Volume Two: In Moonlight and Memories, #2

by Julie Ann Walker

  “Be still,” he snarled. A fleck of spit slipped from his mouth to land on my cheek. The smell of him made me gag. A sickening combination of sour sweat, stale beer, and way too much body spray.

  I didn’t know it at the time, but those scents would come back to haunt my dreams.

  I’d been shoving at his chest, futilely trying to push him off me. But I switched tactics when he used his free hand to yank my dress up to my waist and fumble at the leg hole of my panties with his thick, painful fingers.

  I dropped my hands to my sides and desperately searched for a weapon. Anything would do. A sturdy limb that I could use to bash him over the head, a sharp stick that I could use to poke out his eye, a…rock!

  It wasn’t much, only the size of a softball. But it was all I had.

  Dirt lodged beneath my fingernails when I wrapped my hand around the stone and uprooted it from its home in the ground. Then, with every ounce of strength I could muster, I smashed it against his temple…

  Low, sultry laughter pulls me up from the dark depths of memory.

  Good thing too. When I look down at my hands, they’re shaking. In fact, my whole body is shaking. No matter how much time goes by, that memory is still as fresh and terrifying as if it happened only yesterday.

  Taking a deep breath, I hold it for a ten-second count, then blow it out. In with the good, out with the bad. In with the present, out with the past.

  It’s a coping technique I’ve learned over the years.

  When another slow roll of laughter reaches my ears, I cock my head. It sounds like it’s coming from around the corner. Chewing my lip, I run through my options. One, I could stumble across two people getting up close and personal. Two, those two people haven’t gotten up close and personal yet and I could ask them if they’ve seen Cash. Or three…

  Well, three doesn’t bear considering.

  Ultimately, my worry for Cash wins out against my need to have my eyeballs unmolested. I head for the corner. When I round it, that third option? The one that didn’t bear considering? It’s realized.

  Cash is leaning against the back of the barn, his hands on the hips of a woman I recognize as one of Jean-Pierre’s distant cousins. I think Homer told me her name is Tammy or Tina or some other T name that sounds way too innocent for a woman of her…uh…particular attributes. She’s got a manicured hand on Cash’s shoulder and is pushing her gargantuan double-Ds against his chest, attempting to hold him upright.

  “You gotta help me out here, sugar,” she croons, that sexy laugh rolling into the darkness again. This time it scratches against my eardrums like steel wool.

  “Ssssorry,” Cash slurs, his head lolling to the side. “Guess I’m pretty wasted.”

  Tammy/Tina pouts prettily. “The question is, are you too wasted?”

  The shrimp in the jambalaya I ate earlier reanimate inside my belly and start swimming in sickening circles.

  “Cash?” His name is out of my mouth before I’ve made the conscious decision to speak.

  They both turn to stare at me. Tammy/Tina looks like a naughty schoolgirl caught kissing a boy in the locker room. Cash looks like a drunk who’s lost the ability to focus. His eyelids hang low. His head is unstable on his neck.

  I’m torn between the urge to punch him in the face and hug him close so I can whisper in his ear that everything will be all right. You will get better, I want to say to him. You have to.

  “He a friend of yours?” Tammy/Tina asks.

  “Something like that.” Obviously, I’m unable to keep the hurt from my voice, because she looks from me to Cash and back again.

  “Sorry.” She steps away from him so quickly he staggers. “I didn’t realize…” She doesn’t finish, simply lets her words trail off. “Sorry,” she says again, scurrying past me with a look on her face that can be described only as pitying.

  Turning to watch her go, I find Luc standing close behind me. His arms are crossed, and the thunderous expression on his face makes him look every inch the badass Green Beret he was. Is? Does a guy ever stop being a Green Beret?

  Of course, that’s a question for another time. Right now, the question is…how long has he been there? How much has he seen?

  “You sorry sonofabitch,” he snarls at Cash.

  Apparently, he’s seen enough.

  “He’s hurt, Luc. And he’s drunk.” I’m quick to defend Cash in a weird role reversal.

