by Devon Scott
He stares at her, and she bends in to kiss his lips gingerly.
“Can I have a moment alone with my husband?” she asks.
“Come on, Zack,” Nana says. “Let’s go find the cafeteria. Your Pop Pop owes us some dinner anyway.”
Zack jumps up.
“Pop Pop, do you think the cafeteria has pizza? You know I love pizza. But not that kind with the cheese in the crust. That’s just gross. My mommy says that stuffed crust isn’t good for you. She says it makes people fat. How can pizza make a person fat, Pop Pop? It’s pizza! That makes no sense to me. Right?”
Michael’s father raises his eyebrows at his grandson as they walk out with Nana. The door closes, and Michael and Kennedy are finally alone.
Chapter 81
“Quite an ordeal,” she says.
Michael nods.
“How are you feeling?” she asks.
“Sore as hell. My side is killing me, and my face feels like someone took a razor to it.”
“I’ll call the nurse in a minute, get them to up the Demerol.”
Michael looks at his wife for a full minute before speaking.
“Are you okay?”
Kennedy nods.
“Yeah, I’m fine. We made it through. It was gray skies for a while, but now the sun is shining through the clouds once again. I can see the sun, thank goodness. I’m just glad we’re done with him.”
Michael processes what’s been said and what has not.
“Did he . . . Did he hurt you?”
“No. When I shot him, the gun hit me in the stomach, but that’s about it. I am so glad you insisted on the shotgun in the bedroom. Without it, I might not be standing here now.”
“You shot him.” It’s not a question, but a statement.
Kennedy smiles. “Yeah, I did. Pop Pop said he’s proud of me.”
“I am, too. You did what you had to do. Protected yourself and your family. You protected our son. Thank you for that.”
Kennedy swallows.
She takes a seat on the side of the bed.
“I have something else to say. Can you listen to me and not interrupt?”
“Where am I gonna go?” he asks with a grin.
Her expression grows serious.
“I need to explain to you what happened.” She pauses for a second, then continues. “Between Joe and me.”
Michael swallows but says nothing.
Kennedy carries on.
“Do you remember seven years ago when you were mugged?”
Michael instantly frowns.
Suddenly, a million images rush to the surface, like a tidal wave. It crashes into his chest, making him heave in pain.
Seven years ago, late one Friday night, he’d been in the Adams Morgan section of the District, having beers with some college buddies who were in town for a conference.
Afterward, heading to his car on a darkened street, three young black males, angry at the clean-shaven, sharply dressed black man who seemingly had everything they did not, had attacked him.
He had been savagely beaten when his wallet revealed only thirty-five dollars.
They beat him because of their intense anger and hatred for anything not like them.
He spent two weeks in the hospital.
Concussion, dislocated jaw, multiple lacerations about the face and body.
When he got discharged, the fury burning inside him propelled him to one of the roughest sections of Washington, D.C.
Where a twenty-year-old crack addict who looked fifty sold him a handgun for a hundred dollars. Offered to suck his dick for another five.
Michael took his weapon and went on the hunt.
Searching for the thugs who had maimed him.
Ready to maim them back, with 9mm heat.
But he got caught in a routine traffic stop late one night on Eighteenth Street, blocks from where he had been savagely beaten.
They found the loaded gun beneath his seat.
A loaded handgun in D.C. meant five years.
Mandatory.
No questions asked.
“Remember the night you got stopped?” Kennedy asks. “The night they found the gun?”
Michael exhales.
That night was the worst of his life. He saw every single thing he had worked so hard for spilling down the drain. His wife. His career. Everything dear to him. A conviction meant jail time. Sixty months. Michael knew he couldn’t do five years. No way he could last inside that long.
“You were arrested on a Friday night. Couldn’t make bail until Monday morning. Those were the longest sixty hours of my entire life.”
“Mine, too.” Michael remembers. His voice is close to a whisper.
“You spent the entire weekend behind bars. I spent the entire time trying to get you released. I called your boss at your law firm. . . .”
Michael’s eyes grow wide.
“I didn’t tell you because I knew you didn’t want them to know. But I had very few options. And we had precious little time.”
“Frank, he knew?”
“Yes. I brought him in to help. It turned out there wasn’t much he could do, but he promised to make some calls—to judges he knew, and a few prosecutors, to see if some sort of plea deal could be reached.”
Michael sighs audibly.
“Wow. He never said a word to me.”
“I told him not to. He couldn’t guarantee results, so I had to do something else. I couldn’t let you go to jail. Couldn’t stand the thought of being without you. It would have killed me.”
Michael stares at his wife. He’s no longer breathing. The air is caught in his throat.
“I reached out to Joe. I had no choice, Michael. I had run out of options. I figured Joe could fix this. Would fix it . . . for me.
“You need to understand, Michael. I was desperate. I can’t even explain to you how I felt. It was as if I were standing on the edge of a towering cliff with a herd of stampeding buffalo on my tail, and my only option in order to survive was to jump. We had our glorious life in front of us, and suddenly this thing threatened to shut it down cold. I couldn’t let that happen. I wouldn’t let it ruin us.”
