by Jc Emery
It’s another few minutes before I consider moving again. But before I can suggest it, a shrill ringing sounds from the dead man’s pocket. I shift and lean and toward Shelby, closer to the dead man. She tenses and tries to pull away, but I’m relentless. I reach my hand into his jacket pocket, searching to calm the noise.
I glance at the caller ID and freeze. Everything I know about this world and everything that defines me ceases to exist. Right there on the display it says SARGE CALLING.
I could try to explain it away, because of course my sarge isn’t the only sergeant in the NOPD. But really, what’s the use of that? It’s pretty obvious Shelby was right. We’ve been set up.
I angle the phone away from Shelby’s face. This is something she does not need to see right now, but her inquisitive nature doesn’t afford me the opportunity. She leans over and checks the display on her own. When she does, I cringe, knowing what she must be thinking—this is hopeless. After all, it’s what I would be thinking if I were her. Hell, it’s what I’m thinking now. We are so screwed.
“Is that—” she begins, but I cut her off.
I place my index finger over her lips to silence her. We can’t go there right now, to that place where we talk about how betrayed we’ve been. Even though I want to. I want to share my frustrations with her and my fears, but she needs me. It wouldn’t be fair to expect her to carry that for me. Relationships are about give and take, leaning on each other when the other needs it. But if there’s anything I know about relationships from watching my parents, it is that both people can’t fall apart at the same time. It just doesn’t work that way.
Years ago, before my parents divorced, they went through a particularly rough point in their marriage. They were both at the end of their rope trying to make ends meet and pay the bills as best they could. I think they lost sight of why they were together to begin with. Eventually they grew apart, and now they only see each other for important moments in my or my brother’s life, but even then, getting them in the same room is like pulling teeth. There’s too much bad blood there, my mother says. My father just says, “Son, your mother is crazy.”
They’ve been divorced for well over ten years now, and still I catch my mother looking fondly at old family photos every now and then. They probably could’ve made it work, had at least one of them been the rock in the relationship when everything else was falling apart.
I hit the talk button on the phone and bring the speaker to my ear without a single word. On the other end, Sarge is talking to somebody, though I don’t know who. His voice is his gravelly as ever and half-annoyed.
“Hello? Kevin?” Sarge says into the phone a few times until I get so sick of his voice that I hang up. I decided not to let Sarge know that I know he’s been playing me all along.
“Baby, we need to talk this out.” I speak gently and slowly bring us to a standing position. At the couch, I set Shelby down and begin to pace. The guy’s phone is still in my hand, but I don’t really know what to do with it.
“Text him,” she says. “I mean, you should text him from that phone and tell him you’re cleaning up a mess.”
“You want me to do what?”
“Chase,” she says, her voice authoritative and firm. She’s triggered some sort of switch in herself that’s allowed her to go from the crying mess she was just a few moments ago to the woman who sits in front of me now. She’s strong and determined. Her lower lip sticks out in a pout, but she doesn’t seem sad—she seems thoughtful.
“If you let Sarge know we’re on to them, he’s just going to come after us. Text Sarge and tell him something happened and you’re having the clean up the mess. That way, he and Victor will both think we’re dead or something. They’ll all come up here looking for the diamond. Oh, and make sure to put in there about the crappy cell service! Say you can’t talk but you made a mess, and once it’s cleaned up, you’ll call him back.”
I stare at the woman, a little in shock and a little in awe at her mind.
“So that should buy us some time to get out of here and figure out what we’re doing next.”
“What do you mean?” She shakes her head and says, “We’re going back to New Orleans.”
I raise a hand and stop pacing. “We can’t go back to New Orleans.”
“Yes we can,” she says. “Once they figure out what’s happened, neither one of them will think to look in the city. Besides, we could try and hide out in small towns forever, but neither of us knows how far Victor’s reach really is. Any of the coastal towns he could have their cops on his payroll for the docks. Any of the inland towns he could have on his payroll for distribution. The next large city is hours away from New Orleans. Plus, they’ll assume we ran. I say we go home and regroup.”
“We’re not going home, and that’s final. Listen, you got yourself into this situation, and now it’s up to me to get you out of it. You need to stop going off half-cocked and let me help you. Besides, it’s not safe for us at home.”
I don’t like this one bit. I don’t want to walk back into the danger zone, and I really don’t want to go home. We can’t put anyone else in danger. As if we’re on the same page, Shelby’s eyes grow wide.
“My mom and dad! Once Victor figures out we’re not dead, he’s going to flip his lid, and then he’s going to go gunning for the people we care about.”
“Sarge has access to my personnel records,” I say and turn around, kicking the corner of the couch. “Shit.”
I cross the room and snatch up my cell phone from the countertop near the sink. I look up and see Shelby already has her cellular phone to her ear. I turn toward the open side door and peer out. There in the field, the guy I knocked out is still lying in the grass, tied up but just barely. I close the door and lock it, having little faith in my on-the-fly bowline knot. If he wakes up and decides to come after us, I want something to slow him down in case the knot doesn’t hold.