  “He’s always drunk.” Luc uncrosses his arms and starts in Cash’s direction with angry steps.

  “That’s because he’s always hurt.” I suddenly feel unaccountably tired.

  Luc loops Cash’s arm around his neck. “Come on, you dumb shit,” he says, but I can’t mistake the note of compassion in his voice. “Let’s get you home.”

  “Didn’t realize moonshine packs such a wallop,” Cash mumbles. Only it sounds more like, Mooshie pass sush a wall—hiccup—up.

  “Yeah. Blame it on the booze.” Luc shakes his head.

  “He has a point, you know.” I follow them toward my SUV. “Nothing prepares a person for white lightning.”

  “Whatever you gotta tell yourself to make this okay.” Luc opens the passenger-side door and shoves Cash into the seat.

  “Ow.” Cash complains when his head clips the doorframe. “Your bed”—hiccup—“side manner sssucks.”

  Luc ignores his slurred words as he struggles with the seat belt. Once he has it snapped, he turns to me. The sting of his words must show on my face because he closes his eyes and lets his head fall back. “Jesus, Maggie May. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it.”

  But he did. And the trouble is, he’s right.

  Chapter Thirty-five

  ______________________________________

  Cash

  Dear Cash,

  I got an afternoon job scooping ice cream at this cute place on Magazine Street. I like having something that occupies my mind because…well…ever since you left, it tends to go to a dark place unless I’m distracted.

  Did Luc tell you what happened? Did he tell you that I…

  No. I won’t put it into words even here in this private letter that nobody will read, including you. I’ll keep it locked up tight inside like I promised I would. And I’ll pray to God it doesn’t eat me alive.

  Anyway, back to my new job. There are two things I really like about it. The first is I get to ride the streetcar to and from work. Considering George Sullivan has his police officers pulling me over and giving me a ticket almost every time I get behind the wheel, having an alternative mode of transportation is key. The second is I get to spend time with the old folks and the young kids who come in for sundaes and single scoops. It’s so nice hearing small talk and big stories. It’s like, for a little while, I’m part of their lives.

  Which means, for a little while, I can forget about my own.

  Wow. That sounded self-pitying, didn’t it?

  I don’t mean it that way. I just mean, it feels good to pretend, even for a second or two, that night never happened. To pretend I’m not weighed down knowing I dragged Luc into my mess. To pretend I’m not lonely and scared. And don’t hate me for saying this, Cash, but it even feels good to pretend I don’t miss you.

  Love, Maggie

  There are so many lines in life.

  There’s the line of people waiting to get into Walmart on Black Friday. The checkout line at the grocery store on a Saturday morning. The dotted line on legal documents showing you where to sign. And all those pesky invisible lines.

  The problem with them is that sometimes you don’t know you’ve crossed one until you’re standing on the other side. At that point, it’s too damned late.

  Last night I stepped over a line.

  Not sure how. Not sure which one. Most of what happened after the poker game is a blur. But I seem to remember a brunette with a big rack and then a look of horror on Maggie’s face.

  Even though she and Luc showed up at my house this morning at the prearranged time, they’ve barely spoken tw
o words to me. Considering my head feels like a watermelon that’s been cleaved in two, I should be okay with that. Unfortunately, my mind keeps touching on that look on Maggie’s face.

  I want so much to take out my flask and down the contents, but it was overindulgence that led them to give me the silent treatment, so I satisfy myself by raking in a deep breath of damp fall air.

  Luc dropped Smurf off at a shop in the Tremé neighborhood for an oil change and a lube, so we’re riding the St. Charles streetcar to Miss Bea’s house. Maggie is sitting beside me on the old-fashioned wooden bench, doing her best impression of a two-by-four. And when I glance at Luc, seated in front of us, I’m met with a view of his tightly hitched shoulders.

  Okay, then. Breaking the ice is up to me.

  “Either of you plan on telling me what the hell happened last night?” I ask. “Or would you both prefer to continue giving me the cold shoulder until I die from frostbite?”

  Luc spins in his seat and tries to burn a hole through my forehead. Right. So his shoulder might be cold, but there’s fire in his eyes.

