Please, Pretty Lights (Pretty Lights Series Book 1)

by Ina Zajac

  She had his full attention. He kept his hands to himself, but it wasn’t easy. He couldn’t interrupt her determined pace.

  “My parents met at an opera, sat next to each other. I can’t remember which one, but they went to like five a year. They played it all the time,” she said. “Wagner’s Ring Cycle is one story, told in four operas. It's fifteen hours long. But this is the part my mother loved most.” Her voice quivered. “After my father had—” She stopped.

  He didn’t dare say a word, just waited. He was so in love with her, he didn’t care. Whatever it was. He guided her onto his lap and wrapped his arms around her waist like a belt. She was so skinny. He would have to talk to her about that, later.

  “After my father beat her, he would play Wagner for her,” she said. “So, when I heard Wagner, I knew it was safe to come out from under my bed. They would be like lovebirds—for weeks, sometimes months. Until it happened again.”

  The words “I’m so sorry” rose up into his throat, but he swallowed them back down and propped his chin over her shoulder.

  She leaned into him. “I know it’s sick, but I want you to hear it. I want you to understand why I wanted to marry someone I didn’t love, someone safe. Someone the exact opposite of my father. Why I’ve been so stupid.”

  Something caught in his chest, an energy shift in his heart. Wanted. She had used the past tense—wanted to marry. Past tense.

  “It’s not long, like four minutes.” Her tone was apologetic, though he had no idea why. Didn’t she know he would listen to the whole fifteen hours for her?

  He had expected it to be soft and lovely, like Mozart maybe, but it began with horns, like hunters issuing a warning.

  She sat back against him, but it wasn’t close enough. She seemed a million miles away.

  With every bar, the music grew into a storm of strings and woodwinds. They weren’t easy though; instead, they were urgent. Even the flutes were foreboding. And then chimes, bells, joined in to create the most haunting melody he had ever heard.

  “It’s called the ‘Magic Fire Music’,” she said.

  He gave her a small kiss behind her ear. She was his lucky girl, better than magic. “What’s happening?” he asked. “In the story—this isn’t our story, right? This isn’t about Tristan and Isoldey.” God, he hoped not. It was disturbing. The horns were barreling back in.

  “This is Brünhilde and her father, the Norse God, Wotan,” she said. “She was a mighty warrior, but she had disobeyed him. Tried to save Siegmund, a man meant to die. Now Wotan is about to punish her, to turn her into a mortal woman. He’s going to leave her out on a rocky ledge, alone in the wilderness.”

  “But, he’s upset about it, isn’t he?” he asked. “He doesn’t want to leave her there.”

  “Her father didn’t know what to do. He wanted to love her. At least, that’s what she told herself—” Her voice faltered.

  It was clear she wasn’t talking about the music anymore.

  “It’s okay,” he told her while he nestled in against her cheek. Still not close enough. She wasn’t letting him all the way in. “Go on, then what?”

  “Wotan kissed her eyelids and she fell into an enchanted sleep. Then Loge, the demigod of fire, cast a wall of flames around her, so that only the bravest man could claim her.” In the background, the horns mingled with the bells, arching up the scale, higher and higher, until they beat back the beautiful melody, back into submission. “Many years later, that brave man did come for her. He was Siegfried, the son of Siegmund.”

  Without thinking, he said, “Now that sounds like an opera.” She stiffened and pulled away. He reached for her, but she was up; she had slipped through his hands. The horns faded and the bells were solemn.

  “Playing this music was my father’s way of saying he was sorry.”

  “Wait.” He stood, but hesitated. She was like a nervous deer on alert, and he was afraid to spook her.

  “I just wanted you to know,” she said. “My father left me on a rock, but I’m not worth walking through fire for. I’m not a warrior.”

  He was clueless. What was she saying?

  He wanted to rush over and grab her, say the perfect thing. But he stood still, frozen.

  “Wait,” he finally managed. “I know this is all hard for you, the holidays and all, but I’ve been thinking about it. Let’s start building new memories.”

