by S. E. Hall
“Rhett talk to me, man,” Jarrett demands, begging to be caught up.
“Go ahead,” I grimace, waving a careless hand to give Rhett the floor. “I don’t care, talk about it all you want; it’s not happening.”
How do you sell “family” if only one of your kids is there? And how does he convince someone to marry him once they talk about their pasts? He’d literally have to tell her his wife died in bed at 43, no autopsy, his son woke up one day with a cerebral hemorrhage that left him with special needs and his daughter hates him and plots ways to convict or kill him. “I do” would not be the next words out of a sane woman’s mouth. Which means she’s as bat-shit crazy evil as he is and NOT COMING NEAR MY BROTHER!
“Lizzie, right here, my eyes, love.” Cannon turns my head for me, demanding I come out of my own head and look at him. “In for me,” he pauses, “out for you. One more, in for me,” he smiles at me, “out for you. Okay, now—”
“What was that hypnotist shit? Teach me, too, I’ve been wigging since I got the call.” Rhett rambles, running a shaky hand through his hair.
“It’s called breathing, bro. I’ll teach you later, now shut the fuck up,” Jarrett says, then turns. “Sorry, Cannon, please continue.”
“I was gonna ask Lizzie, can your father do this? Legally, per agreement, whatever. Does he even have the option?”
“He gets 24 hours every other holiday, ten weekends, and a single two week block. So yes, he can. He’s barely used any of his time and never cared before, he’s just cashing in now to sell ‘family values,’” I air quote harshly, blanching my knuckles, “in his campaign. And possibly, to show new wifey that he tries and I’m the problem. Doesn’t matter, he’s not taking Conner out of state for two weeks with some fill-in family, probably MANSON, that I don’t know. I’ll leave, take Conner, and run before I allow it.”
“Well, we can’t solve anything tonight,” Cannon concludes and exhales, strained. “You guys go do your show. Lizzie needs a night of solid, peaceful rest, and we’ll regroup in the morning. Sound good?” He looks to each of us, seeking acceptance or a better idea.
We all agree with half-hearted nods and murmured agreements and I trudge to Conner’s room while they pack up and head out. “Have a good show, boys, love you!” I call back, faking enthusiasm.
“Watch her phone, he comes up as DIE DICK. Don’t let her answer it ‘til she speaks with her attorney,” I hear Rhett whisper to Cannon. They forget I’m Conner’s sister; that comes with werewolf hearing and a keenly developed sixth sense. He could have signed it and I would’ve heard him.
Unless, of course, they’re planning top-secret on stage serenades. Then, somehow, I’m oblivious. That one still perplexes me.
Exhausted, mentally and physically, I fall face first into Conner’s bed, fully clothed, legs hanging over the end, not giving a damn. When it rains, it pours. And this whole day has been a shit storm of epic proportions. I was supposed to be out on my first real date, with Cannon, no less, right now, then doing a show with my best friends, concluding with arranging the next one day Satan could visit with Conner. And look where I’m at instead, as far from said plans as possible without being on another fucking planet.
***
Why do I keep waking up in Conner’s bed, having to piece together previous blocks of time and events? Wasn’t there a movie like this—ignorant chick was being drugged, losing blocks of time, and it took her the whole flick to catch on? I remember thinking what a dumbass, yet look at me now.
Light cuts through the darkened room and I wince from the sudden intrusion, shielding my eyes with one hand.
“You need anything, babe?” It’s Cannon, his voice hushed and kind, checking on me.
“What time is it? Where’s Conner?” I start to rise, pushing back the covers, but he hurries to me and stops my progress with a gentle hand on my shoulder.
“Everyone’s still out, you only slept about an hour. Just relax, I can take care of anything that needs it. Lizzie,” his lips find my forehead, first a kiss, then rubbing lightly back and forth never breaking contact, “I know you don’t trust easily, but I mean this. Any time you wanna treat yourself to a well-deserved break—nap, movie, whatever—I will make Conner my number one priority. So anytime you start to panic that you turned your head, just stop and trust. I picked up where you left off.”
“Why?” It escapes a hopeful, but disbelieving, whisper.
