by Lacey Black
He never told me what was wrong, only that he needed me. He begged, and eventually, I agreed. Apparently, I’m a glutton for punishment, because something hit me hard, besides the desperation in his voice. The fact he’s never once called me since he left. Not to shoot the shit or talk about the weather. Not to curse me out for not going with him. Not to tell me about his first win. And to me, that fact spoke louder than any other reason.
So here I am, waiting to board a flight to whisk me away to sunny California. I people watch, as I always do, to help pass the time. Anything to keep my mind off the fact I’m mere hours away from seeing Mack again. Instead, I focus on the couple in love sitting across from me, most likely heading on their honeymoon, or the young mom and dad chasing a toddler around the terminal while an infant sleeps in a stroller. I wish I had my camera out to capture these moments. They’re real and often raw, and that’s what I love about taking photographs.
Finally, we start the pre-board process. Mack reserved my seat, sent over my travel confirmation by email. It’s in first class, which still makes me roll my eyes. Leave it to Mack to pay way too much for a first class seat, when one in coach would have worked just fine.
I send off a quick text to my dad.
Me: Getting ready to board.
Dad: OK. Let me know when you land.
Me: I will. Love you, Dad.
Dad: Love you more. Let me know if you need anything.
I fire off a reply and pocket my phone. When I told Dad about the phone call, he didn’t have too much to say. He just sat there and listened to my arguments with myself about why I shouldn’t go, and to those about why I should. Ultimately, he let me make the decision and supported whichever I made.
I know Dad and Mack have talked. Hell, for a while, Mack called Dad after every race, running through it piece by piece, talking about what happened and what he should have done differently. Mack relied on my dad’s knowledge and friendship long after he left Brenton. I knew, but I never asked for details. If I was there when he called, I simply left the room or went back to my apartment. I never asked how he was doing or where he was, and Dad never offered. I think he knew how much it hurt, so he left me to deal with the loss in my own way.
And my way had been to take more pictures.
Just like now.
So it doesn’t surprise me he’s letting me go, to figure it out on my own, my way. Dad told me he loved me and drove me to the airport with a vow to be there when I was ready to come home. Considering I have no idea what I’m walking into and the return ticket was open-ended, I still have no idea when that day will be.
And that scares me.
But I made a promise. I’d go to LA and help him, whatever that may be. Once I’ve done my duty, I can head back home, and hopefully, on with my life. Hell, maybe seeing him again will finally be what I need to take that step forward. Every time I feel like I’m ready, there’s a stark realization that I’m not.
Maybe now it’ll actually work.
When I board the plane, I’m handed a small bottle of water. A flight attendant with a friendly smile is eager to take drink orders for those of us at the front of the plane. I order a Dr. Pepper, even though I’d love something with a kick. I have a feeling I’m going to regret not ordering whiskey, but the last thing I need is to have my head and judgment clouded by alcohol.
The flight is pleasant, and I try to pass the time by reading a book. Unfortunately, I can’t focus on the hero as he tries to save the damsel in distress from being kidnapped. Usually, I’m completely invested in the romantic suspense genre, but not today. Not when all I do is wonder what I’ve gotten myself into and what is waiting for me when this plane lands.
When the wheels touch down, my heart starts to beat a little faster. I begin fidgeting with the bag on my lap as the plane taxies to the terminal. It’s a little cloudy on this Sunday afternoon, and I can practically see the smog and thickness hanging in the air. Los Angeles is nothing like Brenton, Kansas.
I’m with the first group allowed to disembark the plane, and as I make my way up the jetway at Burbank, I start to people watch again. Those scurrying to meet their flight and those pacing around, as if they have all the time in the world. I follow behind the first few off the plane as we make our way toward baggage claim.
I pick my spot and wait for the conveyor belt to move. Other passengers arrive, spreading out, and waiting. A man comes to stand next to me. He’s not carrying anything, just has his hands shoved in his pockets. His hair is wild on top of his head and his blue eyes smile brightly. When he glances my way, he offers a wide grin I’m sure could melt panties. Unfortunately for him, it has no effect on my cotton hipsters.
