Under the Influence

by L. B. Simmons

  To: Spencer Locke

  Subject: Delivery Status Notification (Failure)

  Date: Wednesday, April 23, 2014 10:48 PM

  Delivery to the following recipient failed permanently:

  Dalton -

  It’s been years since I’ve written you, and I have no idea why I feel the need to write you and tell you this, but I do.

  So here goes…

  Brandon proposed earlier tonight. On my birthday, of course.

  The one day that seems to always bring heartache, no matter how hard I try to avoid it.

  And it seems I’m par for the course again this year.

  Because as he knelt before me, his green eyes shining with such hope and anticipation as he asked me to be his wife, I knew heartbreak was inevitable, for the both of us.

  For him because I would regretfully be turning down his proposal.

  And for me because I wanted it to be you.

  I wanted to be looking into your beautiful blue eyes. I wanted your hands to be the ones trembling with nervous excitement. I wanted the question to come from your lips. And I wanted it to be your arms that would lift me off the ground in a celebratory, laughter-filled embrace. Because to you, I would have said yes.

  But now, as I sit in my apartment, I wonder why that is.

  Why no one will ever compare to you.

  Why I still, after all of these years, still cling to the hope that you will come back to me.

  Why I continue to hold on to you.

  I am twenty-two years old today, no longer the eighteen year old girl you left behind.

  Yet in moments like tonight, I still feel as though I am.

  I am still very much the smitten child who looked at you like you could save the world.

  Who thought she could save you.

  It’s time for me to grow up.

  And the only way to do that is to let you go.

  I have to.

  From: Mail Delivery Subsystem

  To: Spencer Locke

  Subject: Delivery Status Notification (Failure)

  Date: Friday, December 19, 2014 4:48 PM

  Delivery to the following recipient failed permanently:

  Dalton -

  I will be graduating tomorrow and moving back to Fuller. I feel as though I need to write this one last letter in order to provide some sort of closure, some form of goodbye before I head back home, where memories of what we had used to completely devastate me.

  The time has come when I am finally able to do something I never thought possible. With my impending graduation, I feel it’s time to close the door on our past. To make a fresh start with my head held high.

  And this letter will be the first step to make that happen. After this, all emails will be deleted and the proof of my weakness will no longer exist. Much like you.

  I loved you once. A love I thought irrevocable. A love I mistakenly believed could transcend both time and circumstance. Under the influence of my dimwitted, naïve, traitorous heart, I became intoxicated with what I now know was simply a figment of my self-indulgent imagination. So drunk on the feeling, I couldn’t see what was right in front of my face. So foolishly enamored, I blindly followed my heart into the depths of an emotion that would ravage me.

  Years later, I know now what I wish I knew then. I am stronger. Smarter. Tougher. I will not allow myself to be broken again.

  I loved you.

  I raged for you.

  I wept for you.

  And now, I’m letting you go.

  Goodbye, Dalton.

  A BITTER GUST OF FEBRUARY wind tugs fiercely on my cap as the night around me obscures my presence. I pinch the bill tightly and pull it low on my forehead before shoving my hands back in my leather jacket as I wait.

  Sitting on a park bench, I’m right back where I was the night my life changed forever—in the god-forsaking woods that housed the death of my friend. It wasn’t easy to come back here, but given that they are also now the most secure meet place in Fuller County, I wasn’t allotted much choice.

  My eyes try to adjust, but I can’t see much other than the shadowy, harrowing branches that surround me.

  Darkness. I’m so fucking tired of it.

  Everything I do is concealed by it. Every move I make, every conversation I initiate, every deal I broker. I have practically lived the last five years in nothing but inescapable darkness—both emotionally and physically.

  I arch my neck onto the back of the bench, shutting my eyes as I inhale deeply in thought. If I make it through this, I’m fucking moving to Barbados. Warm sand, bright sun, clear blue skies, and God willing, Spencer by my side.

