Waking the Lion

by Lacee Hightower

  “I’m so sorry, baby,” I whisper to myself, wishing like fuck she could hear me.

  Lake takes my hand and squeezes.

  “I couldn’t save her, Lake. It should have been me. It should have fucking been me.”

  “Rhett, there’s nothing you could have done.”

  Bull fucking shit! There was plenty I could have done.

  I could have insisted we valet the car … put my foot down and told her I wasn’t leaving my Mercedes in an abandoned lot … ignored my dinging phone.

  My voice breaks, and I swallow hard. “Fuck, Lake. I couldn’t tell her no. I never could. Lindy was the better person,” I utter. “The better fucking person.”

  Lake places her head against my shoulder and we both cry. After long miserable minutes, the tears finally ease, and my mind starts reeling with what to do next. Lindy once told me she wanted to be cremated and I’m pretty positive her family will have something to say about that. Whether they do or don’t, I’ll respect her wishes.

  The hospital room is empty now. The machines all silent. No more dripping sounds from the dangling IV. No nothing. Just an empty bed. And the fucking stench of death.

  “Look at me, Rhett.” Lake’s voice is stern, and I turn toward the carbon copy of Lindy, clenching my jaw to hold back more tears. She looks exactly the same. Hair. Porcelain skin. Bright blue eyes.

  “Whether or not you want to believe it, this is not your fault. You gave my sister a beautiful life. She was loved. One hundred percent happy. She would never want you feeling responsible. She’d want you to go on with your life and live it to the very fullest.”

  “Jesus Christ, Lake. I can’t even remember the goddamn killer’s face.”

  Hours later, Lake and I both leave for home. With an empty hole behind my chest, I feel more alone than ever. I wouldn’t wish this on anyone. Not even my worst enemy.

  Chapter Three

  Rhett

  It’s never really goodbye. Only “see you later”.

  Hours of chaos, time quickly turns into days. Notifying close friends and family.

  Arrangements for the cremation.

  Preparations of an obituary.

  The final minutes when everything comes to an end.

  Whispering goodbye to a casket full of ashes.

  Tears and more tears, one minute I think I’m fine. The next, my body is shaking with grief.

  Ten days have passed. Lake and Lindy’s parents have returned to Florida, mine to Canada. My closest friends have stopped coming by, the ringing of the doorbell now silent. Even Reese has eased up. After days of heart-wrenching mayhem, the house is eerily quiet as I sit on the edge of the couch staring at four walls that seem so empty.

  So damn silent.

  Forced to make another heart-stabbing decision, I stuck with my initial plan and had Lindy cremated after being pleaded with to reconsider. Not happy with my decision, her parents finally agreed to go along with it as long as we still had her remains buried in a cemetery. Pretty confident I’ll never see any of them again, I nonetheless obliged by burying her ashes, happy to end on good terms.

  Not religious, my mind swirls with the whole aspect of faith more than ever now. Heaven, in my mind, is really only an assumption. Simply a bunch of words taken from a book that has no real authentication. I’ve tried reaching comfort through the preacher’s promises that Lindy is in a better place. Soaring with the angels with no pain, no worries, and no regret. Saying that more than once, as much as I want to believe, until I have real proof, nothing will convince me.

  There’s still no lead on the case and probably won’t be. Because I can’t fucking remember. And it was dark. Nobody else saw or heard anything. We were in a deserted damn parking lot.

  The only thing recovered were the remains of my stripped Mercedes, discovered a week after the robbery in an old junkyard, wiped clean. Besides that, the detectives have nothing to go on. Browsing dozens of mugshot photos more than once, I haven’t recognized any of the faces. Nothing but a fucking blank, I barely remember anything about either of them. Way too much time is passing. Both perpetrators should be well into preparing for lifelong journeys of living as someone’s bitch in heat behind nicely rusted prison bars.

  Why the fuck can’t I remember?