The hand on my shoulder gradually slides across my collarbone, then up my neck to cup the back of my head. He inhales sharply, blowing it out warm on my skin, before his own forehead replaces his lips against mine. “I don’t believe in magic or luck or fate. I know what you’re thinking, but I only give astrology some thought because, well, God made the stars. And I do believe in destiny, because that’s just a fancy word for what was planned anyway. But above all, I believe in instinct, the personal GPS you were born with. To me, instinct is the only tool you have when others try to mess up the ultimate plan already laid out for you. Don’t let them pull you off track, just follow your GPS. And Lizzie,” he cradles my cheek and tilts my head up, “all my instincts tell me to covet and cherish you fiercely, with each breath, and work harder to make you mine. Each and every time you try and push me away, to put that guard of yours back up, I need to hold on tighter, chase faster. Until my arms are the ones you want to run into.”
Despite my struggle, my eyelids flutter, my mouth goes dry, and my pulse accelerates to dangerous speeds; he’s more than lyrical...he’s intoxicating. I stay silent, for no response I would utter could do justice for all the things he makes me feel, the most prominent of which is safe.
“Say something,” he whispers on my lips, where his own now tease softly.
“So you don’t really believe in sirens?”
His gentle laugh is contagious, and I join him, but more so because of all I could have said...that’s what popped out...and I actually write lyrics.
“I do now.”
***
I’m lying in Cannon’s arms, my head on his shoulder as he strokes my back rhythmically, when Conner bursts through the bedroom door.
“Oh no, Cannon likes my bed too?” He frumps, stomping his foot.
I sit up while Cannon pauses our show, both us battling snickers. “No, Bubs, we’re just watching a movie while we waited for you to get back. You wanna finish it with us?” I pat the bed beside me.
“No.” But he sits down beside us anyway. “Bethy, is Cannon your husband?”
I snort with laughter; my brother and the things that come out of his mouth; the purest joy in my life. “No, Conner, he’s my good friend and he’s watching a movie with me.”
“That’s good. Because girls aren’t supposed to be in bed with boys that’s not their husbands. Mom said.”
Warm blood in my veins stops, turning icy cold, racking my body with an eerie shiver. Cannon immediately senses my apprehension, twisting to make the conversation a circle and curling an arm low, subtly behind my waist.
“What do you mean, Con? When did Mom say that?”
He’s probably just taking words of advice she’d given, probably something along the lines of “no sex before you’re married,” and repeating them in “his” version...but the little voice in my head coerces me to dig deeper.
“I don’t know.” He pops his shoulders and suddenly jumps up to go investigate his fish tank.
“Do you have your phone in here?” I whisper in Cannon’s ear. “Record this without distracting him.”
I’m running purely on instinct right now. I wait for him to dig the phone out of his pocket and wink at me that he’s ready, then I try again with my brother.
“Conner, can you come sit down and talk to me, please?”
He sighs over-dramatically and drops back down on the mattress.
“Bubs, when did Mom tell you about husbands and beds?”
“She didn’t tell me, Bethy, she told dad’s friend. ‘That’s my husband and my bed, you
tramp! At least have the decency to keep it out of my home!’ She was mad.”
Years—nothing—then out of nowhere, and on today of all days, he’d just literally mimicked an exact memory, quoting the words of my mother; he even changed his voice to imitate her. I’m vibrating with anger at watching almost firsthand what went on in that house, but more with anticipation, hoping greatly that the recollections continue, and lead me to conclusions I’ve suspected all along. “What happened next, Bub?” I peep, scared but longing for more of the story.
“And then I tried to hug Mom because she was crying. Dad was screaming at her. He made—” he stops, fists clenching as his face reddens. “Dad was making Mom cry. He was being mean to her.”
Cannon scoots flush against me, his fingertips digging into my hip reassuring me.
“You’re doing great, Conner. I love your awesome memory. You’re so smart,” I encourage him and take a deep, bracing breath. “What else happened?”
“I told him to leave Mom alone. I wanted to hug her, Bethy. Dad only had on his underwear.” He laughs. “Mom said she wanted a divorce.”