  Stretching my legs and crossing my feet, I listen for the sound of footsteps but hear nothing other than the wind carrying the leaves as they whip violently all around me. My eyes remain closed because I know from much experience that the stars above me will only beckon a distant memory that will addle my mind. And that’s something I can’t afford right now.

  My closest thoughts, however, remain a slave to her.

  Spencer.

  Not one day has gone by since she’s been back in Fuller that I don’t see her. She doesn’t see me, of course. I know that’s the way it has to be for now, and I’m oddly content with the small amount of time I’m able to be near her. Just witnessing her laugh and smile the way she used to, feeling her strength as it radiates across the room and strikes my chest, those things give me the drive I need to keep going.

  Still lost in my thoughts, a fallen branch cracks behind me and I grin as I remain in my resting position. My voice is gruff as I inquire, “How in the world is it that you cannot walk quietly? Isn’t that part of your job requirement?”

  A familiar chuckle sounds from behind me as the rustling ceases. This is the fourth time we’ve met, and every time I can clock him from at least fifty yards away. As he passes in front of me, I open my eyes just in time to see a white sheet float mysteriously into my lap. Jerking my hands from my pockets, I snag it before the wind can take hold and frown as I read the familiar words.

  “That your handiwork?”

  As soon as the question is raised, I break my gaze from the paper to eye the dark trench coat cloaking the person standing in front of me. The bottom stirs with the blowing breeze, slapping against the equally dark pant clad leg beneath it. As we take our accustomed positions, he remains facing forward as I shake my head.

  He’s a fucking walking cliché.

  “She needs to be able to protect herself,” I assert.

  “She wouldn’t need protection if you would keep an acceptable distance, as we agreed on before beginning any of this.” His tone is clipped and I feel my lips tug upward. He’s become almost as protective as I am.

  “Spencer’s been in danger since before I even left. My proximity has no bearing on her safety. Not anymore. Not now,” I respond emphatically.

  He stalls before answering, “You’re getting too close. I don’t like it.”

  “I have to stay close in case he decides to make a move.”

  A heavy sigh is carried on the wind. He knows I’m right.

  I glance back down at the flyer in my hand. “She needs to be able to protect herself in case he chooses to come after her, plain and simple. I know him. And I also know we can’t count on a fucking can of pepper spray to protect her if he figures out what’s going on before this is all over.”

  I watch from behind as he passes a frustrated hand through his hair. Another exhale is released before he answers. “You’re a smart man. I’ve always known that. But you’re also cocky. You’re walking a thin line here, and I won’t have her or her mother going through what happened five years ago.”

  My jaw clenches as his words pummel my insides. As I’m sure he intended.

  He clears his throat. “Just make sure your heart doesn’t start fucking with that brain of yours. If you lose focus, mistakes will be made. Mistakes which cannot be undone. Understood?”

  “Understood.” My voice is c
ontrolled as I relent.

  “Good. Now, any sign of him?”

  I draw in a calming breath before answering. “Not yet. He’s shielded with constant protection and never shows his face. I’ve only dealt with his new second in command, Bates. After Juan was taken out in prison, things in the organization changed. He trusts no one, not anymore.”

  A hum fills the air. “He’s hiding.”

  I nod. “He’s paranoid.”

  “As he should be.” His hands move to the side of the coat before they’re dipped deeply into his pockets. “Vice has been running non-stop surveillance, as you well know. You’ve gotten us good intel so far. We have plenty to take him now, but we want to see how far we can extend our reach. We need you to find out who his supplier is. Talk to this Bates character, scan over any paperwork lying around, whatever you can do. The higher we can go, the bigger the impact we can make.”

  With his back still facing me, he adds, “We’re gonna wire you. You’ve been cleared since they think you killed Garcia, yeah? They haven’t been scanning you, not in the last year or so?”

  “Not since Garcia, no.”

  “Good. Then I’ll get something set up soon.” I hear a light chuckle on the breeze. “She still has the pepper spray I gave her?”

  I grin. “On her keychain. It goes everywhere she does.”

  His head bobs then he clears his throat. “You will protect her?”