  “You don’t remember?” He snorts. “Well, that’s convenient.”

  “Not for me,” I protest. “Since I can’t recall what happened, I don’t know where to begin my apology. And I get the impression a blanket ‘I’m sorry’ isn’t going to cut it.”

  “Lemme roll out the timeline for you.” He lifts a finger. “Sunday night, Maggie May tells you she still loves you and the two of you snog.” I roll my eyes at the Harry Potter patter, but that’s only to hide the impact of his words. I’ve been replaying Maggie’s confession over and over in my mind and falling asleep every night with the taste of her lips lingering on my tongue. It’s been torture. “And then on Thursday night”—he lifts a second finger—“barely four days later, she finds you out behind a barn, gorked outta your mind on rotgut and feeling up some chick with boobs as big as my head.”

  The milk I drank this morning to try to ease my woozy stomach curdles. I turn to Maggie. To my surprise, her expression isn’t accusing. It’s kind.

  “To be fair”—she searches my bloodshot eyes—“you weren’t feeling the woman up so much as using her to stand up.”

  Her defense of me makes everything so much worse.

  “Maggie…” I blow out a shaky breath. “I don’t remember any of that.” Maybe I should stop there. But I can’t pass up this opportunity. “And I’m sorry if seeing me with that woman hurt you. But I told you that kiss on Sunday night was a mistake.”

  “Good God Almighty.” Luc looks at me in slack-jawed disbelief. “Are you kidding me? Is your dumb bone connected to your stupid bone?”

  I lift my chin and stare him down. “The last thing I want is to hurt Maggie.” I turn to her to reiterate. “The last thing I want is to hurt you. But this thing with my head is—”

  “I emailed the best neurosurgeon in the country,” she blurts, making me blink in confusion. “I’ve asked him to look at your scans and records and stuff.” She grabs my hand. Her grip feels frantic. “I’m waiting to hear back.”

  I close my eyes, unable to look at the hope and desperation in hers. “You shouldn’t have done that,” I grit between clenched teeth.

  Fuck it. I need a drink.

  She watches me uncap my flask and let the Gentleman Jack slide down my throat. “There’s got to be something more that can be done for you,” she insists after I wipe the back of my hand over my mouth.

  “There’s not,” I assure her. “You heard the doctors.”

  “I heard them. But they don’t know everything. You haven’t tried—”

  “I have tried!” I realize I’m shouting when the guy across the way turns a disgruntled look on me. “Maggie.” I squeeze her hand. “Thank you. Thank you for trying. But this is me now. This is as good as it gets. And when you and Luc hassle me about my prognosis, all it does is makes me remember that I’m broken, that I’m so much less than I should be.”

  “Oh, Cash.”

  I have to look out the window to escape the pity on her face. We’re almost to our stop. Thank God. I want this conversation to be over. I need it to be over. But not before I make sure she understands.

  “We can’t have what we had,” I say after turning back to her. “We can’t be what we were.”

  Her jaw sets at an obstinate angle. “We could if you’d stop feeling sorry for yourself and pull your head out of your ass.”

  That makes my lips twitch. But I immediately sober. Ha! Sober? As if. “I’m serious, Maggie.”

  “So am I, Cash.”

  “We’re friends.”

  “Of course we are.”

  I search her face. Usually, I can read her like an open book. But she’s closed herself off. Shuttered her thoughts behind a blank expression.

  Before I can say anything else, the streetcar screeches to a stop—I wince because my brain vigorously protests the noise. When Luc and Maggie make their way out, I manage to follow them.

  “You’re an idiot,” Luc grumbles once we cross the street. His face reminds me of the landslide that brought down the side of the mountain in Afghanistan.

  “Never claimed otherwise.” I flash him a shit-eating grin that I hope looks more real than it feels.

  As we head up the street toward Maggie’s aunt’s house, I recall something I read once. Apparently, it takes seven years to replace every cell in the human body. Which means we’re a completely new organism every seven years. Different. Changed.

