“Gonna take a long, hot bath, read a book, and finally catch up on some sleep?”
I just smiled. I knew exactly what I needed to do.
***
I walked in the back door, waved hello to Ezzy, and then went upstairs. I found Luke playing a game on his phone. I hugged him and squeezed him and rustled his hair.
“I love you, buddy.”
“Back at ya, Mom. Can you stop squeezing me? It’s kind of cramping my style.”
Leaving him to do his thing, I walked across the hall to Erin’s room. She was lying on the bed, writing in a small notebook.
“What are you doing?” I asked as I scooted up next to her.
“Writing in a journal. Just feels better when I can get all the crap out of my head and down on paper.”
“I’m proud of you.”
“Why?”
“Because you know when you’ve made a mistake, and you take responsibility. And now you’re figuring out ways to enhance your life, to cope with all the hurdles that get in your way.”
She let me hug her and kiss on her for few seconds, and then she went back to writing.
After leaving her to concentrate without further distractions from me, I went and packed a small bag of things, then made my way downstairs. Ezzy was on the couch, reading a magazine. I told her about my spontaneous plans.
“Go. Get out of here before you change your mind. And trust your heart.”
We hugged, and I did just what she said.
I drove to the train station and jumped on the next train to New York City. I arrived just over three hours later, and even in the city that never sleeps, the streets were nearly desolate. I took a cab to a hotel in Brooklyn. The place was nice, but not extravagant. I asked to speak to the manager and just happened to have my FBI credentials out as he approached. His small, round eyes stared at the shield, and then he listened to my story and how I needed his help.
“I’m sorry, but that’s against company policy. I’m afraid you’ll need a warrant.”
I took a moment, glancing at the revolving door into the hotel lobby…my mind, for once, interlocked with my heart. I’d come this far, and not just in distance. I couldn’t let one roadblock stop this important next step in my life. I took in a deep breath, stored my credentials in my purse, and then explained everything in my life that had gotten me to this juncture. And I spoke with no filter.
With his little eyes as wide as he could get them, the manager blew out a breath and then cleared his throat. “Really? That’s all happened in the last few months?”
I nodded. “But it’s my life, and I’ve come to realize that I need to own it. So this is what I’m doing.”
A moment later, he set a plastic keycard on the counter with his hand on top of it.
“Please don’t let me regret doing this favor for you. I don’t want to lose my job.”
I told him thanks and gave him a wink, adding that if he heard reports of screaming from the room, he shouldn’t worry. He blushed, slid the key to me, and quickly got back to work.
Up on the sixth floor, the elevator doors dinged open. I looked for room 648. A sign pointed me to the left. I walked down the quiet, carpeted hall, not a soul in sight. I took a right at the end and found the room. Holding the key just above the insert, I paused for a moment. One final little demon on my shoulder tried to shake my confidence, to question my intentions. “Own it, Alex,” I whispered out loud.
I popped open the door, dropped my bag, shed every piece of clothing on my body, and crawled into bed with the man who would no longer be relegated as a secret relationship.
“Alex, what are you doing here?” he said through a cracked voice.
With all the passion I felt, I kissed his lips.
“Does this mean—”
“Shhh.” I then moved on top of him.
For months, he had showered me with praise, been a kind, gentle man to me and my kids. He wanted me in every way possible. I would no longer push him away or pretend that our chemistry was nothing more than a passing flirtation. I knew deep down that he was the man, and I intended to prove it to him all night long.
At last.
AT Last
An Alex Troutt Thriller
Book 6
Redemption Thriller Series - 6
(Includes Alex Troutt Thrillers, Ivy Nash Thrillers,
and Ozzie Novak Thrillers)
By
John W. Mefford
1
Alex at Six Years Old
The trembling was uncontrollable. I wrapped my arms around my torso until my fingers gripped either side of my back. When I heard what sounded like a jackhammer reverberating in my head, I realized my teeth were chattering so fast I’d forgotten to breathe.