“How are ya?” he asks with a slight Southern twang.
“Fine, thank you,” I reply politely and turn back as the conveyor belt starts to move. I take a step forward and wait for my maroon suitcase to arrive. The moment I see it, I reach for the handle, but another hand shoots out and grabs the plastic.
“May I?” the man from earlier asks, a friendly smile on his face. “I assume this one’s yours, right, Lena?”
I take a step back without even realizing it. How does this man—this stranger—know who I am? He must sense my apprehension and grins widely, perfectly straight white teeth shining under the bright lights.
The man extends his calloused hand. “Name’s Fish, ma’am. Cruz sent me.”
“Mack?” I ask, trying to piece it all together. He told me he’d have someone at the airport to pick me up, but didn’t give me any specifics. The fact this man knows my name helps, but I’m still a little hesitant to just follow along. I may be small town, but I’m not stupid.
“Here,” he says, digging his phone from his pocket. He pulls up a photograph of Mack. He’s wearing his fireproof suit, his hair askew, and face smudged with dirt and sweat. The man standing next to him, with his arm thrown over his shoulder, is the one who’s in front of me. Fish. “He also said to check your phone. He sent you a message,” Fish adds, leaning back against the wall as if he has all the time in the world.
I dig out my own phone and remove the airplane mode setting. As soon as I do, a message pops up on my screen from Mack.
Mack: I’m sending my spotter, Fish, to get you. I’m attaching a photo of him so you know who to look for. I promise he’s harmless, just don’t let him try to convince you he’s the brains of our operation.
I glance at the man with his back against the wall. He’s clearly the same guy in the picture, and I’m sure neither of them would have gone to all this trouble just to cause me harm. So, against my better judgment, I extend my hand out, like he did just a handful of moments ago. “Why do they call you Fish?” I ask the moment he places his huge hand in my own.
The man smirks. “Last name’s Fisher, ma’am. Cruz isn’t very clever and shortened it to Fish,” he says with a chuckle. I reach for the handle of my suitcase, but he pulls it back and winks. “Do you have everything? Cruz is gonna start blowing up my phone soon, and as much as I like to piss him off as much as possible, he’s a bit of a bear right now, so we best get goin’.”
I step up beside him and wave my hand. “Lead the way.”
We make our way through the airport and to the parking lot. “So, Fish…how do you know Mack?” I ask. I already know he’s Mack’s spotter, but that’s it at this point. Plus, I have no idea how long before we arrive at our destination, so I might as well get to know him. Or at least dig for information on Mack so I know what I’m walking into.
Fish laughs as he backs out of the parking spot. “Oh, Cruz and I were paired up from day one. I remember going into a meeting with Colton to introduce us to our new driver. I was fairly new too and had no idea what to expect. It sure as shit wasn’t cocky, had no clue how to drive an open-wheel race car, pretty boy, Mack Cruz.”
I can’t help but smile at his description. Before I can even stop the words, I ask, “Was he that bad?”
“Oh, darlin’, you haven’t seen
bad until you watch his footage. I have some at my place. I’ll show you sometime. He was all over that track, practically bouncing between the wall and the white line. Horrible,” he says with emphasis.
“But he obviously got better,” I argue, knowing Mack’s stats like the back of my hand, though I’d never admit that aloud.
“Oh, he did. Took a lot of work, but I got him there. I’m the brains of the operation,” he says, a cocky smile on his face. As soon as the words are out of his mouth, I burst out laughing. “What?” he asks.
I shake my head. “Oh, nothing,” I retort, trying to keep a straight face, recalling Mack’s text.
“He told you he was the brains, right? Pfft. Damn drivers. They think they’re all that,” he replies like a sassy girl, and adding his obviously Southern twang, he sounds ridiculous. “Anyway, we’ve been buds since. Lived together when we first started off here. Then, he got all famous and bought a house, told me I was cramping his style,” he adds with a chuckle, but I can tell by his tone and his facial expression, he’s not serious.
