by Amarie Avant
Why am I stuck on Lincoln? That deranged bastard, Peterson, was right about Lincoln Zager playing me. Yet my heart is no less divided.
The door next to the room I had been in opens. Agent Quigley’s mature face is creased with concern.
“Here, please take this,” Agent Quigley says, handing me a bottle of water. Detective Ortiz leans against the doorframe and just stares.
“Thanks,” I mumble, feeling like shit.
They escort me to the escalators that lead toward the main lobby. As we descend, Agent Quigley says, “I appreciate your time. For now, I'll put Ortiz to some good use. Hopefully he has proper notes on Murrell’s disappearance so that I am not much of a bother.”
Ortiz’s eyes narrow somewhat. He takes it as a diss. But the Fed smiles while stepping from the rapidly moving ramp.
“I will, of course, need to interview you at a later time,” Quigley assures. “But for now, let's get you back to the hospital.”
On the ride to the hospital, Agent Quigley does his best to change the subject of what had just transpired. He acknowledges how horrible my life and Hosea Murrell’s life must have become the day Jeffrey Peterson entered our lives. Charges were being added to Peterson’s pending case with regard to Regina and Everett Godwin.
There’s no moment to breathe, let alone succumb to the tears that wish to fall. As soon as Agent Quigley escorts me back to the car, I receive a text from my mom.
“Hosea’s awake.”
Ironically, I seem to never be there for him.
The sun is setting. We pass by the Sky Bar on the way back to the hospital. They escort me through the hospital service quarters. I get out of the SUV and rush into the building, and don’t stop until just outside of his room.
Mind still racing, I watch as Mr. Murrell, who has brushed his miniature afro to one side, leans against the side of a bed railing. This man, this seemingly unshakeable mountain, has been moved to tears.
Dad is beside me, holding me up as my knees almost cave. “Baby girl, I don’t think you should…”
“I have to go inside, Daddy.”
He takes my hand, mumbling about there only being one person allowed in the room at a time. Mr. Murrell sees us and he starts for the door. He pats my shoulder before passing by.
The room is decorated for Christmas with cutouts of fir trees and angels that the younger patients in the children's ward colored. There are various machines making continuous noises. The full-sized bed is angled somewhat. And then I see Hosea Murrell for the first time. My hand tightens in my father’s so that I do not gasp.
Like a baby in a crib, the bed almost swallows him whole.
“Siobhan,” he utters my name.
God, have I missed his voice. I let go of my father’s hand since he is confined to just the doorway. Almost like a Spike Lee movie, I float inside of the room, my rage being held at bay. If only Hosea had awoken before I saw Jeffrey Peterson. I would’ve spat in that motherfucker’s face.
I rub a hand against his face which is even more sunken in than it appears, due to the stubble on his cheek.
“You are here,” he says.
“Where else would I be, silly?” I offer a kind smile, though inside my body is shouting that Lincoln is missing in my world. Wow, the situation has reversed. Lincoln was in my life, and my heart ached for my friend. Now, the muscle within my chest cavity has a dull throbbing for none other than the liar.
“You kept me alive…” His voice is a haggard breath on each word.
His words stun me and a fresh wave of guilt washes over me because of some sort of underlying feelings for Lincoln I'm unable to shake. I ask him not to speak just as one of the machines begins to go haywire.
A nurse in Despicable Me minion scrubs steps into the room. She smiles at me while moving with urgency to him. “All right, all right, Mr. Murrell. Ma'am, if you don't mind. He's just a bit excited is all.”
I backtrack out of the room. He's coughing so hard I fear he may break a bone.
***
Last night, Mr. Murrell and I took turns watching Hosea. This morning, I feel someone staring as I awaken from the recliner chair next to Hosea’s bed.
“Don’t mind me,” he forces the words out, eyes twinkling.
I smile, pushing the recliner into a seated position. “How ya doing?”
He shrugs. “Alive, you’re here, nothing else matters.”
I nod, doing my best to keep my gaze on his as the guilt of allowing him to slip away from me takes over. For the next hour or so, we sit like this. Hosea having difficulty talking or just so accustomed to not talking at all, listens in while I recount our younger years. Then he’s sleeping again.
