on a mammoth of a man dressed in an Army Service Uniform with muscles that seemed to be busting out of his shirt. He could literally squash me like a bug. For a brief moment, I was intimidated. Then I took a closer look to realize I was going to be jus
t like him.
Growing up, my pop was my hero, a man I strived to be like, a man I looked up to. Still do. He taught me to love the family, respect women, recognize authority, and instilled the need in me to serve my country. The decision to go into the Army and not the Air Force was a tough choice. However, maw and pop always said I had to follow my heart and listen to my gut. That’s why we went to the Army recruiting office.
My pop, who is a substantial fella too, reached out to shake the other massive man’s hand, and the electricity in the air crackled as if two giant gorillas were vying for alpha. Powerful. I read his name tag during the standoff: Sergeant Aims.
“Hi, Buddy Fontneau, former Pararescue, Air Force.”
An understanding passed across the sergeant’s features, “Nice to meet you sir, Sergeant Aims.”
He turned to me, holding out his hand.
“Keagan Fontneau, sir. Good to meet you. I have an appointment to discuss my Army career.” Sergeant Aims’ handshake was strong and firm when we clasped. He nodded and let go, as if he was satisfied with the grip I imparted.
“I’ve been waiting for you to come in today, Keagan. Your ASVAB scores are impressive. Let’s sit and we’ll talk about your options.”
Sergeant Aims gestured to the chairs parked in front of his desk.
“If you don’t mind me asking, Keagan, why the Army and not the Air Force?”
I laughed, glanced at my pop and his newfound scowl when it came to this subject. “Honestly, sir, I want to be in the special forces like my pop was. But a Green Beret. Maybe it’s the green and the luck of the Irish. It calls to me.”
Pop half-laughed at my comment. The Irish is from my mother’s side.
“However, I know I want to serve my country and I feel a strong pull to the Army to do it.”
“Well said. Alright then, let’s look at your scores and talk shop.” Sergeant Aims began to explain the options of my future.
We finished up a few hours later. I’d signed the dotted line. I was to leave for boot camp in two months, which was two weeks after graduation. The career path I chose was to be a military police officer. My ASVAB test scores determined I was a suitable recruit to be an MP. Had to wait a few years to step into the role of Green Beret. It was all good. I’d learn a whole lot to prepare me for special forces.
“Thank you, sir,” I said, shaking the sergeant's hand again.
“Thank you, Keagan. I’m sure you’re going to do great things in the Army. Mr. Fontneau,” he added, gripping Pop’s hand as well. “I’ll see you in two months, Keagan, when you head out to MEPS in Montgomery. That’s where you process and ship out. Remember, if you have any more questions, give me a call. Welcome to the fold, son.”
Sergeant Aims saluted and turned away as we walked out the door.
Pop was quiet as we drove home. I knew he was thinking about the shit storm I’m stepping into and how he couldn’t stop it. I hoped he was proud.
“Pop, what’s on your mind?” I used the question he’d asked me thousands of times over my life.
“Ah, shit, son. Just thinkin’,” he sighed. I saw the hard lines creasing on his forehead while he permitted a half smile.
“I hear ya,” I replied, nodding my head. It was short, but my mind was reeling from the changes coming, a turnabout that wouldn’t involve my best friend Jo. My only qualm with leaving so soon was I wouldn’t have time to help her through the rough patch she’d landed in. She had her family though; I hoped it would be enough.
The silence ended and pop spoke up. “Things are shifting for you, son. Life’s about to get really fucking tough, Boo. You’re gonna wish at times you could roll over and die. And then other times you’ll be so damn excited that you got to be part of something so important. You’re prepared. You’ve wanted this for a long time. No doubt you can do this, K.”
“I know.” Another short response, but it was the truth. There were no reservations; I would succeed.
“Thanks, Pop.”
When my team was hit during an ambush, only three out of ten soldiers survived. Try living with that. I was their leader and I hold myself responsible for each death. It’s a miracle I’m walking. I’ve got scars on my body from the bullets’ entry points. The motherfuckers who tried to kill me are still out there breathing. One day, I will find Budahar and Mustaff and have my revenge. I’ve learned the scars you can’t see are the hardest to heal.
The bartender saunters my way with a smile on her face. “Another one, sugar?”
I nod yes and she pours a shot of whiskey and sits it in front of me.
“Anything else you need, you just let me know. My shift ends in a couple of hours.” She winks and leans closer to my ear displaying her plump breasts at my eye level. “I’ll wipe that frown off your face and replace it with a satisfied smile, baby.”
I don’t respond, but the look I give her relays my thoughts: back the fuck off, now.
She stares a moment longer, stunned, then backs away.
“Your loss,” she mumbles and makes her way down the bar to another waiting customer.