My eyes dart to Cannon’s lap, making sure his phone is recording all this. Finally, some information, some clue what the hell I missed, the pivotal push to my family’s demise. I could cry, but just as easily jump for joy, which seems deranged at first, but no...the not knowing has been the hardest part.
“Where was Dad’s,” cringe, “friend then?”
“She left, but not in her underwear anymore.”
“And what did Dad say next, Conner, about the divorce?”
“He was very, very mad. He said loud stuff. He broke your pony picture on the wall. Are you sad? I’ll get you a new one.”
What is he…? It hits me like a bolt of lightning, kinda like his memories pick and choose when to flash in his mind. At the top of our grand staircase was a landing area, a central spot shaped almost like an octagon, with several doors to the various rooms. In that landing were two mahogany sofa tables along the wall, decorated with pictures, flowers, and such. The far left one held a picture of me, about seven years old, atop my pony, Dusty, in a black frame. I can picture it now as clear as if it was right in front of me.
“Did he throw the picture at the wall, Con?”
He gestures affirmatively, but I need the words recorded, so I clarify.
“Yes, he did?”
Peering at me with troubled, pouty eyes, he answers, “Yes, sorry, Sister. I’ll get you another one.”
“It’s okay.” I reach over and pat his leg. “I’m not sad, promise.”
“Mom didn’t want him breaking your stuff. She was even gonna call the police!” His face and voice become animated. “And Dad chased her over his dead body and then Mom went to Heaven.”
Wait, now I’m confused. My mom died in her sleep, long after I returned from camp. I thought this fight happened while I was gone? I’m usually able to follow anything Conner says, but I’m lost here.
“Bethy, I’m tired. Can I have my bed now?”
“Oh, sure, sorry we’ll get out of your way.” I’d like to keep him talking, of course, but I don’t need it sounding like I’m “guiding” him on the recording. And, I’m puzzled now, no idea what to even ask next. Cannon and I rise and Conner scurries to the middle of the bed, huddling under his covers. “You want me to watch a different movie with you?” I ask him warmly, somewhat worried this had been too much.
“No, I wanna go to sleep. See you in the morning. Cannon, can we cook breakfast?”
Cannon has to clear his throat he’s been quiet so long. “Of course. Just wake me up when you’re ready.”
Chapter 16
I quietly shut Conner’s door and turn to find Bruce, who never stays on the bus at night, sitting at the table, the usual four lines of worry on his brow grown to six. “You heard,” I state, his face telling me the answer. Taking a seat across from him, I prop my elbows on the table and let my head fall into my hands.
I hear Cannon set a cup, coffee no doubt, in front of Bruce then feel him scoot in beside me, our thighs touching.
“Thank you, Cannon,” my uncle says politely, full of respect. “Elizabeth, ah,” he holds up a hand to halt me, my head flying up to contest the use of that name. “Elizabeth Hannah Carmichael, your mama, my beautiful sister, gave you that name. All the time growing up,” his voice cracks and he ducks his head, “she always said when she had a daughter, she was gonna name her Elizabeth. Every single one of her dolls, all named Elizabeth.” He shakes his head with a chuckling smile, the reminiscing clear in his glossy eyes. “So instead of hating it because of him, try embracing it because of her.”
Well, when he puts it that way.
“And quit holding back your tears, young lady. You’re not half as hard and bitchy as you’d like to think.”
“Agreed,” Cannon throws in, squeezing my thigh under the table.
“What Conner told you, that’s a big breakthrough, on the day you needed it most.” My uncle smiles at me with a brow lifting in message. “My sister, your mama, has been at work here today.” My flesh tightens, goosebumps breaking out over every inch of me. “Here’s what we’re gonna do. I’ll stay on the bus with Conner tonight and you take my hotel room. Get a good night’s sleep and in the morning, where he can’t hear or be under foot, call your lawyer and tell him what that bastard father of yours is scheming. Let him know what Conner remembered tonight too. See what he says you should do next.”
I nod resolutely, knowing it’s the ideal plan of action. But one thing’s still niggling at me. “I’m afraid the credibility of Conner’s memory will be doubted, because something’s not quite right. It couldn’t have happened the way he said. I was home when mom died. There was no big fight, she just went to bed and didn’t wake up. My d—my father wasn’t even home when I finally went to check on her that morning and she was,” Cannon curls me tight into his chest, “she was already gone; she was cold and stiff. So,” I choke, “so cold.”