I receive a few texted photos from Tamara of Théo at the party last night, with captions about how much fun he had and for me not to worry.
This is the first time in my career, I haven’t placed worry over tragedy. I used to cling to work when the shit hit the fan.
***
“Siobhan, you’ve got to go take a shower, lie in a warm bed,” my mom mentions as she, my father, and I sit in the cafeteria over breakfast.
I was already opening the packet of Greek yogurt, when they arrived. “Aren’t you guys going to eat?”
Mom shakes her head. “No, we had breakfast at the Ritz. Lincoln has –”
“Stop, don’t bring him up.” I glance at my father, but he looks away.
“But I think I will. Most of it is a reminder about his thoughtfulness and generosity. He has offered us a hotel and left his card open for us until we are ready to leave. Deon is leaving. Hell, the man has already surpassed paying for our monthly mortgage a few times over. At the rate you're going, he could just purchase us a damn condo out here. Not to mention Lenard’s,” she says of Hosea’s father. “Lincoln made sure he was on the earliest flight here, and he’s had a few hours of sleep. For now, I am going to move my things to your room and hopefully interest you into taking a damn shower.”
“I don’t need a shower. I’ve washed all my hot spots and done some tests,” I reply. Damn, I've been rubbing sudsy paper towels over my entire body just to get a clean feeling.
“You have too much of your father in you.”
After a breath, I make my case. “I'll leave soon enough. I just haven't had a real sit down with Hosea yet. Mom, Christmas Eve is two days away. Go home with Dad.”
“Nope. If you’re hell bent on staying in L.A. I am too.”
“Daddy!” I gasp. “How will you survive?”
Since he didn’t take the bait, I bring him into the conversation and recall what Lincoln said about gentlemen not arguing with their woman. “Girl, I have managed without your mother on a few occasions during our marriage. Besides, I’d gladly eat TV dinners to ensure my daughter has someone to turn to, seeing that you do a good job alienating yourself these days.”
“She always has been more than capable with pushing people away,” Mom tosses.
“I’m not alienating myself. And I spoke with Dr. Tanner this morning. Hosea can start physical therapy in a few days. I don’t plan on leaving this hospital until he can walk.”
***
Mom and I drop Dad off at LAX the day prior to Christmas Eve. Instead of home, Mom forces him to get a ticket to Dallas in order to spend the holiday with my aunt and her family, which is usually our Thanksgiving ritual.
On the way back to the hospital, Mom drives us to the Ritz-Carlton.
“I have to get back to Hosea,” I grumble as we head to the elevators.
“Trust me, there is nothing you can do for him.” Mom gives the elevator button a hard push.
“But…”
“Baby girl, you worry the horns off of a billy goat!” Mom shakes her head at me as the doors swoosh open. "It's almost Christmas Eve, honey, we are on our way to your room. You will take a bath, a shower, hell, both if the notion moves you. Then you and I will eat something good at one of these five-star restaurants. You will then slumber in a warm bed so the damn ma
id can clean something come morning. Tomorrow, we can head over to Hosea and spend Christmas Eve with him and then Christmas Day with the man you love.”
I blink a few times. After such a lengthy monologue, I assume Mom desires to plan my entire life. Then I ask, “Are you serious right now?”
“Serious as a heart attack.”
At this instant I shut down, and get out of the elevator. We meander through a corridor with silk walls. Mom unlocks the door. I step inside of the room we shared and his scent envelops me.
Instantly I'm transported back to Lincoln and me arriving in Los Angeles. We had to take a red eye flight since Lincoln had been requested in Fort Bragg. We arrived here at 3 a.m., and my eyes would barely pull open as Lincoln paid the bellman.
“No sleep now, Siobhan,” he had said, wrapping his arms around me from behind.
“I need beauty rest,” I grumbled as he bestowed the nape of my neck with kisses.
“Beauty rest, wot?” he exclaimed. “You break the mold for gorgeous, woman. Besides, I was away much of yesterday and I don't think I'll survive through the night without a taste of you.”