I was cold. So cold my bones ached. What little air that escaped my lungs came out as white puffs of smoke, like an old-fashioned locomotive.
But I was going nowhere. With my feet seemingly cast in stone in the middle of the frozen foods section at a grocery in Virginia Beach, all I could do was stare. Stare at my mother, relentless in her chanting and preaching at this poor woman trying to corral two toddlers. Black and blue circles hung under the woman’s eyes, almost like she’d been punched in the face. A cloth diaper was draped over a shoulder, but I could still make out what looked like vomit stains all over her extra-large sweatshirt.
“Why are you doing this to me?” The woman splayed her arms, a vertical line splitting the area between her eyes. She seemed anxious and annoyed. Mom had a tendency to do that to people, especially when we were out running errands, like today. I’d seen this same scenario play out a hundred times. While I inwardly cringed as Mom humiliated people—telling them they’d go straight to hell if they didn’t mend their ways—the feeling that dominated my thoughts was simple: relief. I knew that was selfish of me, but I had to admit to myself that Mom’s relentless harassment of this lady served as a temporary diversion from me. And I needed a break every once in a while. Just a few minutes to build myself back up. To not think I was going straight to hell if I wasn’t perfect every minute of every day, or at least perfect in her mind. The problem was, her perfection seemed like a moving target. I could never quite figure out what she wanted from me.
“‘All of us have become like one who is unclean, and all our righteous acts are like filthy rags; we all shrivel up like a leaf, and like the wind, our sins sweep us away.’ That is a scripture from Isaiah,” Mom said, her eyes half-closed as she rested her spindly fingers on the woman’s shoulder. And then she immediately began to chant. It was impossible to understand what she was chanting, even though I’d heard it a thousand times, both in public and at home, staring at the cross by the fireplace, rocking back and forth. As I’d told Dad, it sounded like gibberish, like a strange language from another planet.
The woman shook her head, her perplexed eyes narrowing at Mom as one of her kids pulled at her sweatpants, the other grabbing a cereal box off a display. A moment later, a pyramid of cereal boxes tumbled to the floor.
“It takes a strong woman to raise kids the right way. To lead them down the path of happiness and serenity,” Mom said, now pointing a crooked finger at the kid, who was squatting on the floor, ripping into a box of Cocoa Puffs. I wish I had Cocoa Puffs. I didn’t often get the chance to eat chocolate cereal. Well, only when Dad fed me breakfast when Mom was off doing her weird chanting thing.
Mom didn’t stop there. “Wild kids…kids with no moral values—”
“Are you actually telling me that my kids are immoral?” The woman was angry, and I could see her breathing harder and harder as she cocked her head to the side.
Oh crap. Mom had taken it too far…again. I had to do something, even if it meant her negative attention would focus back on me.
“Mom, I need to use the restroom, please,” I blurted out.
She turned and looked at me. “Alexandra, young ladies shouldn’t use those words in public. Please keep that to yourself. Do you understand?”<
br />
“But, Mom, I really gotta go.” I jumped up and down once.
She drew her lips together, and they became tight and wrinkled.
“Okay, I’ll wait,” I said meekly, lowering my head.
Out of the corner of my eyes, I could see the little kid shoveling a handful of Cocoa Puffs into his mouth. It was hard not to giggle.
Mom flipped back around and put both hands on her waist while the other woman walked over and tried to clean up the mess. Meanwhile, the other small child was now poking his fingers into a pack of hamburger meat. I cracked a smile but also noticed a few people stopping their carts and looking at all of us. It was obvious they saw us as freaks. They’re right.
“Immorality is only achieved if you’re weak enough to let the devil run your life,” Mom said as if she were speaking from the top of some mountain. Then she took two steps to our cart, plucked her Bible out of her purse, and held it high above her head. “The word of God, the pages in this book…it’s all you need to repent, for yourself and for your kids.”
“Stop talking to me, you crazy woman.” The kids’ mom dabbed the diaper against the moisture collecting just above her lip, which puzzled me. As engines hummed all around me, it felt like it was thirty degrees.