  Dead air takes over and settles throughout the house. Counting the minutes, I wait for the sound of anything at all. Still there’s nothing but silence, other than a bird chirping somewhere in the distance. The occasional rare sound of the air popping on. The faint sound of the pool running. A dog barking somewhere outside. I’m stuck in memories for too long, and the silence is almost worse than my gloom. It’s getting to me, and I barely feel human. For the fourth or fifth time, I watch the glass doors leading out onto the patio where the cat Lindy named Polar continues pacing, almost as if he knows something is different. Finally, I stand up and do something I swore I never would.

  I open the door and let the damn cat in.

  No time wasted, as I sit back down, he instantly jumps up on the couch, climbing onto my lap and staring at me with those slanted blue eyes. Brushing up against my gut like everything is right, when it’s nothing but bad and misguided.

  “You wanna stay in the house tonight, buddy?”

  How many countless times did Lindy ask to bring the cat in? Rain, cold, sleet … I always refused.

  My hand rubs the cat’s head. “Tonight, you stay inside.”

  I hesitate and inhale a long much-needed lung full of oxygen, squeezing my eyes shut. I miss Lindy. My past life. Cookouts by the pool. The dreaded window shopping that she loved so much. Deep conversations about the future. My gut twists and turns like a knife jabbing in my abdomen. My throat fills with a huge lump, and I try swallowing, a lone tear forming in the corner of my eye.

  “I’m so sorry, Lindy. For not being able to save you. Please forgive me.”

  Heartache rises up my chest. My eyes fill with another bout of emotion as more sobs fall, my body suddenly shaking with grief and remorse as I drop my head between my palms. Gulping back tears, I lift my head, turning to see if Reese has returned. For a quick second, it felt like someone touched my shoulder. My body shudders at the eerie sensation, while I almost swear that I smell the faint scent of flower-infused lotion that I know is only in my head.

  Sonofabitch! Motherfucking hell! Am I losing my complete shit?

  I ease an arm over my face and close my eyes. So tired. So. Fucking. Tired.

  ****

  My arm still over my face, my eyes blink open. Was I sleeping? Am I still? Maybe this is all another dream. I don’t know what anything is anymore. Nothing makes sense. Lindy’s words still play in my mind. Words she didn’t speak before she died. Or any other time. Live your life. You have so much to give. No guilt, Rhett. Follow your heart. Remember the gold.

  Remember the gold? Fuck! What the hell does it mean? She never said that! Or any of the other shit racing behind my head. I tug at my hair and take another glimpse around the room to be sure all this hasn’t been a nightmare and Lindy’s still here. Off in the kitchen. Outside with the cat. Creating some kind of flower or plant concoction.

  Pansies grow through snow, babe.

  What the fuck is it with gold? That image spirals through my brain. What. The. Fuck?

  Empty memories hit me hard, and I look straight up and silently curse whatever’s above me. My chest is tight. It aches so badly that I want to scream and never stop.

  “Goddamn you to hell!”

  Loneliness getting to me, I’m beginning to imagine shit. Craving Vicodin more than ever before.

  Chapter Four

  Rhett

  Six Months Later

  Silence only makes misery greater.

  So far, I’m managing as well as I’m able. I’m still breathing. Still have beer in the refrigerator. Vicodin in the cabinet. Still no interest in anything. Today’s proving to be a little rougher than usual. More upsetting dreams that make no sense and long months without sleep start
fucking with a man after a while. All the Vicodin and beer in the damn country won’t get this shit out of my head. Nothing will … until I remember.

  Lindy wanted this house. Said she loved the big yard and couldn’t wait to plant so many flowers that neighbors all the way down the block would smell the scent drifting through the air.

  Flowers just send out a happy message.

  Goddamn fucking flowers. I detest them. Want every last one pulled up by the root.

  I’d been perfectly content with my condo. No yard to worry about. All the conveniences without the upkeep or cost. And I sure the fuck didn’t care about smelling roses and magnolia blossoms.

  But she loved it.

  And I love her with every cell of my body.

  Gloom simmering in the pit of my stomach, it bites my throat with burning acid. I shove the hair away from my face and toss the top of a beer into the trashcan behind me. Time unfolding, it’s somewhere around mid-morning, or later. I don’t know the exact time. Don’t really give a flying fuck.

