At three o’clock, Sasha buzzes me.
“Mr. Tate, you have a phone call.”
“From?”
She hesitates. “From the Marion Correctional Facility.”
My heart thuds dully in my chest, because Leroy Ellison is there.
The son-of-a bitch who killed my mother.
“Put him through,” I tell her, and my voice is like wood, and what the hell is that fucker calling me?
“Hello?”
An elderly man is in my ear, and I haven’t heard this voice in a long, long time.
“What do you want?”
There’s a laugh now, and it sounds wet, like he needs to cough.
“Well, now, son. Is that any way to greet your long lost Uncle Leroy?”
“Shut the fuck up,” I tell him. “Why are you calling me?”
“Do you still have your X, kid? His voice is so craggy and I look at the base of my thumb, where it meets my hand. A jagged scar in the shape on an X is there, carved by Leroy’s knife so long ago, right after he killed my mother.
X marks the spot.
“I can still find you, you know,” he adds.
I wait.
“You know you’re the one who bumped the trigger. I shouldn’t be here. It should be you.”
“You son of a bitch,” I spit. “I was a kid, and you were forcing yourself on my mother. I was trying to save her.”
“Regardless,” he continues, as they he doesn’t have a care in the world. “I shouldn’t be here. Think on that.”
He hangs up, and I’m stunned.
What the hell was that all about?
I’m in shock as I sit in my rich leather chair and stare out the wall of windows to my left. Below me, Hartford bustles around on it’s busy streets and I suddenly feel all alone.
My mother’s killer called me at work. So he somehow knows that I’m working here, and probably knows my grandfather is dead.
Of course, he could’ve gotten that from the newspapers.
He must not have much to do in prison.
I’m suddenly burning with rage that he would dare to contact me. What gives him the right to even fucking speak to me?
I pick up the phone to call Mila, because that’s what I would normally do. We share everything.
Only… today... Mila is at home in bed with our unborn child, trying to ensure that it lives.
She’s got more to worry about than an old dumbass who is sitting in prison trying to get a rise out of me. I put my phone back down.
I’ll tell her about it later. Next week, when she’s up and around again.
With a sigh, I try to call my father instead, but he’s in a meeting.
Fuck, the adult world sucks sometimes.
I focus on work documents, scanning contracts, rubbing my knee.
And then, right before I decide to close-up shop to go home, Sasha comes in with the mail.
“It’s late today,” she tells me, as she puts the pre-opened stack in my inbox. She opens them, scans them, and flags them for me, categorized by color. Yellow means it can wait, Green means it needs a signature, and Red means it’s very important, and those are on top.
I only have one red flag today.
Sitting back in my chair, I grab it.
It’s a letter.
My eyes are glued to it as I read it from start to end, the scrawling handwriting clearly masculine.
Pax,
I hope this letter finds you well.
I think you’ll be interested in what I have to say, it you give me a few minutes to say it.
Would you like to know what your mother said to me about you before she died?
I’m the only one who knows, and I can tell you.
The price is small.
Best regards,
Leroy H. Ellison
My breath hitches in my throat and I read it again, then again.
The envelope is clipped to the letter by a paper clip, and it is stamped INMATE CORRESPONDENCE.
Son of a bitch.
I don’t know what to do. All I know is what I want to do, and that is drive to the Marion prison and punch this fucking guy’s throat in.
What. The. Fuck.
I can’t even think clearly.
I stalk out of the office, knowing that Sasha will call for the car. I’m right. Roger is waiting at front doors to usher me into the back.
“Home, sir?” he asks as he climbs in the driver’s seat.
“No. Drive around for a while, please. I need to clear my thoughts.”
“You got it.”
The limo noses out of the lot into the street, and I stare absently out the window, at the traffic, at the trees, at the people walking on the sidewalk.
I should put Leroy Ellison out of my head.
There’s nothing he can offer me that makes speaking with him worth it.