“Joe fixed it,” Michael utters.
For three seconds she is silent. Then, with an audible exhale of breath, she responds.
“Yes. He made it go away. Talked to the arresting officer. Went down to the station and did something with the gun and the paperwork. I don’t know the details. Didn’t want to know. All I cared about is, come Monday morning, you walked out a free man. A man without a gun-possession charge hanging over his head.”
Michael processes her words.
“You traded—”
“Michael—I didn’t sleep with him. But, yeah, I was intimate with him. I did what I had to do to get my husband back.”
Kennedy sits forward.
“And to tell you the truth, the way I feel about you, the love that I have for you as my husband, I’d do it again. If that’s what I have to do in order to keep something from happening to you again, then, yeah, I’d do it again. Think what you like, but you mean the world to me. I can’t ever imagine living my life without you by my side.”
Michael swallows. For a moment he says nothing. It is just the silence between them.
“So, Zack. He’s—”
“Michael Handley, if you ever, ever, EVER hint that the little boy out there is not one hundred and fifty percent your son, so help me God!”
The tears sprout and meander down her cheeks. Michael reaches out and gingerly wipes them away.
“I am sorry, baby,” he says. “Very sorry for doubting you.”
Kennedy nods, blinking and wiping at the corner of her eyes.
“Just say you’ll love me for all of eternity.”
“I will love you for all of eternity,” Michael repeats.
“And mean it.”
“I mean it. I’ve missed you.”
“Yeah? Care to show me just how much?” There is a dazzle to her
eyes that Michael finds irresistible.
Kennedy and Michael embrace.
At that exact moment, the door opens and Zack rushes in.
He jumps up onto the bed, almost crushing Michael with his weight. Michael yelps like a hurt puppy.
“Sorry, Daddy. Mommy, look what Nana bought me! It’s a superhero.”
He holds a molded plastic doll proudly out to his parents.
“See, he carries two guns in a holster just in case one jams, and a shotgun in a pouch on his shoulder.”
Michael eyes his mother, who has just entered with Pop Pop, with disdain.
“This is so cool. And if you move him like this,” Zack illustrates, twisting the molded plastic limbs, “he can stand on his own. You have to raise his arms up like this so he doesn’t lose his balance. See, he’s totally the bestest! Can I take him to school and show my friends? Please?”
“We’ll see.”
“Mrs. Knopfson always says we can bring in stuff for show-and-tell. Hey, I have a great idea. You and Mommy should come to show and tell with me. I could tell my class about Mommy shooting the bad man and Daddy running him over with the car! How’s that for real superheroes?” Zack starts laughing. “Man, Jeremy will be so jealous when he hears what you did, Dad. His mom and dad never do cool stuff like that!”
Michael stares in amazement at his son. At this moment he feels an intense rush of emotion—love—toward each person in the room. He wishes he could walk over to each one right this second, hold them tight, show them just how much they mean to him, and never let them go.
Instead he grins, gritting his teeth as he attempts to sit up in the bed.
Kennedy shakes her head and leans forward. Michael winces as her cheek brushes against his.
The tears begin to flow, winding down Michael’s nose and cheek.
And he considers that there is no place he’d rather be than right here, even if it means in this uncomfortable hospital bed with tubes and God knows what else inserted inside his veins, with his lovely wife, his precious son, and his incredible parents, those whom Michael loves the most in this crazy, messed-up world, all safely by his fractured side.
Epilogue
One Year Later . . .
The azure waters off Providenciales of the Turks and Caicos Islands contrasts sharply with its white, pristine sands. It is half past nine, and the sun is climbing high into an already breathtaking sky.
They sit with their feet in the warming sands not twenty yards from the water’s edge, finishing up breakfast.
Eggs Benedict, Belgian waffles, blueberry-filled pancakes, fried sausage, well-cooked, hickory-smoked bacon.
Their plates removed by a cute, attentive waitress, they drink strong Mediterranean coffee while Zack, scuba mask and snorkel already donned, his feet stuffed into oversized fins, stomps impatiently around their table.
“For the hundredth time, Zackary Christopher Handley, you cannot go in the water unsupervised.” Kennedy is wearing a turquoise bikini, halter top and low-rise bottoms courtesy of Victoria’s Secret. Her hair is cut short in the style of Halle Berry in Die Another Day. Michael is sporting a pair of printed oversized boardshorts with dark Ray-Bans and a khaki surf hat. He chuckles at his son as he observes him tossing a mock tantrum.
“Why don’t you go play over there in the sand?” Michael suggests. “Mommy will take you snorkeling as soon as we’re finished.”
Zack huffs and puffs, his eyes rolling into the back of his head. “You guys take way too long!”
“We are in no rush, young man,” Kennedy says. “We’re on vacation, remember?”
“You promised me a massage before lunch,” Zack retorts. “Hello?”
Michael busts out laughing.
Kennedy simply shakes her head.
“He is so your son,” she says.
“Whatever.”
