by Kim Cong
When the locksmith had turned up, he’d been lovely enough to recognise that this may end up being a recurring issue. As he’d removed the handle and lock, he’d shown me what to do and let me do some of the work. It had come in use a few times since then.
Using the cordless drill, I got the lock pins on my side to click but the door still didn’t open. It must have had multiple deadlocks.
I didn’t care. I wanted in.
The door was solid metal—which should have tipped me off but it didn’t. I went back outside and got his blowtorch.
“I am worthy of respect.”
Five minutes of cutting got me a small hole above the door knob in the first layer of the door. Another five got me the second hole. I pushed the rough patch out and stuck my fingers through, feeling for the locks. Sure enough, there were four. One was the door, which I had disabled. Another felt like a deadlock, which I assumed had to do with the keypad beside me. It took some doing but I finally got that one to give. The last two I couldn’t reach, and I finally gave up.
Defeated, I walked into the living room. The sun was just peeking over the horizon as I collapsed into one of his recliners.
I glanced around. Clothes, laundry items, pots and pans, food. Items were littered everywhere around his house. I took a second to take in my chaos before bursting into tears.
“I am a crazy person. I am not responsible, rational or reasonable. God. I am so not worthy. I am not anything. I can’t do this. I can’t.”
I curled up on the recliner, pulling a throw over me, and cried myself to sleep.
Paxton
The moment Pax opened the garage door leading into his entryway he knew something was wrong. The entryway held a hardwood table that had come with the house. It was a traditional entryway table, with two shallow drawers that were currently lying haphazardly on the floor. Pax shifted, back to the door, palming the gun out of his back holster. A quick glance told him the entryway was clear. He moved silently, systematically checking and clearing each room as he headed toward the lounge-kitchen-dining area. His heart beat like a goddamn drum, the blood rushing through his ears. He hadn’t been this fearful since the first time he’d been shot.
His study had been attacked. The door had a hole cut haphazardly into the metal, but the locks seemed to have held. The rest of his house was a mess. Linen tossed about, drawers pulled out, cupboards thrown open. Whoever had done this had been looking for something.
Jetta. His eyes focussed in on her immobile form. She was curled up on one of his recliners, the crocheted throw his mum had gifted him tucked around her. He paused, counting silently as her chest rose and fell.
She was unconscious but okay.
Pax hesitated. He could take Jet and get out or clear the rest of the house and see what he was up against. He left Jet where she was and moved to the hallway leading down toward the bedrooms. Each room was as bad as what he’d already seen. Everything was pulled out. Most of the rooms were empty, containing only the bare minimum of furniture, but even those had been shifted.
Finally clearing the master bedroom, walk-in and ensuite, Pax put away his gun and headed back for Jet. Whoever had done this was long gone; they’d obviously found what they wanted. Pax pressed fingers to Jet’s neck. A quick scan of her face revealed no bleeding. But then, they could have drugged her.
Jet’s eyes fluttered open, those blue sapphire pools looking up at him, clouded with sleep.
“You’re back.” Her voice was flat.
His heart broke a little in guilt. She’d suffered this alone.
“I’m here.” He lifted her, shifting her into his arms even as he sat on the recliner, pulling her against him. “I’m here. Everything is alright now. You’ll be okay, Jet.”
She squirmed, pulling back to look at him. “What—?”
He stopped her with a quick, hard kiss.
“No one will hurt you,” Pax promised, stroking her back gently. “It’s just stuff. I’ll find them. I’ll make you safe.”
Jet pushed at his chest, shifting his bulk back, and shook her head. “I don’t— what are you on about?”
“It’s okay, Jetta. The house has been broken into. They were good. They used—” Jet abruptly turned and looked at the room.
“Oh, my God.” The words were a whisper of horror from her lips.