  “With my life. But part of that protection is making sure she can handle herself.”

  “And you don’t think Krav Maga is a bit extreme?”

  I chuckle. Krav Maga is the shit. Street fighting mixed with martial arts? Sign me up. Spencer too.

  “No, I don’t. I think it’s the best self-defense out there and there just so happens to be an instructor right here in Fuller, as you well know. Plus,” I add as the leaflet rustles in the wind, “it was only a suggestion. She’s the one who picked up the flyer.”

  “You put it on her goddamn windshield!” His voice echoes through the trees.

  My laughter echoes right along with his shouting as I rise from the bench, stretching languidly before stepping onto the grass. Just as I pass behind him, I offer barely above a whisper, “I’ve already got one made for a free visit to High Caliber Gun Range. FYI.”

  I hear him whip around to protest, but I’m already long gone by the time he finishes the revolution.

  Sometimes being a lifelong chameleon has its advantages.

  “COME ON, CASS! We’re going to be late!”

  I hurriedly yank my yoga pants over my hips then shrug my trusty Pink Floyd tank top over my head. Toeing on my tennis shoes, I throw my hair up into a messy half-ass ponytail and fling my door open. As soon I enter the hall, I come face-to-face with a clearly uninterested, but thankfully already dressed Cassie, blowing a huge bubble as she leans against the wall.

  She sucks the bubble back through her teeth. “What’s your deal with this Kung Fu shit?”

  I narrow my eyes. “It’s Krav Maga. I told you that already. And it’s awesome!”

  Her head moves back and forth as she presses herself off the wall. “If only we could get you this excited about dating. Instead, for the last three weeks you’ve chosen to hang out in a smelly gym with sweaty guys who are most likely overcompensating for the small girth of their dicks. I don’t get it.”

  I huff back. “I didn’t ask you to. The only thing I’ve asked you to do is accompany me to this one class. It’s ‘bring a friend’ night, and since you’re like my only friend, you’re officially obligated to attend. And you never know, you might actually learn something useful.”

  At the mention of friendship, thoughts of Dalton skirt the edges of my mind. I shove them forcefully in my mental FUDGE box as I watch another huge bubble being blown right in front of my face. I smack it with my hand, wiping the gummy residue from my fingers onto her retro Star Wars T-shirt. “Plus the instructor’s hot. Like, really hot. Not my type, but maybe for you. ”

  Her previously dulled expression lifts magically, not even bothered by my gooey addition to her outfit. “Well, then what the hell are we waiting for?”

  I roll my eyes and turn down the hallway of our new apartment. She laughs as we both grab our water bottles, then head to my car. My baby. My fully restored 1968, sonic blue with black interior, Mustang coupe.

  Just as I start it up, the engine roars loudly and Cassie throws me a horrified sideways glare before opening her mouth to shout her objection. In turn, I press the gas pedal. And I continue to do it every time she attempts to speak. After a full minute of this incredibly immature, yet ridiculously funny scenario, she finally gives up and her dark ponytail whips to the side as she turns her head away from me. Crossing her arms over her chest, she twists her neck quickly to stick out her tongue in my direction, which earns her yet another growl from my engine. She narrows her eyes but the tiniest bit of laughter tugs at her lips.

  I grin widely back at her.

  She loves me.

  Ten minutes later, we’re walking into Crow’s Gym, which is a small, ratty looking warehouse filled with mats and mirrors. I don’t know why, but I love it here. It feels like home, familiar. I can’t really put my finger on it, but the feeling I get when I enter the front door is akin to pure happiness.

  Once inside, we set our water bottles on the edge of the main floor then find a place to stand on the mats. The class is larger than usual, which I expected since most people have a plus one, but there’s still adequate room for us to spread out. Just as we get settled, the instructor makes his way to the front of the room and I swear I hear Cassie’s panties hit the mat beside me. I begin to check, then remind myself she’s probably not wearing any, so I maintain my forward gaze.