Looking over at Shelby, I say, “Have your parents pack a light bag for a few days’ travel, and don’t let them forget one for you, as well. Have them drive to the airport and park in the long-term parking. Tell them to wait in the terminal near the Air Canada concourse. Have them wait inside near the ticket counter. We’ll be there as fast as we can.”
She nods her head and then starts talking into the receiver at rapid speeds. I let out a deep breath and pick up my phone to call my mother. She answers on the first ring.
“Chase Aaron Guilliot!” she screams into the phone.
“I have less than a minute. Whatever you’re doing, stop it. Pack yourself a travel bag for a few days. I’ll need a bag, too. Grab the pouch from the safe in your room and your purse, then get in your car and drive to the airport. Don’t stop for anything. Go. Now.” I wait a moment for her to respond, but she doesn’t. “This is an emergency,” I say and hang up the phone and repeat the process with my father. I can only pray they listen.
When I look up, Shelby is off the phone and already standing, collecting her things. I grab the wall charger and toss it in a plastic bag and a few waters from the mini-fridge, as well as crackers from the cupboard and the Tylenol with Codeine. I retrieve the box of bullets from the countertop and the shotgun. I cautiously step around the dead body and through the splintered door. I check my truck for damage, and once I’m satisfied there is none, I toss the shotgun and bullets in the cab.
While I’m outside, I pull the dead guy’s phone from my pocket and send good old Sarge a text.
MADE A MESS. CLEANING IT UP. WILL CALL WHEN GONE. BAD SERVICE.
Walking back in the cabin, I find Shelby bent over the dead guy with his wallet in her hands. She looks up at me with tear-filled eyes. “His name was Kevin Christopher,” she says.
I stop, not knowing what to say or how to comfort her.
I’d never seen a dead body before him. I walk to Shelby and kneel. With her eyes level with mine, I decide to give it to her straight.
“Yeah, his name was Kevin Christopher. I’m sure he h
ad a mama, and there’s bound to be a few other people who will be sorry he’s gone. Maybe he had a wife, I don’t know. What I do know is that the pain whoever loves this guy is going to experience from losing him is not something I want to experience. This, whatever we’re doing here, could destroy my career. Taking up with a felon isn’t exactly considered playing by the rules. But when I’m with you, I don’t care about any of that.”
She looks astonished, with her eyes wide and her jaw slacked and tears spilling down her cheeks. It’s something of a mix between appreciation for the things I’ve said and disbelief. Realizing she’s going to need a little more encouragement to get her out of this cabin—and we need to get out of this cabin—I continue.
“Now, I’m going to be honest with you in a way I’d rather not be because it leaves me wide open. When I said you have me hooked, I meant it. I don’t know how you’ve done it, but you’ve got me believing that your problems are my problems. Hell, you even got me suckered into being here in this cabin, stitching you up and tending to your every need. At some point I obviously decided that you—that this—is worth having. Enough to risk losing my job over. I need to know that you believe I’m worth fighting for, too. Because that’s the only way this is going to work—if both of us give it our all. And right now, giving it our all is us getting our asses out of this cabin and getting into the damn truck. Because there isn’t going to be an ‘us’ if more of Victor’s guys show up here.”
Shelby uncurls herself from the ball she’s wound herself in. I reach out my hand and we stand together.
“You’re willing to risk your job for me?”
“Yeah, I guess I am. Now can we stop with the morbid lovey-dovey shit and get on the road, please?”
Her lip juts out, and she nods her head slowly.
Before we leave the cabin, I grab the goons’ wallets and their guns with a plastic bag in an attempt to protect the integrity of their prints. I toss them in another plastic bag and put them in the cab of the truck with the shotgun. I don’t really know what protocol is here, so I’m taking them with me, just in case. Last but not least, I grab that stupid fucking diamond everybody is making such a stink about.
A part of me feels like we’re leaving something important. Not an object. I’ve checked, and we have everything we need. If I were a sappy guy, I’d probably think of the cabin as the beginning of us. If any place is symbolic of our relationship, it’s this cabin.
CHAPTER 20
Shelby
I think I’m in love with you.
CHASE PULLS OFF the I-10 and follows the signs toward the airport.
I’ve been formulating a plan our entire ride here. In the nearly two hours we’ve been on the road, I’ve gone over every scenario I can think of.
First I considered luring Chase out of the truck and taking the truck to go meet Victor. The trouble with that plan is it would leave them out in the open like sitting ducks. The second option was to try and hold Chase at gunpoint again. Unfortunately I’m kind of falling for him, and I’m pretty sure shooting him would put a damper on our courtship. The last option is what I’m left with. I’m just going to have to wait until I have an opening to sneak away and contact Victor. When that’ll be, I have no idea.
“So what’s the plan?” I ask. I’ve spent the entire time silently caught up in my own plan that I hadn’t even thought to ask Chase what he’s been planning.
“We’re going to get to the airport and pick everyone up. Then we’ll check into a hotel,” he says.
I stay quiet for a moment, considering this. I eye Chase even though it’s dark out. I’m not certain, but I’m thinking the stress of the situation has gotten to him. We’re in a truck. As in, there are two, maybe three seats available.