The woman kept talking. “Can’t you see I need help and all you’re doing is making it ten times more difficult?” She swooped up the youngest kid just as he shoved more cereal into his mouth. Then he started to whine.
“I mean you no harm, but it’s obvious that I’ve been chosen to guide the helpless sheep.”
“And now you’re saying I’m helpless?” The woman perched herself just under Mom’s pointy chin. “You better back off, lady, or I’m—”
Mom let out a derisive gasp. “If you could see yourself, you would be ashamed, and you would run, not walk, to your house and get down on your knees and pray that God will somehow bless you with an abundance of morality—something you are lacking. I pity you.”
A buzz of voices sounded from the growing number of people gathering around us. In that group, I also noticed two grocery employees pointing at Mom.
“Where do you get the nerve to talk down to me?” The woman flipped a loose strand of hair out of her face, which now looked like a ripe tomato.
Mom raised the Bible over the lady’s head and said, “As it states in Proverbs, ‘Whoever conceals their sins does not prosper, but the one who confesses and renounces them finds mercy.’”
I could see the woman’s teeth as she leered at Mom, her eyes shooting invisible darts. She momentarily glanced at me then returned her glare to Mom. “You are a mother. You should know what this is all about. I pity her for having a mother like you. Come on, kids, let’s get the hell out of this place.”
She placed her kids in the cart and marched away, although her eyes stayed on Mom until she disappeared down an aisle. There were now about ten people standing around, whispering. I tried my best to ignore the open box of cereal as my mom set it in our cart.
I couldn’t keep myself from asking, “Does this mean I get to have Cocoa Puffs?”
“Of course, not, Alexandra. We’ll drop it off at a food bank.”
That was Mom. She was full of contempt for everyone around her, but at the same time, she recognized the need to help those who were down on their luck. I didn’t understand her, not when she was forcing her beliefs on regular people who seemed like they were just trying to get by. And not when we were at home trying to be a regular family.
When witnessing previous confrontations, I used to hide on the bottom of the cart, covering my eyes, pretending no one could see me. It was my way of coping with the embarrassment. As I got older, I realized two things: people could still see me, and Mom would never change.
Without saying another word, I ignored the stares and finger-pointing and pushed the cart behind Mom as we made our way into the fresh fruits and vegetables section. As usual, Mom mumbled some prayer over each food item before she set it in the cart.
“Come on, Alexandra, you’re old enough to understand how important it is to bless our food.”
Apparently she thought my stares meant I was actually paying attention to the words she spoke. But I was more mindful of her expressions and demeanor, and how people responded to her judgmental comments.
“Do I have to? I’m not even sure what I should say.”
She pressed her lips together again, and I tensed up, knowing another threat was headed my way.
“Well, aren’t you the cutest little guy in the grocery store?” An old woman appeared at our cart.
This had happened before, where someone thought I was a boy. Mom made me cut my hair really short, and I had chubby cheeks. My clothes were either too big or too small. Not surprising since she picked them up at Goodwill. I once overheard Dad ask her why she dressed me like a boy, but she insisted on calling me Alexandra and not the name I preferred, Alex. She gave him some answer that made no sense to me. I remember watching his hands fall against his pants, and then he walked away. He seemed as puzzled by her behavior and answers as I did. And he was old.
“This is my daughter. Alexandra is her name,” Mom said.
The lady gave me an awkward smile. One of her front teeth was gold, which kind of creeped me out. She walked away, and we finally finished our shopping.
As the grocery clerk rang up the groceries, Mom spoke to the redheaded bag boy. I heard a lot of “yes ma’ams” and “no ma’ams,” but I mostly just watched the lady with the lightning-fast fingers. She smiled at me and seemed like a nice person.
We paid, and I pushed the cart down the long aisle in front of the registers toward the doors. I even jumped onto the little bar at the bottom and let the cart glide a few feet without Mom seeing me.
“Alexandra,” she said, pulling her gloves out of her purse.
I quickly jumped off the cart, thinking that she had eyes in the back of her head.