  The sapphire blue eyes of the instructor roam the crowd in front of him and I note privately how those eyes linger a bit longer on Cassie before he clasps his hands in front of him to begin.

  “Welcome to Krav Maga. My name is Grady Bennett and I will be instructing you this evening. For those of you joining us for the first time this evening, thank you for coming.” With his head completely shaved except for a long strip of hair at the top secured by an elastic band, he’s a walking contradiction. A wicked biker boy with angelic blue eyes.

  “Krav Maga, which is translated as ‘contact combat’ in Hebrew, is a line of defense developed and initially only used by Israeli armed forces until the 1970’s when its instruction began worldwide. The most important thing to remember in the philosophy of Krav Maga—avoid confrontation when at all possible. Only when offered no other option, do you utilize the techniques that will be taught tonight. The art of Krav Maga is not about violence, but protection.”

  Protection.

  The word most synonymous with the one person I’m constantly trying to forget. But as I glance down at the onyx-beaded bracelet that I can’t seem to take off my wrist, I find my mind wandering to a place where I felt safe and protected by his presence.

  I shake my head and reassert the repeated notion that I don’t need to rely on him for protection. I never did. I can protect myself. Protection from what, I don’t know, but there’s this unavoidable, foreboding feeling that I can’t shake, no matter how hard I try. So as soon as the flyer for this class appeared under my wiper, I took it as a much-needed sign and signed up the same day.

  “We will go through various strikes and kicks, then pair off to visit particular situations that may be of use, which is the reason for this open class—take what is taught and utilize it as necessary.” His eyes soften as he concludes, “Although I hope you will never be in a situation which requires the use of these defensive techniques.”

  With that, we break apart and perform elbow strikes, punches, and kicks as monitored and corrected by the instructor. Cassie seems to be taking his words to heart because she makes no complaints as we perform the exercises together.

  Once the warm up is over, Grady announces, “Ladies, please pair up with someone of the opposite se
x. It’s crucial for you to learn how using the energy naturally carried within your center can overpower someone larger than you. For you to understand where the vulnerabilities lie in someone who could be perceived as a stronger opponent.”

  At the purposeful inflection of his voice, I smile and soak in his words. Yet as he makes his way in my direction to be paired up, I find myself shaking my head and pointing toward Cassie. The cerulean coloring of his eyes reminds me of a time when I was weak and that feeling has absolutely no place here.

  His gaze becomes surprisingly apprehensive as it leaves mine, almost as though grazing over my shoulder to seek the permission of someone else. I turn my head, but there’s no one to be found.

  Glancing back, I see Grady turn and make his way to Cassie. He introduces himself and her smile is so bright, I grin right along with her. Grady begins his instruction and his corded, muscular forearms flex to capacity while his hands grip her waist, teaching her how to twist her body properly. Her face is flushed, but I have a sneaking suspicion that her heated reaction has nothing to do with our workout.

  Still grinning, I turn away, seeking out a partner of my own. My eyes land on a man standing by himself as he stretches his well-defined arm across his chest. A man I regularly see in class, but who mainly keeps to himself. And as I keenly observe him from afar, I find myself drawn to him for this particular exercise because his appearance is completely opposite of the person whose name shall remain unspoken.

  His coffee-colored hair is long enough to be secured into a man bun at the back of his head, which I find oddly attractive. It’s the same shade of the full beard that frames the bottom half of his face and a tad lighter than his dark eyes. From across the room, I watch those eyes intensely scan and scrutinize the crowd around him while he brings the other arm over his chest and holds it in place. As I continue to stare, something deep within me surges to life as it sends the smallest of tremors through my body. My heart begins to blossom, opening into full bloom as it thrums lively within my chest.

  Right at the same moment my heartbeat picks up its pace, his dark eyes find me through the crowd separating us. He holds my gaze briefly, then brashly looks away to focus on the red mat below him. I take a step in his direction, but my movement is disrupted by the eager expression of Cody Randall. Cody is a classmate who, unfortunately, refuses to accept the notion that I come here to learn and not to score a date.