by Amarie Avant
I glance around. There is canvas luggage everywhere.
“Lincoln’s already gone,” she mentions. “I’ve been tasked with ensuring all of our belongings make it home. He left for the airport a few hours ago, to meet with a traveler who had a layover at LAX. They were considering trading comic books, and then he’ll be off for a year or so.”
“He’ll be off?” For a year. That clogs my throat as it sinks in.
She chuckles. “I’d say a year at the very least. Well, this company could run itself really, but Lincoln likes to have a hand in everything. We signed the paperwork for me to run Zager Manufacturing for eighteen months. So I’m assuming due to that duration of time, he’s venturing to Indonesia. There he does an honest days’ work, and receives some sort of barbaric training as pay or on occasion, he just gets to meditate. I still can’t fathom why he must do yoga on a different continent.”
“Oh.”
“His plane leaves at noon.” Maggie says this a few more times during our conversation.
When I step out of the room, I glance at my iPhone. It's a quarter past eight. There's more than ample time to have a chat with him.
Should I go or should I call him? Or am I too much in my feelings and need to wait a while longer?
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Lincoln
My grandfather caught me reading Captain America volume 3 when I was only thirteen years old, and he’d had a stack of educational material for me. I had a private instructor and wasn’t allowed to attend school. The vast estate we lived in had ample room for a physical instructor, in order to keep me of sound body, sound mind, and sound soul, Grandfather always said.
It was a lonely way of living since Maggie had been sent to boarding school for much of the time. The desire to pit her against me had begun as a child. She only came home on short holidays. He didn’t have the authority to put my mother away, although he tried. But Grandfather had to keep me underneath his thumb.
He pulled the comic book from between the philosophy textbook. I could already recite much of what was taught in the heavy volumes he required that I read. I needed comic books to free my mind.
“What is this?” He had glared, holding up the comic book with his index finger and thumb. Face askew in disgust.
Bloody fuck, I thought, rubbing the back of my neck.
“You are better than this, Lincoln.” My grandfather tore the comic book to shreds. Then he reached over and clasped my shoulders and looked me in the eye, I was as tall as he was by then. “You have to aim higher, and take your nose out of the alleyway like those bloody pillocks you call parents.”
I can still hear my grandfather roaring in my ears. His argument reminded me that I had to hide my comic books better. Now I’m seated at the Loco Taco Mexican Cantina, near LAX terminal one. The D.C. Comics, Spring 1940 Batman #2 is before me. I already have the first of the collector edition framed for nobody else’s eyes but mine. Number two is estimated at a few hundred thousand euros. It meant more to me than the 1962 Incredible Hulk the New Yorker had drooled over.
I’d been chasing this comic book around for ages, and at approximately 11 a.m., I slide it into the front zipper of the only rollaway I had packed. Maggie was to transport the rest of my luggage to my estate in London on her way home.
I feel like the ultimate wanker, since my sister chose to stay out here in Los Angeles while I waited and waited for Siobhan to call. Maggie could have been home with her husband and daughter, instead choosing me. It's as if she still pays recompense for our grandfather’s attempt to place her against me. The conflict was only to prove Maggie unworthy to be the head of business.
Heart conflicted between the woman I love, and what she needs, I head toward terminal eight.
It still hasn’t fully sunk in that I lost the one true thing that belonged to me in this life. Did I ever truly have Siobhan’s heart? Did she love me or was I just a catalyst filling a void left by Hosea?
My mobile buzzes in the pocket of my blazer. A 323 area code pops up onto the screen. Local. Siobhan Lowe is local for now. I press the button to answer. “’Ello?”
“May I speak with Lincoln Zager?” The voice has a touch of femininity to it, and comes with a labored breath after every other word.
“Yes,” I reply, knowing just who it is. My jaw clinches. Try as I might, I’ve learned to hate Hosea Murrell. I had nothing but remorse for him when the EMTs wheeled him to the ambulance last week. The bloke had the sort of pain about him that would bring tears to any real man’s eyes.