  Her demeanor remained solemn. “You would go ahead and say something amazing like that,” she said. “I love you.”

  He wanted to grab her and hold her tight, but she looked so anguished. He would help her through the next two weeks. She wouldn’t be marrying the other guy, next summer or ever, he was sure of it.

  “You’ll still come see G-Dane tonight, right?” he asked. “We’ll talk more about it. You’ll stay with me tonight.”

  She just nodded and turned for the door. But then she turned back around, reaching out for a hug.

  He was there, catching her up in his arms. He had been so afraid to tell her, but now he was too afraid not to tell her. “I love you, too,” he whispered against her neck.

  “I’m such a mess,” was all she said as she pulled away and made her way out into the hall. He followed her, but stopped at the top of the staircase.

  While he wanted to follow her down to the front door, it was obvious by the way she was taking the stairs two at a time that she didn’t want him to. So he just leaned over the banister and watched her go.

  When he heard the front door close, he returned to his bedroom and went to the window. Poor baby. His heart ached for hers, for what she was going through. Christmas was coming, and on the heels of her parents’ death day. Of course she had issues. How could she not? The sound of Wagner’s hunting horns jolted his senses. Wait, was there even more to it? What the hell happened last night? Had she used again? He wished he could shake the feeling that it had everything to do with Carlos. He knew he couldn’t ignore the situation anymore. It was time, he told himself. Time to tell his boss what was up.

  CHAPTER 32

  CARLOS

  CARLOS COULDN’T BELIEVE IT. Not only had the feds busted the Portland crash house, but Mattais had somehow missed it. He had just turned around and driven back home. What the hell? Carlos had been suspicious of some of his guys lately. He smelled a narc.

  “Shouldn’t you be happy?” Matt asked, standing next to the couch with his hands in his crazy-professor hair. “Your money is safe.”

  “But it’s here and not in Portland,” Carlos replied while he ran his index finger along the rim of his near-empty glass of whiskey. “How’s that possible?” What was going on? He was coming down and needed to get high again. He couldn’t deal with getting sick today. Couldn’t deal with the shaking and sweating. Had to go see the lawyer. His wife, he realized—she probably alerted the DEA. Maybe the IRS. Dirty little bitch.

  Matt stared him down. “It’s luck. I know it sounds insane, but it’s true. She’s lucky.”

  “Who’s lucky?” What was he talking about?

  “Via,” Matt said, with an obnoxious little grin. “She texted last night because she needed me. She told me to come back home, so I did.”

  “From the Oregon border?” he asked. “That’s bullshit.”

  “You don’t believe me? You think I’m a narc?”

  “You’re too stupid for words, that’s what you are. Do you have any idea how bad this is for me? How does this make me look? The LA guys would love to bend me over, snake my operations.”

  “So, you’d rather I’d gotten smacked down? You’d rather I was facing time? Sitting in some dirty cell?”

  It was quiet. Matt shook his head. “Unbelievable.” Making his way for the door, he turned and said, “I’m done with road trips. Fire me. Please.”

  “I would have bailed you out. You have no priors, you would have been fine.”

  “It’s not even about that now. I came to tell you to leave her alone. You leave her the hell alone, she’s done here.”


  The moment had arrived. Carlos cleared his throat because he wanted to savor it. “I fucked her.” He watched Matt’s sense of determination slide from his face and fall to the floor. “Last night. Right here on the couch.”

  “I don’t...don’t...believe you,” Matt stammered.

  “I should probably call for backup,” Carlos taunted as he walked back behind his desk. He pressed the intercom. “Ben? I could use a hand.”

  But Matt hadn’t rushed him. He just stood there, aghast. “I don’t believe you.”

  Ben came in, confused at first.

  “She didn’t tell you that we’re Eskimo brothers again?” he asked. “Tight little body, but she’s really no better than Kaytlyn—or Sonia.”

  “What? Sonia? I never—”

  “Banged my wife? Sure you did. You think I didn’t know that you’re the one who told her to go—to bail with my kids. I’m thinking you nailed her too. I saw the way she used to look at you.”