Except… what had my mother said?
It doesn’t matter. She’s gone now, and probably anything he says would be a lie. I can’t trust him. I know that. As I think, I rub at the scar on my hand, the scar he gave me, back when I was a little boy and couldn’t fight back.
I’d watched him sexually violate my mother when I was shoved into the closet, and then… well, she’d died.
I don’t know what, if anything, she said in between. I was in the closet, hiding like the scared little boy I was.
What had she said?
Damn it. I’m pissed because this is exactly how he wants me to feel, and I don’t want to play into his hands.
I’m not going to play into his hands.
I’m not.
Fuck him.
Nothing my mother said will change the fact that she’s gone.
I pull out the bottle of muscle relaxers that Natasha gave me and toss a couple into my mouth. Then, I wait. The pain dulls, relaxation comes. They must be pretty strong, because it happens quickly and brings with it a rush of dizziness.
“We can go home now.”
Roger turns toward home, and the drive goes quickly, because he’s taking me to my wife.
I climb out, and I’m through the door, and I’m down the hall, ignoring the pain of walking, ignoring the bullshit from Leroy, and I’m walking through the bedroom doors, and Mila is smiling at me.
She’s in the bed where she’s supposed to be, and her face lights up when I enter the room.
“Babe,” she exclaims. “I missed you.”
My heart floods with warmth, and everything melts away when I see her. She’s everything. She’s all I need.
I sit next to her, gathering her into my arms.
“You feel skinnier,” I fret. “Are you eating?”
“Yes,” she nods. “A lot.”
“Are you resting?”
“Yes. You’ve got Natasha, Chelcie and Maddy checking on me. I couldn’t go anywhere if I tried.”
I pull her to me, inhaling her skin, my lips pressed to her neck. Lavender, vanilla, and everything good. That’s what she smells like. Sunshine and rain, earth and the sun. I hold her close, gripping her tight. She threads her fingers through my hair, and then she pulls back a little.
“Are you ok?” she asks gently. “What’s wrong, babe?”
“Nothing,” I lie. “Nothing at all. Everything is ok.”
It does seem to be, when I am with her. It’s corny as hell, but true.
“Zuzu and I were just getting ready to have a picnic in here,” Mila tells me. “For dinner. It seemed like you might be late, so I wanted to feed her.”
“I brought plenty,” Natasha says as she comes in the door with a giant basket and my daughter. Zu bounds into my arms, bouncing on the bed.
“Calm down, sweet,” I tell her. “You can’t jostle mommy around right now.”
“Because of the baby in her tummy?”
My gaze flies to Mila and she shrugs. “Natasha didn’t realize that Zu didn’t know. The cat is out of the bag.”
“I’m so sorry,” Natasha tells me. “I can’t believe
I was so dumb.”
“It’s ok,” Mila tells her, and I can tell it’s not the first time Natasha has apologized. “She had to know eventually.”
“I’m going to have a sister,” Zu tells me seriously.
“Or a brother,” I answer. “One or the other.”
“It’s a sister,” she says confidently. “I know it.”
Mila and I laugh, and our entire family is on this bed. Natasha pauses at the foot.
“Hop down, sweetheart,” she tells Zuzu. “I’m going to set up dinner.”
And she does. She spreads a picnic tablecloth and lays out a picnic spread befitting of a royal family.
“This is lovely,” Mila tells her, reaching for a piece of cheese. “Thank you.”
“It’s my pleasure.”
Natasha breezes past me and out the door, and I once again feel like I know her, but I don’t know from where.
It doesn’t matter.
I’m with Mila and Zuzu now. That’s what matters.
We eat, the cold fried chicken and the biscuits and the cheese. I feed Zuzu pieces of grapes and Mila licks her fingers.
“This is perfect,” she says happily.
“Are you doing ok? No pain?” I ask her. She shakes her head.
“No pain, no blood. Stop worrying.”
“As if.”