He had glanced at me as if he was familiar with who I was, but I wasn’t too sure, seeing that I had fallen in love with his woman. Every breath he expired my heart broke because I loved Siobhan, she loved him. Why did I slip my business card into the front pouch of his hoodie before he was taken for treatment?
“I just received my items.”
“That so, mate?”
“I thought your phone number had fallen out.”
Yeah, well, the mistake is on me. Total fucking cock up is what it is.
“Why aren’t you with Siobhan? I expected you to be at her side during this ordeal.” His voice breaks. “There are things I can’t tell her yet, but it would be better for her that you’re there.”
Gobsmacked, I stop dead in my tracks. Am I hearing him correctly? “I don’t understand, Mr. Murrell.”
“My father is Mr. Murrell. Look, it literally pains me to speak much. And I have the feeling it hurts you to hear my voice.”
Perceptive bugger.
“I knew who you were the instant you descended those steps of the basement, Lincoln. I’m in love with her. You’re in love with her. But this ain’t no love triangle. She… she was never really in love with me. She loved me all right, but not like she loves…” Hosea switches subjects. “Siobhan has always been a good friend who allowed me to follow her from home to L.A.”
“Humph.”
“She is so angry with you for acting in a manner that I would have, were the situation reversed. I spent days upon days watching you interact with her, and as a good friend of hers, I approve.” He sucks in a deep breath, apparently waiting for me to speak. I am at a loss for words. Hosea adds, “Listen, I'm broken in places you wouldn't even begin to understand as a man.”
The notion clicks. I'm broken in places you wouldn't even begin to understand as a man… Bollocks. Jeffrey felt nothing where his cock should’ve been. He’d done something to Hosea. I’m fucking gutted. Barmy arsehole.
“And even if I weren't broken, she’s still in love with you.”
“Cheers for the call, mate, but it’s too late for Siobhan and me.”
“Too late you say? Damn, Siobhan must be rubbing off on you with her music. I can just imagine Siobhan listening to Marvin Gaye’s ‘It’s too Late’ as she cries.”
There’s nothing much for me to say to Hosea Murrell. From one man with a bloody fucking soul to another, I hope he and Siobhan live a good life.
Hosea carries the conversation on for a few more moments, but has much difficulty speaking. After a few more words, we hang up, and I linger on Siobhan’s contact. The profile picture is of her dressed in running shorts and a sports bra, beautiful ebony skin glistening and aglow with sweat. She was stretching, doing side lunges with an ass so fat and a grand smile on her face as she glanced back at me.
A fresh wave of motivation, and I’m pressing the call button. My soul is ablaze as it rings. My breath is pent up in my lungs, and I desire to love her just a little longer if she’ll allow it. A second, a minute, or an eternity. I’d give my all for our farewell to be in the future, near or distant.
Only a few hours ago, I attempted to leave a message wishing her an early “Merry Christmas,” but the voicemail had been full. It had been full yesterday evening as well.
Yet the call doesn’t go straight to voicemail. My legs stop moving. The iPhone rings for a second and third time as a throng of people bypass me on either side.
And then h
er beautiful voice taunts me. I wrestle with the idea of leaving another message, and like a simpleton, I do.
“Good day, Siobhan…” I feel like a bloody wanker. “I hope with all of my might you are having a Merry Christmas. I won’t be a bother to you much longer. I’m heading to Jakarta.” I hang up, without mentioning how out of touch I’ll be. She won’t follow me to Indonesia. Why mention it?
Why not respect Siobhan Lowe’s wishes and leave her the fuck alone? I power off the iPhone, and chuck it into the trash. It won’t be my first discarded mobile for Indonesia. Hopefully it’s my last.
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Siobhan
I had pushed the OMEGA watch to the bottom of my canvas bag. Would it make a good gift for Dad or would he complain about the price?
Maggie had given me all of her information. The sweet woman was hopeful. I may just mail the watch to her at a later date. I’d tell her to give it to him, no mentioning my name. Lincoln would still like it.