“Uh,” I mumble as I look behind me the truck bed, worried that he expects my mother and father to ride back there, “we’re in a truck.”
Chase moves closer and slings his free arm over my shoulders, pulling me in. A slight smile tugs at his lips. He stares at the road intently and then places a quick kiss atop my head before his eyes return to the road again. Then he breaks into this glorious, earth-shattering smile.
“Holy shit,” he says.
I scoot closer to him, practically tucked into his side, and smile at him. I don’t have even a fraction of a clue as to why he’s smiling so large, but it seems like a good thing, so I smile, too.
“What is it?”
“I think I’m in love with you,” he says.
I stop breathing immediately and just stay there in that moment for a while, letting his words play in my head on repeat.
I think I’m in love with you.
I think I’m in love with you.
Holy shit is right.
“We’re in a truck,” I say. My words come out breathy, and I realize a moment too late that I’ve said the wrong thing. “I mean . . .” I trail off.
Chase bursts into a fit of laughter and tightens his grip around my shoulders. His smile brightens the entire cab of the truck and makes the situation seem less bleak.
For the first time since meeting Chase, I let myself consider where I’d be without him. Sure, back at the cabin I was grateful to have him to help me out in my state of limited mobility, but I still had it in my head that he went and mucked everything up by being a cop and having to do the “right” thing.
“I know I’m in love with you,” I say. The words spill out of my mouth before I can stop them. And it’s terrifying. But I love it. I feel alive in a way I don’t think I’ve ever felt before. Not with all of the danger and excitement going around. I feel alive, like for the very first time there’s a reason to be good and to not take the easy way out. And I’m in love. Completely. And totally.
“I’m in love with a cop.” I sound a little astonished, even to my own ears.
Chase steals quick glances away from the road and grins at me. “You love me, huh?”
I curl closer into his side, ignoring the seatbelt cutting into my lap, and turn my head, placing a kiss on his bicep.
“I do,” I admit.
We enter the airport’s maze of directions, and Chase surprises me by turning toward the long term-parking. I open my mouth to ask him why we’re not just swinging by the terminal, when he opens his mouth and then closes it. He waits another moment before speaking.
“Hold up, babe. We just said we love each other. No need to try to drag me off to the church or anything. You save that ‘I do’ business, got it?”
My laughter fills the cab of the truck. Chase parks in the departing flights area and near Concourse D. The moment he gets out, he takes several long strides around the truck and toward my side. I open the door and swing my legs out.
Before I can hop down, Chase slides his body between my legs and takes my face in his hands. His lips crash onto mine, and we celebrate our admission properly. Our lips and tongues fight for dominance, as if to argue who loves who more. Eventually we break away, breathing heavy and faces flushed.
“God, I love you,” he whispers. I let out a breathless chuckle and peck his lips. “After this shit is over, I’m going to keep you naked for like a week.”
We stay there for another minute with soft kisses and breathless whispers until I pull back and look at him in all seriousness.
“I don’t want you to get hurt,” I say.
“I won’t. As long as you’re safe, I’m safe. And I’m not letting anything happen to you.”
There it is—the previously unspoken promise of loyalty that I feared. Chase is good, too good to be caught up in this mess, not that he seems to care.
“I don’t want to mess this up.”
“Then don’t,” he simply says, and like that, the lovey stuff is over and done with.
Now that we’ve talked about our feelings, I feel even guiltier about my plan to undermine his efforts to keep me safe.
It’s just that I’ve gone ahead and inadvertently screwed things up my entire life, and right now I have the chance
to do something good and to protect the people I love. . . all the people I love. My parents and Becca, and Chase and his family. I don’t even know his mother and father, but knowing him, I love them already.
And as dangerous and cliché and stupid as it is, in my brain we’ve already walked down the aisle and have a couple of kids. We’re old and gray, and we’re sitting on our front porch in our rocking chairs as we watch our grandkids and dogs play in the front yard.
Nowhere in that fantasy does an ankle monitor, an orange prison jumpsuit, and a criminal record come into play. And just like that, my perfect life with Chase comes crashing down to reality, and I take a moment to realize that I’m going to need one damn big miracle to get myself out of this pickle.
But I don’t have time to dwell on that now, because Chase is pulling me out of the truck and we’re walking toward the terminal to do God only knows what.
He isn’t much for explaining. He just walks with determined strides, slow and mindful of my injured leg. Suddenly I realize what we’re wearing. Chase is still in his pajama pants and T-shirt. I’m in an outfit much the same as his. We’re both wearing old, beat-up sandals. Neither of us is dressed for running. I at least managed to grab my bra and put it on before we left, so there’s that.
We walk into the terminal, and I’m immediately greeted with the sight of my mother. She looks years older and quite terrified. The moment our eyes lock, she runs up to me and we embrace. She lets her bag drop to the floor. I unabashedly let the tears spill out of my eyes.
In times of distress there’s nothing like being with my mama. No matter how old I get, she’s always the cure for whatever ails me. I love my father, as well—he’s always going to be Daddy—but he’s the fixer. My mom’s all about the comfort, and he’s all about figuring out how to solve the issue.