She shakes her head, and I look at our daughter, who is already yawning.
“Chelsea took her to the zoo,” Mila explains. “She’s worn out.”
“I’ll get her ready for bed,” I tell her. “Seven o’clock isn’t too early, is it?”
“Not for such a long day,” she answers. “Thank you.”
I read Zuzu her favorite book twice, then turn on her lamp. I tuck her favorite stuffed tiger in next to her and kiss her forehead.
Then I head back to Mila.
“I’m going to take a shower, then join you,” I tell her.
“I’m looking forward to it.”
I let the hot water pour down on me, and put most of the weight on my good leg. The steam builds up and drains most of my tension, and by the time I towel off, I feel much better.
To be on the safe side, I pop a couple more muscle relaxers before I join my wife in bed.
She welcomes me with open arms, and I mold my body to hers, because this is where I belong.
14
Chapter Thirteen
My father flies into town two days later and meets me after work at the Pub.
“What exactly did he say?” he asks me seriously. His hands twist together, because if anyone hates Leroy Ellison more than I do, it’s my father.
“He said it should be me in prison, and that he wanted to tell me something mom said.”
“He doesn’t know shit,” my father swears, and picks up his whiskey glass. “Don’t pay him any mind.”
“I know,” I tell him, and I gulp my drink too. “I just wonder… I mean, did she say anything?”
“If she did, it wasn’t anything we didn’t already know. Your mother always communicated her feelings. She even left those letters for you in case anything ever happened to her. She was always prepared, always spoke her mind. Trust me.”
“Yeah, I guess you’re right,” I admit, and I drain my glass. My father narrows his eyes.
“I haven’t seen you drink like this in a long time. You ok?”
I signal the bartender for another. “Just a lot of stress right now. I’m fine. No reason to worry.”
“Ok,” he says hesitantly, and for a minute, I see the old concern in his eyes, the concern he used to have back when I was using drugs and disappearing into a bottle of Jack.
“I’m fine,” I reassure him. “I’ve got a handle on things. There’s just a lot right now.”
“I know,” he sympathizes. “I know. If you need me again, I’m just a phone call away.”
“That and a thousand miles.”
“More like eight hundred. No distance is too great though, son.”
My father has truly embraced showing his feelings nowadays. Sometimes, I like it. Sometimes, it makes me uncomfortable.
“Do you have time to come over to the house?”
He shakes his head. “Unfortunately, I don’t tonight. I’ll come back next week or so.”
“Ok.”
We finish our drinks, and he shakes my hand, then hugs me. He leaves, and I head to the restroom. While I’m standing at the urinal, I’m hit with an overwhelming desire to use.
It comes from nowhere, like a great black wave, and I can taste heroin in my mouth, I can feel it pulsing in my blood. I can feel the sting of the needle, and I can smell the it in my nostrils. It’s sharp, it’s overwhelming.
I fight to breathe around the feeling, but the breath doesn’t want to come.
“Dude, you alright?” the guy next to me asks, his dick in his hand. He’s breaking bro-code to ask.
“Yeah.”
I put one hand on the wall, finish my piss, and finally manage to breathe.
What the actual fuck?
The craving doesn’t go away, and it is still there on the ride home.
I open the muscle relaxers and swallow four of them, lying my head back against the seat, gritting my teeth.
This can’t be happening.
I won’t use.
This isn’t a part of my life anymore.
But holy shit. The need… for heroin, for cocaine… it’s overtaking me right now. It’s coursing through me, tangible and real. I almost feel shaky with it.
And I don’t know why.
Son of a bitch.
My skin is clammy and cold, and when we pull up to the front doors of my home, and Roger opens my door, I’m not ready to get out.
I’m still too shaky.
But I put on a brave front, and step into my home, because I’m not a god-damned pussy and I am stronger than this.
Whatever this is.
I’m surprised to see Mila up and about, with a cup of hot cocoa in her hand. I stand still, prepared to lecture, and she grins.