“Shhh, princess. It’s okay. We’ll—”
“Oh, my God,” she repeated, her voice starting to creep up. “Oh, my God!” Pax tried to contain her, even as she broke free, throwing herself at the floor. She hit with an oomph and rolled, scrambling back on all fours. “Pax, you don’t—”
He slid from the recliner, getting down to her level, his hand outstretched, “Princess, it’s okay. Come back here.”
“But I—”
“It’s okay, Jetta. I’ll find them. You’re safe now.”
“I did it!” Her voice was shrill, hysterical.
Pax rocked back on his heels, eyes to the woman before him. “What?”
She curled herself into a ball rocking as he looked at her, her eyes darting everywhere but him.
“I…. When you left, I… I went a little crazy. I just…. I was worried but then I… I got angry and….”
Her explanation was broken, her story disjointed, but Pax got it.
“So let me get this straight.” He didn’t take his eyes off Jet, watching red flush through her cheeks. “I get a call that takes me from our bed. The bed in which we made love and in which I thought I had left you. I go out and deal with work. Work that is not fun. Work that sucked. Work that ended with a guy being in police custody and a woman we were meant to be protecting just—only just—not ending up in the hospital. And instead of trusting me, instead of trusting that I would tell you when I could, if I could, you went mental. Did I get that right?” He watched her swallow and then nod.
“My study?” The words were whispered.
“Me.” Her head dropped as she admitted to that. Without a word, he got up and headed out to the deck. The light was up. It was midmorning. The heat of the day was just starting to let itself be felt. He shook his head and ran fingers through his hair, giving himself a moment to calm.
“Pax?”
He twisted his neck to look at the one girl he’d thought would understand him.
“I… I’ll pack and go if you want.” Her statement sent cold through his bloodstream.
“Did I say you had to go?”
Her head shook slowly in answer.
“Do you want to go?”
She shook her head again.
“Good.” He turned fully toward her, knowing his frustration was painted in his expression.
“I want this, Jetta.” He gestured between them. “I like this. I like this relationship. I like the sex. I like you. But, babe, it’s not going to work if you don’t trust me. This whole freak-out, it could be for many reasons, not the least of which being that you were due. Courtney, Esso, Paul. Shit was bound to go down. But this—fuck, babe, you took a blowtorch to my study.”
Her face was bathed in purple as she looked away. Pax felt his lips twitch. “You’re lucky I have a good sense of humour and a healthy bank account.” Her eyes swung back to meet his.
“Jetta, we’ll work this out. Okay?”
She bit her lip, then nodded.
“Okay, Pax.” He pulled her in for a hug. Crushing her to his chest, he pressed his lips to her head.
“We’ll go out for brunch because I need food and coffee before we deal with the mess you made.”
She shuffled back and looked up at him, her eyes bright with unshed tears.
“But then we’ll talk. I’ll tell you what I can and we’ll work on it. Good?”
Jet, her long tousled blonde hair shining, her eyes wet, gave him the best smile he’d ever seen.
“Yeah.”
He crushed her to him again before letting her go. He watched as she disappeared to change, her arse looking great in a pair of cut-off PJ bottoms.
He w
as so fucked.
Jetta
Pax loaded me in the car and took me to Braddon, a suburb that had recently undergone a complete revitalisation. As the government housing was moved and the car sales yards were scrapped, hipsters had arrived, turning the empty lots into food van hubs and the empty warehouses into pop-up shops.
At Autolyse, a delicious bakery and cafe, I devoured a brioche French toast with mascarpone and fresh berries, while Pax powered through poached eggs, bacon and all the sides with fresh-from-the-oven sourdough.
Over coffee we talked about innocuous things. I wondered what Courtney was up to. Pax told me a funny story about his house renovation. We held hands as we wandered the new shops and looked at the wares in the pop-up stores. Finally, we headed back to his car and to the house. Entering was a reminder of how bad, and how crazy I had been.
I was normally the sane one. The one driven by logic and reason. I had never been prone to fits of melodrama or bratty divaness. But last night something in me had snapped and instead of being a sane adult, I had turned into a three-year-old child. Granted, a three-year-old child with superior blowtorch skills, but still. Perhaps there was more of my parents in me than I thought.