  “You’re high; we were just friends. I never touched her with anything more than a makeup brush. We just talked.”

  Ben just stood there in an awkward standby stance, listening to Matt’s plea.

  “Sure, sure. Just like I talked the shit out of your girlfriend last night.” Carlos smiled, satisfied.

  Matt lunged, but Ben was all over him.

  “You won’t be quitting. We’re not even yet.” Carlos reminded him. “You still owe me. Take a week or two off, though. Get your head together. You’ve got your shit fucked up.”

  “No, I don’t believe you,” Matt said again as Ben dragged him out.

  “And Ben, no interruptions.”

  Carlos went to his desk and found his pipe. Just a little rock would make everything all right.

  Via wasn’t answering her phone. It was maddening and he would punish her for it. He wanted to believe she cared, but she could be a two-faced little liar, just like Sonia.

  He put in the rock. Hello little friend.

  How had she known about the Portland bust? Who could she be working for? It had probably just been a lucky guess. She’d probably just called Mattais to confess her sins. He would have to do a little online research on her.

  His LA contact had told him not to worry too much. Swore the Portland crew was solid. Swore they wouldn’t turn. But, of course, nobody could be trusted.

  He found his butane lighter and lit the glass. Vapor crept up through the pipe and into his waiting mouth. Oh God. Oh, yes.

  CHAPTER 33

  VIA

  VIA HAD BEEN looking forward to seeing Grandma Daney again, but her own hands were so shaky now. Someone might think she was the one with Parkinson’s. She held them together in her lap as best she could, each hand attempting to hold the other down tight. She was craving coke so much; it felt like demons were licking her brain. Her emotions had been all over the place. Earlier, she was sure she and Matt were hopeless. With each hour they had been apart, just twelve so far, she became more desperate to find a way—some way—to hold on to him. She would beg, confess she needed his help. Maybe Grandma Daney could save her somehow—tell her what to say. What words could she possibly say to make him understand?

  She glanced around at Grandma Daney’s things, and got choked up looking at an eight by ten photo of Nick and Matt. They were standing by a ramp, confident, holding skateboards in their hands. They couldn’t have been more than thirteen.

  “Those two,” Grandma Daney said as she carefully sat down next to her on the couch. “Always thick as thieves. Please, have a cookie.”

  Via looked down to the plate of yellow, pink, and brown wafer cookies. While she wanted a pink one, she just shook her head because her stomach felt like it was eating itself from the inside out.

  “You look unwell dear, what’s wrong?” Nick’s grandmother’s kind eyes flashed with concern.

  Without even trying to restrain herself, Via leaned against Grandma Daney, and let herself collapse into the old woman’s soft, periwinkle sweater. She surrendered, lost in the smell of lavender. “It’s ru-ined. I cheat-ed,” she said in a soft, shameful whisper.

  “Oh, sweetheart,” Grandma Daney said as she put her arms around her. “All is well. It really is.”

  “I have to tell him, and he’s going to hate me.”

  “Try not to focus on him right now. Get right with yourself first.”

  “It’s terrible. I’ve been terrible.”

  “Nonsense,” Grandma Daney insisted. “Why do young women today insist on loading themselves up with so much guilt? That isn’t what we wanted for you, back in the sixties and seventies. You know, I was active in the ERA movement.”

  Via was even more ashamed now. She knew the ERA was a women’s lib thing, but didn’t understand its significance.

  “Dear, your sexuality belongs to you, not any man. Now, if you feel you’ve let yourself down, that’s something you can work through.”

  “But—”

  “You two are so young, still learning who you are. The kindest thing you can do for him now is concentrate on yourself. Accept yourself where you are, and make new choices.”

  Her words were like honey, sweet, but sticky. They helped, yet they didn’t—but her hug was safe and snug, so Via stayed there and soaked in her comfort.

  “You’ll get through this. The way I see it, young women give mistakes too much power. It’s not our mistakes that bring us down, but the guilt about our mistakes. It’s that guilt that leads to more mistakes, bigger mistakes.”