“My doctor said I could get up. He gave me the all clear!”
She’s radiant, absolutely glowing.
“You’re sure?” I ask. “It’s not dangerous?”
“No,” she says firmly. “He says I’m fine. The baby is fine. I can resume life as normal. If any other bleeding happens, I’m supposed to let him know, of course, but I’m fine, babe. Please stop worrying now.”
We’ve only got a couple of weeks until she passes the first trimester mark.
My knee throbs as a reminder.
I’ll take care of it as soon as possible. In a couple of weeks.
“This calls for a celebration,” I tell her. “Let’s go out to eat.”
“Natasha is already making us a fancy dinner,” she tells me. “And Zu is spending the night with Maddy. She was watching her while I was at the doctor’s, and she asked if she could keep her.”
“Why didn’t you tell me you had an appointment?” I ask.
“Because I didn’t want you to worry.”
Her answer is simple, and she is so like me in that way. She’d rather bear bad news alone, and shield me from it the best she can.
It’s the same thing I’m doing for her.
“Tell Natasha to serve it in the living room,” I tell her. “And you’ll be eating in my lap.”
I scoop her up and she giggles the entire way to the living room. When we get there, I’ve changed my mind.
“Fuck it,” I mutter. “Tell her to keep it warm.”
Mila giggles the message into her cellphone, and I deposit her in the middle of the bed. I strip off my shirt and pants, and then kneel over her, peeling off her clothing items one by one. I pull her panties off with my teeth.
Her smell, musky and fresh, floods my nose and I’m instantly hard.
Her hands are everywhere on my skin, pulling me to her, and her heat… Jesus, her heat engulfs me, and I cover her with my body.
My lips blaze a trail
from her belly to her mouth, and mouth is needy.
“I want you,” she tells me urgently. “Please, Pax.”
Her legs are looped around my hips already and I have to mentally slow down. I want it to last. I don’t want to hurt her.
I feel her, every inch of her, palming her in my hands and playing her like an instrument. She arches and whimpers, and I smile, her lips against my teeth.
“Tell me what you want, Red,” I urge her.
“You,” she whispers daintily. “You.”
“What part of me?” I ask, knowing damned well what she wants. “Tell me, Red. Say it.”
“I want your hard cock,” her sweet mouth says, and the dirty words sound so good coming from her delicate lips.
I give it to her. I slide into her, from tip to base, and I shudder with the ecstasy of it. She whimpers and clutches at my back, and I slow myself down again.
Dead puppies, nuns, cold fish. I calm myself, and rhythmically, gently, I fuck my wife.
She grasps the sheets, she clutches at my hips, her legs are tight, her pussy is tighter.
“Dear Lord,” she says into my chest.
“Don’t bring him into this,” I tell her, and I groan as I thrust deeper. I pull myself back. I can’t hurt her. I can’t.
“I’m not made of glass,” she tells me weakly, and she pulls me further into her, and it’s my undoing.
I shudder, and convulse, and my hot fluid fills her up.
I hold myself above her, making sure I don’t crush her. Her face is buried in my shoulder, and I think she’s crying.
I look at her quickly, and she is, but she’s shaking her head not to worry.
“It’s my hormones,” she finally says. “I’m happy, babe.”
Relieved, I roll off and hold her, and she sniffles. “I never thought I’d be so happy,” says.
“Me, too,” I agree. “Never.”
But even still, as we bask in the afterglow of making love, the rumblings of my cravings come back. They wind their way out of my gut, out of the blackness and the void, and into my thoughts, my chest.
I suck in air because it hits me so hard yet again, out of the blue.
It’s like wind taking the sails of a ship. It grabs hold and flies.
I take a deep breath, and will the awfulness away, and how can I even be feeling like this with my wife in my arms? I’ve not needed to use even once since I’ve been with her. She’s been everything I needed.
My Peace (Beautifully Broken #5) Page 8