All right, Siobhan, no more Lincoln. I huff, pulling the square-shaped box with lime green wrapping paper from my bag. It has a shiny yellow bow, and Hosea’s name is on it. The gift is more sentimental than anything. After leaving Maggie, I forced my mom to help me find a bakery for Hosea’s favorite pecan cookies. So close to the holiday, most shops were jam packed and had long ago run out of many all-time favorites. Needless to say, we spent ages hunting for Hosea's cookies.
Mom hasn’t said a word to me. Stank faced an all, she sits in the lobby of the hospital, as I hug the gift box to myself and move along the corridor. I second guess my gift for the first time, what’s on his nutrition plan? Soft foods. I am an idiot.
Mr. Murrell, noticing me from the open doorway, arises from the recliner. He tells me Merry Christmas before stepping out of the room so that I can enter.
“Why are you still here?” Hosea’s sunken eyelids are pulled together with worry.
“What do you mean?” My head tilts.
“I forgot, for such a strong woman, you get your feelings hurt too easily. I didn’t mean that I don’t want you here, Siobhan. Where is Lincoln?”
I shrug. About to board a plane and leave for good. Why does the thought of hurting Lincoln not bring me such heart-wrenching pain when Hosea's around?
“It’s the holiday season, and I don’t want you spending it at some dirty-ass hospital. There’s statistics on staph infection you know.”
“Well, that’s the least of my worries. Due to what you’ve been through, because of me, I’d say I’m okay with an infection, Hosea. You are my best friend so here is where I should be.”
“Yeah, we are best friends, Siobhan, but I’m not the love of your life.”
Throat constricted, I’m at a loss for words. My cell phone vibrates in my bag, but I’m too astonished to move.
“You’re in love with Lincoln.”
“What?” I gasp, the vibration of my purse has stopped or I’m so in shock that I cannot feel it any longer.
“We just had this conversation. It wasn’t as much of an epiphany for him as it seems to be for you.”
“What are you referring to? We? You and Lincoln just talked?”
“The conversation was stilted. He is heartbroken. We got off the phone about a minute or so ago.”
I almost glance around. Instead I stay reserved, asking, “How?”
“My pops dialed the number for me.”
“But how did you get his number?”
“Lincoln gave it to me. That dumbass detective stopped hounding him for a second while Lincoln went with me in ambulance.”
“He did what?”
“He stayed with me in the basement the whole time, and helped the EMTs get me into the ambulance. You look as if he’s your enemy.”
“Hosea, are you feeling okay? Let’s talk about something else.”
“But we’re already engrossed in an engaging discussion, Siobhan. Sure he came into the basement, gun at the ready. He has made a mistake, a mistake any man with eyes would. He saw a beautiful woman and he wanted her. Ain’t no difference between me pulling a long, lustrous pigtail just because I was too much of a pussy to tell you how I felt in elementary school. But unlike with me, there was no following you like a sick puppy. He loves you and you love him.”
“I love you,” I speak up. Though Hosea’s voice is hoarse, he’s carried the conversation entirely too long.
“Of course, you do. But you aren’t in love with me. Never probably was.”
Tears prickle my eye ducts. “You're mad at me?”
“Get off the guilt trip, Siobhan.”
My pupils almost burst as I realize he watched the two of us. “Hosea, you saw videos of us…”
His feeble chest pulls in a lungful of oxygen. “I saw videos of a beautiful, black woman being picked up, dusted off, and loved.”
I grip the chair, standing up. I need this sinking feeling to leave me. Was it guilt or was it just me forcing myself to be alone? I’d pushed Lincoln away over guilt for Hosea, not because I was in love with Hosea! For almost three decades of life, I’ve been loyal to Hosea Murrell. The instant I found out he was alive, I felt like I had failed him. “Hosea…”
“Stop overanalyzing, Siobhan. We had a childhood love, nothing could touch that. You’re my best friend. Right now, I need you to place yourself first though.”
I sniffle back tears, eyes glossed and laden with blame. “You sure?”
He nods.
I purse my lips for a moment, and then say, “I- I’ll be back.”
“Not too soon, don’t come back until I am able to shake Mr. Zager’s hand, all right?”