Then another thought enters my brain. Mack entertaining ladies, probably by the dozens. I once ran across an article online featuring him. It went on to ask questions “every woman under the age of fifty” wanted to know. Namely, why he was still single. He laughed, said he wasn’t ready to settle down, if you know what he means, and gave the reporter a wink. I stopped searching his name online after that day.
We make our way through the streets of Burbank, Fish mentioning landmarks along the way, most of them his favorite places to eat. I realize, as we’re driving through a small subdivision with modest houses with large yards and gates for security, I really like Fish. He’s funny and laid-back and makes me feel comfortable without even knowing him. That’s probably how Jeffrey Dahmer’s victims felt right before he hacked them to pieces and shoved them in the freezer.
But Fish doesn’t seem like a serial killer. He seems like a guy I’d be proud to call a friend back home. Easygoing, fun, always cracking jokes.
I can see why Mack likes him.
He slows his car and turns into a driveway. There are several manicured shrubs and small trees along the roadway blocking the view of the house, but the moment we get past them, the house is there. It’s not too small, but not huge, by any means. It’s a white structure with a large concrete porch and a black front door. The landscape looks well maintained, as does the fence around the perimeter, but what really catches my eye, is the garage. It’s massive and extends all the way to the back of the property.
“This is Mack’s?” I whisper, taking it all in as he stops his car in front of the first garage door.
“Sure is. This is what he left me for,” he teases as he shuts down the car. “But I don’t blame him. I woulda had a hard-on a mile long for that garage too,” he adds with a shrug and gets out.
Before I can get my own door open, he’s there, extending a hand. The chivalry feels weird, but yet so familiar. Mack used to do the exact same thing when we were together. Though, he used it as an opportunity to maybe pull me into his arms or steal a kiss. Fish, on the other hand, doesn’t try anything, and the moment I’m standing beside him, he releases my hand and steps back.
“Thank you,” I tell him, turning to meet him at the trunk to grab my suitcase. I already know he probably won’t let me carry it myself, but that doesn’t mean I’m just going to leave him alone to deal with my belongings.
The moment the trunk is popped, he’s got my bag in his big hand. Smiling, he tells me, “I got it.” He reaches up and shuts the trunk with a thud.
That’s when we see him.
Mack.
He’s standing by the stairs, his arms extended up and gripping the framework on the porch. His basic black T-shirt is riding up, a little sliver of dark tanned skin showing above his belt. Just the sight of him, standing there in the flesh, has my heart ready to beat out of my chest and my lungs forgetting what their main function is. He’s wearing well-worn blue jeans and nothing on his feet, which brings back all sorts of vivid memories of when we were young and dumb and in love.
He always loved to walk around my room barefoot. He said he didn’t dare do it at the trailer for fear of what he’d step on.
I’m stuck in this weird trance, alternating between past and present. My mind keeps telling me he’s not the same boy I once knew, while my heart is crying out in some desperate attempt to right all the wrongs of the last few years.
I ignore my heart.
There’s no going back.
Only forward.
So I take a step toward him, my carry-on bag held tightly against my chest like a protective shield. I can feel his eyes on me, everywhere. They run across my face and down my neck. My body tingles with awareness as they sweep across my body, finally making their way to my feet.
Then, they travel back up again.
By the time I’m standing in front of him, I’m slightly out of breath and feel as if his eyes were a physical caress to my entire body. I glance up into his startling dark brown eyes. They look…tired, yet elated. He tries to mask his features. I’m not sure which one he was trying to hide, but I saw them. Both of them.
“You gonna let us in or are we supposed to stand on the sidewalk all damn day?” Fish asks his friend, as he walks right by me and up the stairs. He brushes his shoulder against Mack’s, which makes him shake his head and grin, before continuing through the open front door.