Zack plods off, the scuba fins making forward movement across the sand extremely difficult, especially for an eight-year-old. But he is determined to get as far away from his parents as possible. When he’s gone about twenty yards down the beach, Kennedy calls out to him.
“That’s enough, honey.”
“Aww, Mommy!”
They sip their coffee, enjoying the momentary peace and serenity.
“I could get used to this,” Kennedy says.
“Amen.”
A few moments pass between them. They stare out at the water. The back-and-forth rhythm of the rushing tide is hypnotic.
Michael breaks the silence.
“I’m horny.”
Kennedy exhales sharply.
“You know just how to—”
“I know—fuck up a wet dream!”
“Basically.”
“I’m just saying . . .”
Kennedy cocks her head to one side. Lowers her voice.
“Didn’t I take care of you last night?” she asks demurely.
“Yep. But that was last night. Today is a brand-new day, baby!”
Kennedy shakes her head.
“I’ll see what I can do. In between snorkeling and your son’s massage.”
“See that you do,” Michael says. “I have needs, you know.”
They both laugh.
Several more moments of uninterrupted silence pass between them.
“Question,” Michael says.
“Shoot.”
Michael takes a few seconds to frame what’s on his mind. “Do you think our lifestyle will change as a result of what happened?”
Kennedy stares at him.
“You mean, do I think we’ll continue to sleep with other people after what went down with that madman?”
“That’s what I’m asking.”
Kennedy looks away. She relaxes her stare, and it drifts far away, out to the horizon and beyond. She knows that beyond her vision lies Haiti and the Dominican Republic.
“I don’t know,” she finally replies. “It’s not something I’ve made a decision about.”
“Okay.”
“You’re mad.” Statement, not question.
“Not mad.”
“Disappointed.”
Michael turns to her.
“I wouldn’t even say I’m disappointed. I loved what we had—the freedom to express who we are. To define ourselves as sexually free beings. Yeah, I’d miss that if we couldn’t go back, but your safety and that of our son is my first priority. Nothing else even comes close.”
Kennedy smiles.
“I’m glad to hear you say that.”
Michael nods.
“Not saying no,” Kennedy says. “Just saying we need to give it some serious thought before jumping back into the frying pan.”
“Agreed,” Michael says.
“I’ll tell you one thing,” she says, draining the last of her coffee, “if we do decide to play, I’m instituting new rules.”
Michael’s eyebrow rises.
“Oh, really?”
“Yeah. Rule number one—no married folks. And nobody in a committed relationship. Only singles allowed.”
“Okay.” Michael pretends to be taking notes.
“Rule number two—ID and background check for everyone before we do anything. You hear me?”
Michael grins.
“Go take your son snorkeling.”
Kennedy rises, kisses her husband long and hard on the mouth before raising her voice.
“Zack, you ready?” she asks.
“YESSS!” he exclaims, bringing his fist into his waist.
Michael watches the two of them go.
His woman.
His little man.
He signals the cute waitress for a refill.
The Mediterranean coffee is good. Smells of coca, cinnamon, and a pinch of orange peel assault his nostrils as she pours the hot brew.
The waitress leaves, and Michael is alone with his thoughts.
They are good thoughts.
Peaceful and serene.
“Excuse me.”
Michael looks up in
to the brilliant sunshine.
A gorgeous dark-skinned woman in a stunning white off-the-shoulder one-piece is standing beside him. Michael holds his hand to his forehead in order to keep from squinting.
“Hello,” she begins.
Her accent he can’t place. British, Australian—he isn’t sure.
“Hi,” he responds.
“May I join you?” she asks, displaying a wonderful set of straight white teeth and full, sensual lips.
“Sure, I guess.”
The woman sits, folding her well-oiled legs. They go on for days, and Michael has to concentrate hard not to stare.
“You have a lovely family,” she says.
Michael smiles.
“I observed the three of you earlier during breakfast.”
“Ahhh.”
“Your wife is beautiful. Quite striking.”
The woman is grinning, and Michael begins to laugh.
“What’s so funny?” she asks.
He shrugs.
“I was just thinking. Never mind.” He waves a hand away.
“No, go ahead. Tell me, please.”
She pats his arm playfully. And that accent. Lord.
Michael licks his lips.
“You said my wife is beautiful. I was about to say, ‘You should see her naked.’ ”
Their eyes lock for a brief moment, and then Michael chuckles, enjoying his private joke.
“I’d like that,” the beautiful dark-skinned woman retorts with a straight face.
Michael considers this creature before him.
Breathtaking. Sensual.
He sips his coffee, contemplating a suitable response.
Finally he sets his mug down.
“You here . . . alone?”
“Yes.”
“Too bad we’re not. Our son is with us,” he says, gesturing with his thumb toward the waves.
“I see,” she says.
“But if we were alone, we’d need to see some ID,” he retorts playfully.
“We?” she asks innocently.
“My wife and I. We’re a package deal.”
She doesn’t miss a beat.
“Sure. It’s back in my room.”
Michael stares unblinkingly, his breath for a moment arrested, his lips curling into a radiant and consenting smile.
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