Closing time draws near. I’m just thinking about how tired I am of nursing watered-down whiskey when the door opens and in walks my perp. Busted! My adrenaline spikes. I love the rush of danger when uncertainty of the outcome depends solely on your quick wit and response. I eye him as he walks up to the bar. He leans over, grabs the back of the bartender’s head, and molests her mouth with his tongue. When their display of raunchiness ends, he orders a beer and sits down on the stool next to me.
He’s so young to be involved with these dumb fucks. I’m shocked. He looks like your average preppy college grad. He’s wearing loafers, blue jeans, and a cardigan? I feel like I’ve been transplanted to a different place. I glance around, checking. No. Still in the same shitty bar.
“Hey, man,” he says. “You’re new. Haven’t seen you around these parts before.”
I nod, lift my glass and take a sip.
“Silent brooding type, are ya?” He turns. “Cookie, where’s Razer? Need to talk to him.”
“Gunner, he done left ‘bout an hour ago on a run. Won’t be back ‘til Wednesday night.”
“Shit, I need a place to crash then. I was planning to head down south to the club’s safe house and needed to borrow some wheels. Looks like your place will have to do ‘til then, bitch.”
I’ve about had all I can take of this asshole. He’s seriously grating on my nerves. I shift to rise from the barstool, grabbing my gun stashed in my shoulder holster, and make to walk out. At the last second, I pivot round, release the grip, and nod, slowly caressing the whiskers of my goatee and acting as if I’m pondering whether to help this fool.
“Hey, bro. I’m headed to Miami on some business that requires a cage for transfer. If you wanna hitch a ride. Staying at the local rent-a-room and plan to split at the crack of dawn.” I relax my stance more, crossing my arms across my chest. “Name’s Crash.”
I can tell I’ve caught him off-guard because he pauses and stares. “Not going that far, brother, but if you’re offering, man, I’m a goner. Hightailin’ it outta here. Got some smokies on my ass and I ain't wantin’ to wait ‘til they catch up with me.”
Stupid fucktard. After all these years of trailing scum of the earth, I’m caught off-guard time and time again by how they react the same way. Some things never change. Human stupidity surfaces when preservation kicks in, and admission of the idiots spew forth. Case and point: Did he really just admit that shit in a room full of people?
“We can head out now. Just need to grab my shit and I’m smoke.”
“Meet ya out front in a few,” Gunner yells on his way down the hall. “Gotta hit the john before we leave.”
The room is eerily silent as I slowly make my way from the bar to the exit. Two of the bikers from the table I had been watching earlier stand between me and the door. Their intimidating stance almost has me chuckling, but I blanket my expressions, not giving my true feelings away. Th
ey don’t know me from Adam, so I’ll let it pass … for now.
The larger dumbass of the two stares menacingly my way trying to intimidate me. His left eye twitches as he sizes me up, and I know I’ve pissed him off when he sees the smirk form on my face. I’ve dealt with worse than you, asshole. Bring. It. On.
Not much bothers me these days. I don’t care what he thinks. I can take him. If he wants a piece of me, who am I not to oblige? The patch on his vest reads “Vice President Phantom Prophets MC”, with one-percenter stitched below, and I patiently wait for his pattern move.
“Got no problem with you, man,” he finally says.
I acknowledge him with a questioning look, because I know more bullshit is coming. It doesn’t take long to prove me right.
“See, here’s the thing, Crash. We overheard you talkin’ to Gunner about hitchin’ a ride. Well, we kinda need him taken to Miami … under the radar. You seem like a good option. Problem solved all around. You make some extra cash. Everybody’s happy, right? But, just know, we’re Gunner’s family, and if anything happens to him, we’ll hold you personally responsible.”
I continue with a blank stare as the one-sided conversation resumes. He’s unaware of the fire kindling inside me. My hands on each side flex open, then close as I try to relax them from forming into a balled fist I can slam into his face. I don’t take kindly to threats. My relaxed pose gives nothing away. I need to remain that way to get out of here and stay on point.
“Ain’t nowhere you can hide from us. We will find you.”
Idle threats.
“Not looking for trouble, brother,” the VP says.
I nod and I’m saved from replying when the man of the hour rushes forward.
“Heading out, Buzz. Catch ya on the fly,” Gunner hastily remarks.
He doesn’t feel the tension in the room, oblivious to his surroundings. For a moment I lock eyes with the VP, and an unsaid truce emerges. The anger subsides.
“Consider it done,” I promise and walk away.
It’s times like these I actually miss having Ollie and Lukas with me. Those guys would have my back. They’ve proven their loyalty and friendship time after time. The true brotherhood forged in a battle of life and death. I’ve got to check in with them soon or they’ll release the Kraken to find me.