“Yes, Mom?”
“Would you like for me to take you shopping? Maybe a nice dress for Thanksgiving dinner so you don’t have to wear the same one from last year?”
“I don’t know. I’m not really into dresses.”
“Pffft. I just don’t understand you, Alexandra. I could see you don’t like to be called a boy, and now I offer to buy you a dress and you don’t want it. I guess I’ve just spoiled you too much.”
“Mom, I just want normal clothes, like the other kids at school. You know, a pair of jeans that fit me, a sweater, and maybe some sneakers so I can run faster than all of those boys.”
She didn’t look at me, but I could see her face scrunch into a ball of disapproval…of me, of what I thought was important. It made me sad.
The grocery’s sliding doors magically opened, and a gust of cold wind sent a shiver up my spine.
I was about to hop back onto the cart for another ride when Mom put a hand on it, stopping me in my tracks. “Wait here,” she said just before we were about to step into the parking lot.
I turned to see her walking toward two men who were standing next to one of those enormous concrete pillars. Both wore dark coats. The short man had a round face, with folds of skin outlining his neck. Kind of reminded me of Jabba the Hutt. I had a lot of those Star Wars toys at home, stored away in a bin at the top of Mom’s closet. She didn’t like me playing with toys that showed a world of evil people who were so easily recognizable. She said that in the real world, you could never tell who an evil person was, not by the way they looked. I also heard her tell Dad that Princess Leia was a whore. I assumed it had something to do with the tiny bikini she wore in episode six. Dad let me see all of the movies, and when Mom wasn’t around, he sometimes brought the toys down and let me play with them.
The short man adjusted silver-rimmed glasses as Mom approached them. He looked my way and held his glare for a second. My breath caught in the back of my throat. Those were mean eyes. I quickly started to rummage through the bags of groceries, pretending I was looking for something in part
icular. I’d seen Mom do this once when she was pretending she didn’t see our neighbor. She wasn’t very social most of the time, except when she was around people from church. Even then, she never seemed happy or content.
My head was down, but I was still able to peek upward. I could see Mom’s lips moving, the short guy now staring at her. Mom shifted a bit to her right, and I got a better view of the other man. He would have glowed in the dark. With skin the color of wet sand, his hair was so blond it was almost solid white. I wondered if he used lemons to bleach it. I heard some of the older girls at school talking about how they wanted to do that. I didn’t need to. My hair was already blond. I only hoped that someday I’d be allowed to look like Alex, just a normal-looking girl.
A gust of wind carried their voices. Blondie did most of the talking, his tone direct and biting.
“Do you not understand why God put you on this earth, Charlotte?”
I laughed to myself when I heard her name. Dad usually called her Charlie, at least when he wasn’t calling her Mrs. T, trying to get a rise out of her. If I thought real hard, there might have been one time when Dad got Mom to smile. He didn’t see me peeking into the kitchen, but I saw him pat her on her bottom, like he was giving her a spanking. He then took her in his arms and gave her a kiss. My eyes forgot to blink. I was grossed out, but also excited to see my parents actually having some fun together and joking around. It hardly ever happened.
“Charlotte, your purpose. Can you not recite to me what it is?” Blondie said as the muscles in his jaw wiggled.
Mom’s lips moved more, but I couldn’t pick up what she was saying. She brought her hand to her mouth. Was she upset? I could feel my stomach start to swirl, as if I might get sick, like I did sometimes when I was out on Dad’s boat in the Atlantic Ocean and we were caught in a storm.
I swallowed and tried not to think about it. I couldn’t help but stare at Blondie’s face. He seemed familiar, but at the same time, someone I would want to stay away from. He reminded me of someone on one of those Hollywood magazine covers that Mom would repeatedly rebuke while we waited at the grocery checkout line. But Blondie didn’t appear to be happy, and it was pretty obvious he wasn’t being nice to Mom.
The Alex Troutt Thrillers: Books 4-6 (Redemption Thriller Series Box Set Book 2) Page 48