“Really, it's almost tomorrow. How about a catnap?”
“Nay.” His tongue twirled in my ear. “I need you now,” he growled.
I livened up, turning around to get my arms around his neck. No amount of money, admiration or praise in the universe could weigh more than being the center of his world.
He was my ocean. Lincoln guided me toward the bed. My gaze was on his, ready for any order he wanted to make.
“Get undressed and lie in the bed.”
“But I want to taste you,” I murmured, mouth pooling with the memory of his similar sweet semen.
“Undress,” he commands once more. “No pouting. I'm merely going to wake you up fully first.”
And my entire body blossomed, pussy percolating for him. Lincoln massaged the inside of my thigh as his lips kissed ever so softly against my clit. He then climbed back up. My body was so achy and brain so fuzzed with the notion of what I wanted more. His mouth or his dick?
Lincoln had tasted my lips with the sweet taste of me in his mouth. “Turn over,” he ordered.
As I aimed to do his bidding, Lincoln massaged softly against my shoulder. His chest pressed against my back. Cock spearing the left bubble of my thick ass cheek. From behind, he placed his hand between my ass cheeks, thumb strumming that sweet, silk patch between my anus and honey hollow.
“Arch that glorious back for me,” he said into my ear.
The small of my back dipped, buttocks round and ready. As my back arched more of his thumb slid inside of me. I pressed back on my knees.
Lincoln laughed at me. “Easy, woman, I’ll be massaging your pussy soon enough.” He continued to knead at my ass. Then he crouched down, nose nudging against my hole, before sliding his tongue ever so softly down and up. Pussy to ass. My legs shook. I arose to my elbows to gather more leverage…
We didn’t fall asleep until first light.
The scene fades. I hurry away from the bed that I shared myself with Lincoln in. Sex is the greatest offering of yourself to a man. But damn it, we were beyond that. I had given myself to him, and he reciprocated. Didn't I have his heart?
I shuffle through my overnight bag for a different body wash to shower with instead of the one Lincoln had packed for the hospital.
In the shower, it's impossible to erase Lincoln from my thoughts. He has tried repeatedly to reach out, but I don't have the strength to listen to his voicemails or even read any of his texts.
Hot water massages over my skin and I focus on Hosea and how he lived for me. Why for me? Why not just for himself? I can't focus on the task at hand for guilt.
I crouch down, arms wrapped about my knees. How do a beg God to return to the life Lincoln Zager and I made for myself? I'm a shitty person.
Memories flood my mind: Lincoln and me running, him offering a witty word of motivation and pawing my ass so I'll give it my all. Hosea and me doing the two-step at an all-black party for my cousin in Dallas, him getting his feet stepped on because we were swimming in champagne, and I was more than tipsy. Me running into Lincoln’s arms when he left Fort Bragg early because my voice worried him. My Christmas Eve tradition with Hosea of baking cookies from scratch and opening just one gift. Then Lincoln spending the time to explain the “holy grail” of comic books, their historical significance, and my eyes bugging out as he told me the million-dollar price tag on his framed collection. Lincoln pausing in the middle of our conversation, gawking at me intently before admonishing how flabbergasted he is that I am so beautiful—he had a knack for doing that on occasion. Lincoln’s testosterone and woodsy cologne that will be forever embedded in my mind. Lincoln. Lincoln. Lincoln.
Lincoln holds my mind captive.
My fingertips are pruned. I arise from my cowardly position and turn off the shower. A cloud of smoke follows as I exit the bathroom with a towel wrapped around me, hair a frizzy mess.
“I should complain if you didn’t leave any hot water for me, but beggars can’t be choosers,” Mom says, pointing a toothbrush in my direction. “Now put on something presentable.”
***
While most people are surrounding a Christmas tree, smiles bright and readying gifts, I have visited the Ritz-Carlton gym which was virtually empty.