  Like the majority of my days, I’m stretched out in a turquoise-blue patio chair, my body stiff, my head buzzing from the two painkillers I swallowed minutes ago to ease my mind that’s miles deep in a hell-filled pit. With a long chug of my second Guinness Extra Stout, I lean over the cushioned chaise lounge and spit into the pot of blooming, blue hydrangeas beside me. Despite daily doses of beer, piss, and spit, the plant continues to reproduce as quick as a pen full of cottontail rabbits.

  How did I end up like this? Living in a huge-ass house, a yard full of flowers and all kinds of blooming shit that means nothing? I never wanted the hassle of home ownership.

  But she did.

  I can’t wait to fill a house with beautiful babies.

  So here I sit.

  Miserable.

  Running from nightmares.

  Dreading my next breath.

  I choose the outdoors because I can no longer stand the alternative. It’s nothing but Lindy. Every single item picked by her, there isn’t one thing that doesn’t make me want to plow my fist through the wall. The house even smells like the nauseating grapefruit-scented candles she demanded burning, saying they’d been proven to soothe the soul. Proven by fucking who?

  I’d rather be strapped to a burning inferno being charred by an eternal flame than smell that scent any longer. Rather be eaten alive by wild boar than feel this way another minute.

  I’m fucking pissed.

  No drive of any kind left in my body.

  With a quick toss, I send the empty Guinness bottle sailing into the trash receptacle beside the built-in grill to join all the others. Another amenity I’d never given any thought to owning.

  But she wanted the outdoor kitchen.

  Think about it, Rhett. Parties when we have kids. Hotdogs on the grill.

  The need to go in the house and take a piss is growing by the minute. Fuck it. Instead, I lower my sweats down just enough to remove my limp dick, and piss into the hydrangea plant. Repulsion stretches through my insides, my gut tangled in knots. The last months. The next year.

  How can I do this … without her?

  At some point I’ll have no choice but to get my shit together. Lindy would never forgive me for pissing in one of her beloved plants or leaving a mess on the patio. The trash will have to be emptied unless I want rodents the size of baby hippos and the stench that comes along with rotting trash. Then again, who the fuck really cares anymore?

  My gut screaming, it begs for nutrition. Something besides Vicodin and beer—my diet of choice the last six months.

  Don’t do this, Rhett… Please, baby…

  There it is again. That sound in my head. That voice that won’t let up.

  She’s inside me. Underneath my skin. Demanding I get up and get over this. Move on and pull my head out of my ass. Life isn’t always simple. We all have issues. It’s part of it. That’s exactly the way she thinks.

  Fuck, I wouldn’t want her seeing me this way.

  With a shake of my head, I open another beer, polishing off half in one swallow.

  Chapter Five

  Kass

  “You sure this isn’t another set up, Darci? I mean, last time…”

  “No. I swear.”

  A giggle creeps up my throat, getting me an exaggerated shoulder shrug. Last time Darci insisted on setting me up I ended up on the ultimate date from hell, sitting in a nice restaurant in Ft. Worth with a guy crying in his beer over a recent break-up. Story of my life where blind dates are concerned. Darci’s previous attempt hadn’t ended well, so I’m not exactly trusting when it comes to her choice of men.

  Ten minutes pass and I don’t know how she’s done it, but my aunt is ninety seconds from successfully convincing me this isn’t another attempt at finding my future husband, but simply some quick, easy cash. An hour-long house call to give her new customer’s brother a haircut and shave her exact words. After my initial no freaking way conversation, I’m still unconvinced I want to do something this unorthodox, but I’m nevertheless considering it. God knows if anyone can persuade me to do something so outrageous, it’s Darci. The two of us are thick as thieves, and she knows I’d gladly walk through fire for her, and vice versa.

  “I may need a stiff drink before I can pull this off, Darci. This dude could be a psycho serial killer for all I know.”

  “Not so sure alcohol on the breath is going to be a positive thing when it comes to taking sharp scissors to a man’s hair, Kass. Besides, who says he’s weird?”