  Grandma Daney’s embrace felt so good, like hug therapy. It made honesty almost easy. “I am so stupid,” Via admitted.

  “Shush now. Don’t ever tell yourself that. The words that come after ‘I am’ carry the weight of the universe.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “The words that follow ‘I am’ will define you,” Grandma Daney said. “When a woman tells herself, ‘I am powerful’ then she is. Don’t ever talk about yourself in negative terms because you are listening.”

  That actually made some sense, she realized. She sat back against the couch and looked at the sweet old woman’s determined face. Her wrinkles could not hide her inner youthfulness.

  “Imagine yourself like me, seventy-one and happy, for the most part,” she said. “Imagine that you don’t have to give a rip what people think anymore. So many mistakes, mistakes so huge you could drive a truck through them, but you just don’t care anymore. And, you know why?”

  “Why?”

  “Because when you’re my age, most of the people you’ve hurt have either forgiven you, forgotten you, or are dead.”

  Via smiled. The heaviness that had loomed over her earlier was breaking up like clouds before a sunbreak.

  “Now, imagine feeling that freedom right now. There is no reason to wait until you’re my age. Forget trying to please everyone else. Recognize your power now, while you’re young enough to enjoy it.”

  They were quiet for a moment. Via didn’t care that this woman didn’t know her whole life story. Her words weren’t as important as the unconditional love she was sending out.

  “Don’t stop,” she said. “What else?”

  Grandma Daney laughed. “I can’t dole out all of my pearls of wisdom in one shot. You’ll have no reason to come back and visit me.”

  “Can I?”

  “Anytime, whether you come with the boys or not,” she said as she paused and looked over toward the open door. She turned her attention back to Via and gave her a billion-dollar smile. “You are such a sweet spirit. Please honor yourself.”

  “Hi, G-Dane.”

  It was Matt, hovering in the doorway. Oh Goddess, not yet.

  “Hi, handsome. Come sit, I have cookies,” Grandma Daney said. Her tone with him was equally kind.

  “I’m sorry, but I need Via. We need to talk.”

  ***

  VIA

  HE WALKED THREE STEPS ahead of her, head down, all the way to the main room. He led her to the window, but an old woman wa
s there, working on a jigsaw puzzle, so he pulled her over to the front corner, next to the partially decorated Christmas tree. Nick was over on the other side of the room, talking to one of the nurses.

  Matt finally looked into her eyes and the connection—usually full of love and understanding—was full of confusion. She felt the brunt of his words before he even opened his mouth.

  “I know where you were last night,” he said. “When I was on the road. I know who you were with.” She heard something in his voice she had never heard before. Fear. “Please tell me you just got high with him.”

  She knew she couldn’t shut down, couldn’t back down. She would lose him forever. Her words felt like mud in her mouth. All she could manage to say was, “Please.”

  He was staring her down. The eyes she loved were harsh and hurtful. He wouldn’t look away.

  “I don’t want to have to do this right now,” he said. “But I can’t wait until January. I can’t wait another hour.”

  “Please,” was all she could say. He really was breaking up with her. Of course, she had expected it. But, there had been a meager speck of hope that she had been clutching onto. Now, she felt it shrinking itself out of existence. She would do anything to save it.

  “I was stupid, I was high,” she said. “It didn’t mean anything.”

  “It means everything to me.” Her hands came up against her chest, perhaps in an attempt to keep her heart in place. She remembered that day at the boat launch when he'd threatened to steal it. Their faces were a foot apart. He was right there, looking right at her. But it was like he wasn’t seeing her anymore.

  The lights of the Christmas tree lit up. Of course they would, she thought. But they weren’t pretty or special, and neither was she. They didn’t have a special message for her. They didn’t want to save or protect her. They were just lights. She wanted to jump onto that goddamned tree and rip it apart. She wanted to strangle herself with those lights, but she knew it would land her in the nearest mental ward—her greatest fear realized. Her father’s daughter.