I’ve worked out and returned to the room. Mom is snoring so loud it has to be heard for three flights in either direction. After another shower, I don a pair of jeans and a shirt. Then my mom’s Chakha Khan wig to go incognito, after all the news media is painting me as a monster, and I haven't taken up any offers to tell my side of the story. I power my phone on for the first time in a few days. Dad had texted me Lincoln’s room number after I refused to discuss the subject of him.
Is he still here? We had plans to spend Christmas morning in bed. We had even bought a scraggly little Charlie Brown tree and decorated it. Then we had plans to take a private jet ride to Sweden because no matter how luscious it feels waking up in your bed on Christmas, there was something beautiful there he was going to show me. And he had something to tell me too…
I’ve played the game of avoidance for much too long. A stream of messages, voicemail, and texts ping and pong in alert. I don’t have the heart to hear his voice without him standing before me, so I sift through all the notifications for the string of text messages from my father and find his room number.
It takes about ten minutes to find his room which is a few stories down and on the opposite wing. I knock at the door.
A petite brunette opens up, and my heart sinks. He is gone. I’m imposing on this woman’s vacation, business or personal.
“I think I’ve knocked on the wrong door.” I give a pointed smile.
“No, no you haven’t.” Her pale blue gaze is keen. “You’re Siobhan Lowe.”
“No, I’m not.” I subconsciously graze a hand over the wig just to ensure it’s still there. Then I start to back away quickly. Barbara Walters, Lifetime Movie Network, and more are just the beginning of sources coveting the truth about Jeffrey Peterson, Hosea Murrell, Lincoln Zager, and … me. We are more than a nasty love triangle.
“I’m Maggie Zager-Davies. Lincoln is my brother.” She holds the door open, ushering me inside with a smile on her face and a wave of her hand. “I take it Lincoln didn’t mention my name as of yet. That’s okay. It often takes time for him to bring me up.”
“I’m sorry, he didn’t.” I almost feel awkward, but her smile is cheery.
“Please don’t apologize. Our grandfather loved to play his games. Chess with real humans,” she begins.
My eyebrows knit together at this comment. Aside from the educational requirements, Lincoln never… Lincoln rarely mentioned his grandfather.
“Our grandfather put us against each other. Well, perhaps not Lincoln. My brother has always been a favorite. Nevertheless, Lincoln is above the manipulation anyway. Loving mother. Loving me. Grandfather wanted to o
ust our mother from the comp’ny. Firstly, no ladies allowed. Lincoln didn't believe that rubbish. Though we all know our mother is not in her right mind much of the time, Lincoln still made sure the two of us had a place in our family history.”
“Your mother is alive?”
“Yes, Lincoln sees her once a month. I've made a few mistakes with her, so he shelters her and enables her. He will of course introduce you to her soon too. If you forgive him.” She reached out and grabs my hands. “You will forgive him, won't you? Due to our grandfather and his beastly father, we never much got what we wanted as children. Not even half the love we needed.”
I listen intently to every word she says. Whereas Lincoln is more interested in learning a person, Maggie seems more interested in speaking.
“But where did that come from?” Maggie pauses, sighing deeply. “I'm sorry, I've been here a few days with Lincoln. You must be highly aware that communicating with Lincoln is like talking to myself. Anyhow, he told me about you, which is enough for me. He had intentions of introducing us all in Sweden. My children would love to meet you.”
“Oh…” How do I respond, when images of Lincoln and me are fading? There will be no Sweden.
“He's good at surprises. I'm sure he would have brought you up to speed on the way to the most breathtaking place in the world that… ‘Oh, and my sister will also be there as well.’” Maggie gestures for both of us to sit on the couch in the living area. “He’s one of those types who has to feed a person information, if you’re so fortunate enough to be of importance to him. He has major trust issues. I was joking with him just a few days ago that he had to have fallen for you rather hastily, I wasn’t aware of Chrissy until years into… Oh goodness, I’m rambling.”
“I’m listening.” My mouth curves somewhat at the edges. “I have always liked to learn more about Lincoln, so your mentioning that he’s hard to open up means a lot.” It means he loves me if he worked through the discomfort of slowly opening up. And I still lose my mind at just the mention of his name.