  After considering for another minute, not at all surprised by my aunt’s neither here nor there attitude, I give her my most defeated shrug.

  “Okay. I’ll do it.”

  She grins. “You said you had some extra time once you finish up with Brandy. And I’m pretty sure this guy isn’t an assassin. He’s my new customer Reese Gentry’s brother. Not sure why the man can’t come to the salon, Reese just said he needs a hand. Plus, he paid five hundred bucks! That’s five easy Benjamins for an hour’s worth of work. Oh, and Reese is a god in the looks department, so there’s that. But hey, I can always get Rebecca or Kim if you’re not cool with it.”

  All of the sudden, I’m nervous. With a quick scan over my outfit of leopard-skin leggings and black tunic top, I grimace at the new scratch on my brown, knee-high boots that hadn’t been there when I put them on this morning. Damn.

  “If you know his brother, then it’s probably okay.” I give the crest of my teased ponytail a quick mist of Redken 28 hairspray. “Just remember, if you never hear from me again, you’ll know my throat’s been slit … or my head severed and stored in a freezer somewhere. Or better yet, I’m in a dark basement somewhere, hanging by my bloody toes while this psycho guts me, never to be seen or heard from again.”

  Darci stares up at me with a large grin splitting her face. “You watch way too many freaking movies on the Chiller channel. How can you sleep at night?”

  Darci Johnson is my dad’s sister. She owns Addison Hair Company, an upscale hair salon located in a prime area of far North Dallas. Successful so far in this field of work, I make a reasonably good living as a hair stylist. And most importantly, I love my job. Good at what I do, I’m able to afford a nice apartment, wear decent clothes, and drive a modest-priced new car. For the short three years I’ve been licensed, fortunately, my clientele has grown so quickly that I’m no longer taking on anyone new.

  “You know Dad always liked slasher movies,” I counter. “Blame your big brother for turning me into a horror movie buff.” My dad traveled the majority of the time when I was growing up, and watching scary movies together when he was home was one of my best childhood memories. One of my only.

  “You never know about people these days, Kassidy. You watch yourself, young lady.” Darci’s seventy-five-year-old bi-weekly client is getting her usual root touch-up with trim and style. With a shiny mouth of white, veneered teeth, she smiles and reaches for my arm.

  “I mean it, hon. You’re smart to
be leery. Watch yourself. There’s way too many crazy fucks in this world today.”

  Snickering at her sudden language, I eye her teasingly. “I promise, Ms. Barker.”

  ****

  Nerves plow through my veins. This situation is borderline flat-ass crazy, and I’m so worked up over it, I suddenly feel like busting a gut and laughing at the irony of it. Only four houses on the entire block, they’re all well over the five-thousand square feet category with equally large lots. The one with the blooming magnolia tree in front, 4520 Allen Drive, is easy enough to spot. My radio is blaring Shinedown’s “Cyanide Sweet Tooth Suicide” when I lower the volume and pull in the circular driveway, immediately smelling the fragrant white blooms.

  Flutters fill my stomach as I reach behind the seat for the bag of mixed hair products and try to play it cool. Not sure what to expect, I’ve brought everything from a straight-edge razor to Oster Classic 76 hair clippers with detachable blades. With several male clients, I’ve learned that men are picky as all-out hell when it comes to grooming, so I figured I’d rather be safe than sorry, and brought a little of everything.

  I let out a sigh. All this is still feeling a little off as I step from my car, tugging at my leggings and pulling my tunic down in the back. Nothing’s worse than your shirt riding up your ass when you’re completely unaware, and I’d become familiar with that embarrassment the hard way. With one last smooth of my medium-length shirt, I think I’m good to go.

  House calls are something I’ve never done, and I definitely don’t intend on making them a habit. But the good thing about this whole house-call is obvious. Five-hundred bucks for an hour of work means one thing and one thing only … a kickass shoe-shopping spree in my near future. So, what the hell? That in itself is enough to give myself a silent fist pump and disregard the small strain of tension I’m fighting in the pit of my belly.