We started in the hall, picking up the drawers, replacing the large picture of Pax in uniform, smiling, arms slung around his army buddies, back on the wall. As I straightened it, I looked at the picture and something hit me in my gut.
“Is that Luc?”
Pax moved from where he’d been sweeping up the dirt and dust I’d disturbed in my craze. “In the picture? Yeah.” He placed the dustpan and brush on his entry table and grinned at the photo, hooking an arm around my neck and gently pulling me in to his side. We stood looking at the photo, Pax grinning at it while I watched him. The grin was bittersweet.
“We were about to head out on a convoy to take supplies out into the Uruzgan Province. A reporter was meant to come with us but got food poisoning the night before. The photographer decided to stay behind and look after the reporter, but he still came out beforehand to document our preparations before we headed out.” Pax looked down at me. His face was slightly tanned, his stubble more pronounced now that he hadn’t shaved for a few days. His green eyes were tired, lines curved deeply at their edges. Today he looked older and world-weary.
“We took this five minutes before we headed out. About two hours later, our armoured vehicle hit an ambush. An IED, improvised explosive device, rendered the vehicle useless. The front tires blew out. When we hit it, the whole thing bucked like a bronco, throwing us around like dolls. They’re designed to withstand that kind of thing.”
I placed a hand on his stomach, leaning into Pax.
“The roadway we were using had supposedly been cleared that morning by the Yanks. Turned out, they’d cleared one that ran parallel about a fifty miles west. There’d been a miscommunication somewhere along the lines. We weren’t meant to be on that road.”
He paused, swallowing. I watched his Adam's apple bob before he cleared his throat.
“When we hit, I was bruised but okay. Majority of the guys were okay. A few cuts, that was it. But...” Pax breathed out and pointed to a man in the photo. He was young, early twenties, cute. “Edward Brickworth, we called him Brick. He was up on the gun, in the top turret. Got thrown clear of the vehicle when the fucking thing bucked. We knew we had to get to him and almost immediately we were under attack. I can’t tell you all of it. It’s still classified. But it was bad.”
Pax swallowed. “I laid down cover fire while Limo tried to pull him to safety. Fucking gunfire everywhere. The dust, you didn’t know where to look. If the bullets were friendly or not.”
Pax pointed to another man. This one was older, seasoned. “Gary Lim, Limo, was our dad. Best man you’d ever meet. Cool head, strong. Married to his high school sweetheart with two kids back home. I was younger than him and his leader, but he still gave me respect and yet treated me like a son. We would have followed that man into the afterlife without question. Instead he died trying to rescue Brick.”
Pax swallowed again, pulling me closer. “Luc and I made it out only because Limo had called in an air strike before we tried to get to Brick. They laid it down, got the guys who were picking us off, and then came back to fly us out. By that stage, Limo and Brick were gone, and the rest of us, Luc and I, were riddled with bullets. Luc had to carry me back to the vehicle and he had a bullet in his fucking shoulder. I was flown home, broken.”
Pax shook his head. “Medically discharged. They call it an honourable discharge. Shattered knee that still gives me trouble, lung punctured, stuck in a wheelchair for months on end. Had to have help pissing.”
His anger and frustration radiated off him. “Kel was Brick’s fiancée.”
My heart ached.
“I didn’t even get to be a man and walk to her door to deliver the news. Luc did that for me.”
“Pax—”
“No, Jet. It’s still raw. I get it. I’m a rational being. But war isn’t. It’s illogical, a fucking waste of people’s lives. But we do it and I was proud to serve. But I thought I was invincible and being cut low brings shit into perspective.” He shook his head. “Process that, and we’ll talk more later.”