“If I may,” Cannon interrupts humbly, my uncle apparently urging him to continue as I don’t flinch from his snug hold on me, face buried in the clean smelling shirt encasing his solid chest. “As an outsider and a new set of eyes, I have some thoughts, if you can help me piece some things together. But only if you’re able to.” He kisses the top of my head. “Just say the word and we’ll wait. I can’t see you like you were earlier again.”
“How was she earlier?” Bruce barks in fury, causing me to flinch against Cannon.
“Easy,” Cannon placates him. “Lizzie was telling me a little about all this on our walk and had a pretty bad panic attack. She blacked out for…well, for too long. And I’m not gonna lie to ya, I slapped her to bring her back.” His head dips much like his voice and he runs a hand through his hair. “Nothing else was working.” He lifts his head and looks Bruce in the eyes. “I needed to apologize to you, too, ‘cause I told you I’d never hurt her.” He returns his hold around me, more constricted, brooking no chance of escape. Furthest thing from my mind. “But I did, and I’m sorry. It wasn’t in anger, only desperation, and I’ll take whatever you hit me with like a man. It won’t hurt half as much as having to touch her like I did.” His chest rumbles against my cheek with his prolonged exhale.
“I appreciate that, son, for telling me, and for helping her. I’ve long since figured out I have nothing to worry about with you. You’re a good man. And what I said before, well—”
“We don’t have to rehash that,” Cannon cuts him off, sparking my curiosity enough that I lift my head and eye him suspiciously.
“Rehash what?”
“Nothing.” Cannon shakes his head and shoots Bruce “a look,” attempting to pull mine back down to him.
“Nu-uh,” I protest, holding my head firmly upright. “Tell me.”
“Your uncle was concerned you might be a rebound for me,” he mumbles, looking away.
There it is again, that word.
“Pretty Woman,” I mutter ab
sently and his head spins back, molten brown eyes studying mine.
“Instinct,” he whispers back, dripping with seriousness, sensuality.
“Pretty Instinct.” I sigh, thinking it’s our perfect title. Maybe I’ll write a song called precisely that.
My uncle groans and his bones pop and crack as he stands. “Let’s get you to the hotel, girl. I’ll come fetch ya in the morning after you’ve had time to make your calls.
“Um, Bruce,” Cannon shifts me gently so he too can stand, “I’ll take Lizzie, and,” he refuses to look away from my uncle’s critical scowl, but does scratch his head with an apologetic, nervous twitch to his mouth, “I’ll stay with her, get her back in the morning. Do me a favor, though? I promised Conner we’d make breakfast. So can you do that, or hold him off ‘til I get here?”
No way I’m looking up from my lap, the heat of my blush at what my uncle must be thinking fully aflame.
“Well,” Bruce drawls out, surely to prolong my agony, “She’s a twenty-three-year-old woman; done a fine job taking care of herself so far. All right, then, guess I’ll go make Conner scoot over and see you kids in the morning. Don’t be late. I don’t cook and we’re off to Lincoln next, eight hour trip with no stops, and three shows there. Big ones—Adamo’s, Jenning’s Jukebox, and The Fieldhouse. Need everyone in top form. Night,” he says as he closes Conner’s door behind him.
“He’s gone. You can look up, my shy little Siren,” Cannon whispers in a teasing voice.
“My instinct is telling me to kick your ass. I cannot believe you told my uncle we were gonna sleep in a hotel room together!” I pick up the nearest thing I spot, the box of Uno cards, and chuck it at his head.
He dodges stealthily and laughs, moving in fast to grasp my hand. “Come on, grab your stuff and let’s go. I want you calm, rested, and confident to handle things in the morning. Together, we’re gonna start eliminating all your burdens, worries, and issues one by one ‘til we get you sublimely happy, and all mine, of course.”
There he goes again with the “mine, happily ever after, do-da” junk. My reality isn’t the kind found in storybooks, and as badly as I want to, I can’t shut off the cynic in my head. Cannon’s wearing it down, though; I so hope he keeps up the fight.