  Despite my doctor’s dour predictions, I’ve been using that bit of trivia to hold on to a glimmer of hope. Hope that my broke-ass brain cells might somehow repair themselves. Hope that all the good and wonderful things in life could still be mine.

  Hope that there might be a way for me to have Maggie.

  But it’s time for me to let go of that hope.

  It’s the only way she will.

  Chapter Thirty-six

  ______________________________________

  Maggie

  The most powerful motivation is rejection.

  Cash doesn’t know me very well if he thinks I’ll give up on him without a fight. If he thinks I’ll give up on us just because this problem with his head means things won’t be easy. Once I’m in, I’m in.

  He wants to be friends?

  Fine. I’ll be his friend. I’ll be so friendly he won’t know what to do with himself.

  Hiding a secret smile, I ring the doorbell before turning the knob and stepping inside Aunt Bea’s house.

  “Who the Sam Hill is that?” Auntie June calls from somewhere upstairs.

  “How am I supposed to know?” Aunt Bea hollers back. “And stop caterwauling at me from the upper floor!”

  My mouth twitches as Aunt Bea rounds the corner from the library and stops when she sees us gathered inside the front door. “Oh my lands!” She presses a hand to her skinny chest. “The skin I just jumped out of landed somewhere in Mississippi.”

  I’m quick to apologize. “Sorry, Aunt Bea. I didn’t mean to scare you.”

  “Why are you ringing the pea-pickin’ bell like some stranger?” Auntie June demands from the landing. Her thermal shirt and green cotton overalls tell me she’s already been gardening this morning. No doubt digging up her fall bulbs to save and replant for next year.

  “I thought since I brought company with me, I should signal our arrival,” I say.

  “Well, so you’ve signaled. Come in all the way and close the door behind you. You’re letting out all the good air.” Auntie June makes her way down the stairs, white-knuckling the handrail. She’s getting unsteady on her feet, and it makes my heart hurt.

  Losing the people we love is life’s greatest injustice.

  Cash is quick to skirt me and meet her at the bottom step. He places her hand in the crook of his arm and dutifully presents his cheek when she motions for it.

  Her kiss is loud and smacking. She licks her lips and chuckles. “You smell like a distillery, and I can taste the alcohol coming out
of your pores. What’d you get up to last night, Cassius?”

  “A fais do-do at Jean-Pierre’s family’s place,” I’m quick to say, determined to make light of the fact that he looks like a roadkilled raccoon. The circles under his eyes are so big and dark, when I first saw him this morning, I thought he’d gotten into another fight with his dad.

  “Well, then, I’m not sure he should be the one escorting me,” Auntie June says. “With the arthritis in my knees giving me fits on account of all these changes in the weather, we’re both likely to end up face-first on the rug. Dance on over here, Lucien. Let me kiss your face and then you can take my other arm.”

  Luc is in the process of bussing Aunt Bea’s cheek, but he’s quick to do as instructed. Once Auntie June has a man on either side, she glances up at them and whistles.

  “Even hungover, y’all are still finer than a frog’s hair.” She wiggles her eyebrows at me and hitches her chin toward the masculine arms she’s clinging to. “See, honey? Getting old has its perks.”

  “Auntie June,” I scold playfully, “you’re a terrible flirt. Were you always this way?”

  “Yes,” Aunt Bea answers before Auntie June can. “Now, Maggie, you said on the phone y’all needed to ask me some questions. Are these questions the front parlor sort? Or should we head into my office?”

  “How about we go into the kitchen instead?” Auntie June suggests. “I made some fresh-brewed sun tea yesterday, and I think we have some leftover black bottom pecan pie from Galatoire’s.”

  Luc’s stomach rumbles so loudly Aunt Bea chuckles. “I think that settles it.” She turns toward the hallway leading to the kitchen.

  We haven’t taken more than a few steps before Auntie June remarks, “Boy howdy. Those Cajuns sure know how to party, don’t they? Makes me miss my Jack.”

  When I glance at her over my shoulder, I see she has a dreamy, faraway look in her eye. I’ve been told Auntie June’s husband was as ornery and jolly and Cajun as they come.