I shake my head and then I hurry out the door.
“Baby girl,” Mom shouts, as I take off in a sprint. She follows behind me.
“Mom, I have to get to the airport. Lincoln’s plane boards in forty-five minutes.” Or was it leave? Did it board or did it leave? Maggie Zager had told me more than enough, she’d urged me to him this morning. I could kick myself but cannot stop while the sliding glass doors open.
She runs after me. “Give me the keys!”
“Why?”
“I’ll drive, so you can run your ass off when we get there,” she argues, barely able to breathe already.
In the car, I pull out my iPhone. There’s a missed call from Lincoln, and a voicemail! I listen to it, and then press the call back button. It goes straight to voicemail. I’m dialing Maggie when my mom reverses and backs out of the parking spot.
“’Ello?” she answers.
“Please, please tell me Lincoln’s plane isn’t leaving yet. He won’t answer me.”
“Oh, Siobhan. Thank God.”
“Please, what airline is he at?” I ask a battery of questions while Mom heads toward the freeway entrance
“Oh, Siobhan, he’s likely chucked his mobile. He’s at the Titan Airlines. But they’re already boarding. So I believe it will leave in oh, thirty minutes.”
“Thank you.” I hardly murmur my gratitude as we hang up. Heart in throat, I beg Mom to drive faster when the car pulls to a stop. There’s bumper to bumper traffic.
“Dang, the GPS told me not to take Pacific Coast Highway due to an accident. There’s something up ahead.” She curses under her breath. “We’ll put you on the next plane to Indonesia. Baby girl, if you want me to ride with you, I will. I’d feel more comfortable tagging along, since it’s a place you’ve never been.”
“No, Mom, that won’t work. He’s not staying at a resort in Jakarta. If he were, I would just call the place he planned to stay at and leave him a note.” I sigh. “Lincoln will be completely off the grid, that’s how Maggie explained it.”
“For how long?” She glances at me, and the drop of my bottom lip says it all.
“Get off on Culver Boulevard, Mom, go east.”
“You mean south?”
“No, turn right,” I request. “There’s no damn way we will make it. I’m going to Channel Twelve news. All the news stations have been
begging for my story, and that's what I plan on dishing.”
***
We arrive in ten minutes. Channel Twelve isn’t the most broadcasted of the bunch. Based on the media hype and conspiracy theories floating around, giving them my story will shift the airways in Channel Twelve’s favor.
Besides the location, I've got an old college roomie there who helped sneak a few of my promotions on air in the past. Kenya jumped at the idea of me returning the favor. Hell, she couldn't believe it. They didn’t have the funds to pay what Doctor Phil or any other higher ranking media outlet offered, but this wasn't about money. No amount of money was worth them getting into my business.
This was for Lincoln. God willing.
The news segment is on an after-the-holiday segment for leftover foods, when I compel the producer to cut the segment.
They want numbers, and though news and marketing are two different spectrums, marketing can segue into news. Besides, the stalker aspect will bring in the masses. It has to be about ten minutes before Lincoln’s flight, I pray someone’s still glued to their cell phone and that this news station interruption goes viral.
The stage is designed as a modern living room, one plush cream-colored sofa for guests and a thick purple chair cater-corner to it. The wall behind is framed with a faux digital photo of Los Angeles skyscrapers to offer the appearance that the station is downtown.
I place my hands at my sides while seated, so as not to fidget with my fingers. The hostess smiles and on cue, speaks articulately. “We tune in live to Siobhan Lowe, the gorgeous young woman who has been stalked by Jeffrey Peterson. This is the first time Miss Lowe is prepared to speak out since her horrible ordeal. Only to be found the victim and obsession of a sociopath. How do you feel Miss Lowe?”
My speech is stunted. Shit, I’m in front of a million viewers. This isn’t the largest news station, but the camera man had said a million viewers. I lick my lips, and determine to perceive the host as a potential client. Sell the product—which so happens to be “shock and awe” and with any luck tap into even more viewers, namely Lincoln or another person on his flight.