“But—”
“Jetta. Just let that settle first and we’ll talk more.” I bit my lips to keep from saying anything. I wanted to protest. I wanted to force the point. I wanted to yell that he’d left too many questions unanswered. Too much had happened to him not to talk about it. I wanted to know. Instead I bit my lip, gave him a tight hug, kissed his lips and went back to cleaning up the mess I had made of his house.
But my brain and thoughts remained on his story, long after we finished cleaning.
I made dinner, crusting pork chops with sesame seeds, panko, and ginger and throwing together a chili and mango salsa and a fresh side salad. The late summer light made the day seem never-ending. Pax had hit his bed for a nap after we’d cleaned and I’d taken that time to practice my guitar, do laundry, write some lyrics and reach out to the new friends I’d made.
Evie was doing well, sounding better and more awake than she had all week. Addie was hilarious, Kel smart-arse sarcastic, and Jarrett gracious. They all followed up about the sex. Which I was pleased to report was off the charts.
The shower alerted me to the fact Pax was awake. I used my free hand to turn on the cooktop to sizzle the pork chops as I hit the answer button on my ringing mobile.
“Jet Plane! My favourite person!”
I grinned. “Paul! I’ve missed you.”
I had. We normally spoke a few times a week and it had been a long time since I’d last seen him face to face.
“What’s happening that you haven’t called Uncle P in days?”
“Just working hard and trying to keep a low profile. Actually, I’m glad you called. I wanted to check in and see if you’ve gotten any answers regarding the royalties or the trust.”
“Oh, darling girl, no. I’m sorry, little Jetta, but it looks like we’re stuck.”
I felt myself deflate. “So the trust can’t be touched at all? There are no options?”
“No. The lawyer said there was nothing we could do. It is airtight.”
“Okay.” I threw the pork into the now hot pan and listened to it sizzle as I chased my thoughts. “But what about the royalties? Surely there’s some money we haven’t thought of in there?”
“Again, Jetta, I’m going to have to let you down. All the money is what is in Courtney’s paycheque. I’ve gone over and over the numbers and the terms of her contracts. As her agent and producer, even I should be getting more, but I only take a small cut and—”
“I know, Paul. I’m sorry. It’s just….” I put my palm to my head and sighed down the phone. “I just wish I had more options.”
“Well, baby girl, I had an idea about that. We potentially could do a deal.”
“Deal?”
“Courtney’s tours are still outstanding. If we cancel
them in the next few weeks, we’re toast. The money, deposits, it doesn’t matter to the promoters that she’s getting the help she needs. All that matters is that she’s not turning up and they’ll lose money.”
“I can’t pull her out of rehab for a tour, Paul. This is her life! She’s an addict and needs help.”
“No, I know that—you know that. I’m more thinking we could put you in as her stand-in.”
“What?” My whole body jerked upright in surprise.
“I’ve talked to a few of the promoters and shown them your demo—”
“I don’t have a demo,” I interrupted.
“Yeah, you do. All your original songs. You play and sing them, I showed them those.”
“Paul, they’re not going to—”
“They want you, Jet. You’re an enigma. Your little ‘I’m the good child, the one who raised my pop sister, who does her own thing’—it’s sellable. They want it and they can make money off it.”
“The public don’t even know who I am!”
“Actually they do.”
I froze. “No one remembers—”
“It’s the ten year anniversary this year, Jet. Your parents have been gone for ten years. Ten. The people remember—this year more than the others.”
I lean heavily against the kitchen bench, a clenched hand coming up to my forehead, pressing in.
“They wouldn’t remember me. They remember Mum and Dad.”
“We road tested you with a focus group. They remember you. They remember the little talented girls who would come out and sing with their parents. You, more than Courtney.”
“I can’t believe you did this.”
“I did it because I know how much you need the money. I want to help you Jetta. This is how I can help you.”
“I can’t do it.”
“These people bought tickets seconds after we mentioned a ten-year tribute show. We start getting you out there now, this thing could blow up bigger than the original gigs. I get the guys together, we rig up some of your parents’ original footage, and you sing with that video of them—the tickets will sell out.”