When we’re the only two left outside, I finally find my voice. “Hey.”
“Hey,” he parrots. He stands up tall and takes a step back. “Come on in.”
My legs feel heavy as I walk up the steps. When I’m a mere foot away, his scent hits me, strong and familiar. It reminds me of our date nights, when he was freshly showered and in clean clothes, but the more I notice his appearance, he looks a little frazzled too. His black shirt is wrinkled and his hair, which is longer than before, is wild and uncombed. The exhaustion surrounding his eyes is more pronounced now, and I can’t help but wonder if he’s slept.
Something hits me as I gaze at his unkempt appearance.
Is he sick?
Is that why he’s brought me here? He needs help because he’s ill and has no one else in his corner?
His eyes land on mine, and they seem to smile back at me. “You look good, Lean.”
There it is. The old nickname. The one he used when we were alone, and usually intimate. Way back when, I thought there was nothing better than to hear him call me Lean in the quiet of my apartment, when we were tangled in the sheets. Apparently, I was wrong. Hearing him say it now, after three long years, holds just as much of a punch as it did then.
“You too,” I tell him, rocking on my feet. I wish I knew what to do, but I doubt there’s a ‘What to do when you see your ex after three years’ handbook.
Too bad there isn’t…
“Come on,” he says, as if snapping out of his own stroll down memory lane.
I follow behind and slip inside when he holds open the door. The house is nice. It’s cozy with a good-sized living room, open to a dining room and kitchen combo. I spot my suitcase sitting beside the staircase and turn to take in the view from the front room. I can see the front shrubs and trees, but not the street. Mack obviously has some decent privacy.
A noise catches my ear, and I turn to the kitchen area. Fish is there, heading my way, with something in his arms. The closer he gets, I realize what it is. It’s a baby. A tiny little human wrapped in a blue swaddle blanket. All I can do is stare as he approaches where Mack and I stand. “This one was getting fussy,” Fish says, rocking side to side like a pro.
I smile down at the baby, who’s suckling at his fist. “What a cutie pie. You didn’t mention you have a baby,” I tell the man who delivered me to my ex’s doorstep.
Fish just looks at me, and then to the side. I feel Mack’s presence and body heat as he steps right next to me and runs a finger along the baby’s little fist. My heart does this wei
rd pitter-patter in my chest at the sweet gesture. Fish finally glances my way and says, “I don’t have a baby.”
It takes a few seconds for the light bulb to flip on. My heart is like an earthquake in my chest as I slowly turn to face Mack. His eyes are full of pain, worry, and plea. Plea for help, maybe? All I know is I wasn’t anywhere prepared for the words about to come from his mouth.
“I do.”
Chapter Two
Mack
God, she’s beautiful.
More beautiful than in my wildest dreams.
She’s real.
And standing right in front of me, her jaw practically unhinged as she gapes at me.
“What?” she asks, her wide eyes flying to the baby and back to me.
My baby.
I sigh. It seems I’ve been doing that a lot in the last eighteen hours. “Turns out, I apparently have a baby.” I look over at Fish, who’s holding my son. Blood test will be able to confirm it shortly. At least that’s what the social worker said.
Lena looks from me to the baby again, and I hate how my heart kicks up a few thousand beats per second when I see the look on her face. It softens as she gazes at the child, a far-off look of longing. But as quickly as that look appears, she pushes it aside. “Is this…” She clears her throat. “Is this what you needed my help with?” she whispers, her green eyes turning back to me.
I can’t seem to find the words to reply, so I just nod my head.
“What about his mom?” she asks, her voice so soft you almost can’t hear it.
I run my hands through my hair for what could possibly be the ten-thousandth time in the last handful of hours. Ever since I got the call.
“Listen, I know you both have a lot to talk about, but I think this guy is gonna need some din-din soon,” my friend says, as he adjusts the baby in his arms and transfers him to mine. It still feels completely foreign to hold him, my supposed child. To be responsible for his everything.