by Anne Malcom
Yours,
K
I read it.
Once.
Twice.
Three times.
A single tear ran down my cheek.
Then I deleted the e-mail.
Then I got up from my desk, snatched my Chanel and my coffee and stomped—on my uncomfortable yet fabulous heels—my put-together but disastrous body out of the office.
“You can’t leave, Lucy,” my editor shouted. “You’ve got a deadline.”
I ignored him.
I didn’t have time for that. I was running.
I took his advice and ran right in the direction of the battle. At least the remains of it.
The cemetery was perched up on a hill out of town, overlooking the ocean. Laurie’s headstone was as close to the edge as we could get it. So she could always look at the sea she loved so much.
She used to sit out on the beach for hours, watching the waves, reading, laughing with Bull at her side. Living.
It seemed only proper that in death, she could figuratively be watching it.
I doubted that if she was anywhere, she was in a graveyard full of bones and sorrow. But there was no other place to go, no other battlefield to run to, so I was here.
I parked beside the black Harley, surprised and resigned to see it at the same time.
My shoes sank into the grass on my first step, so I bent down and took them off, carrying them in my hand when I reached the polished stone.
I was met with the grim reaper.
Riding a Harley on a road of skulls brandishing a skull.
Sons of Templar MC – California.
I regarded the leather. The club that brought me together with my favorite people in the world.
And took one from me.
I remember the day of the funeral. Being so angry. At them. At all of the men I considered brothers and friends. Because they took my sister away. The one who couldn’t kill spiders yet Spiders killed her. Ironic. The gang that kidnapped, raped and murdered her were the namesake of the insect that terrified her, yet she couldn’t even bring herself to kill them.
I’d been smashing up every single photo I had of them. The men who were responsible for taking her from me. The club that I had always been so proud to be a part of, so quick to defend when Luke or any of the other buttoned-up lawmakers tried to find a way to take them down.
I had wondered, perhaps wished for that to have happened. For them to be taken down before Laurie had been taken away. Then I wondered whether that would’ve made any difference.
Our names, our dates, life and death were etched into some faraway stone before we even took our first breath and well after we took our last.
Polly found me. She had red eyes and was wearing a white sundress.
Because she knew Laurie would have wanted that.
I was wearing a black pencil dress that channeled Audrey Hepburn. I needed Audrey today. And I needed black.
Because that was the colour of my soul. Because Laurie wouldn’t even fucking know what color dress I was wearing. Because she was dead.
I smashed another frame.
The destruction didn’t make it hurt any less, but it distracted me. Anger was always a welcomed friend when it came in the place of sorrow.
A small hand circled my wrist.
“It’s their fault,” I choked out between sobs, looking at the men in the leather beyond the smashed glass. And the small blonde-haired girl tucked into the side of a large menacing tattooed man who was staring at her like she made the sun. Because she did. And now the sun was gone. And all there was left was black. “It was all because of them. What they are.”
Polly gently took the frame from my hands, shaking out the glass so the picture was visible, so it wasn’t broken anymore.
“No,” she whispered, her seventeen-year-old eyes bursting with too much grief and sorrow for my little sister to have to bear. “It’s not because of what they are. It’s because of what they’re not. It’s because they’re good people. A family. It’s because they’ve got something that those people will never have. Nor understand. Love. And the people, the animals that did what they did to—” she sucked in a strangled breath—“Laurie, they don’t know how to possess that so they have to destroy it. It’s not because of them.” She ran her thumb across Laurie’s curls. “It’s because of them that she was happy. Could you imagine her without him?” She paused. “No. It’s because of ugly people like that in the world that we need to hold onto what we have left that much tighter. We’ll not let them win. Let Laurie die for nothing.”
I stared at her, the pain radiating through me. “She did die for nothing,” I hissed.
She shook her head, the tears glistening in her eyes as she did so. “How could you say that? When you’re looking at the evidence proving you wrong. She died for everything.”
I stepped beside Bull, slipping my hand into his, holding my heels in the other.
He flinched slightly at the contact and went stiff. He kept staring at the polished marble and didn’t say a word, but his hand flexed in mine.
I looked at the polished rock.
Always and forever in her unclouded day. Always and forever in our hearts.
“She wouldn’t have had it any other way,” I whispered after a long silence.
He flinched but didn’t respond.
Not a surprise. The man was as cold as the rock we were staring at.
That’s what happened to someone who didn’t see the sun in three years.
“If she could have had it all over again. If she knew this was where it would end, she would have done it the same. As much as I wish to the contrary. I know she would,” I continued, my voice neither flat nor empty. I wouldn’t do that to her here. Put on that mask that did me so well everywhere else.
He didn’t respond, though I didn’t expect him to.
We stayed in the silence that I expected to last until one of us decided to stop looking for ghosts.
“That’s the worst part,” he rasped, surprising me.
I glanced at him, but his demon-filled gaze was on that stone and the bunch of sunflowers in her grave.
The fresh ones.
The ones he gave her every single week when they were together.
“Because if I could do it all over again, I would push her away. I would have made sure she never spent a second in my presence, even if it killed me.” He paused, his jaw tight. “Especially if it killed me. I would have done anything to make sure she didn’t end up here, including that being my name on that fuckin’ slab of rock.” He took his hand from mine. “But that’s the problem. I can’t. Never fuckin’ can. And that’ll be my cross to bear from then to the moment it’s me on that rock.”
He glanced at it one more time, then turned on his booted heel and left.
I watched him with a heavy heart, wishing Laurie was here for perhaps the two millionth time in three years.
Or wishing there was someone who he could stop running with.
But then again, the world was cruel.
I was staring at the cold, polished reminder.
One Week Later
From: [email protected]
To: [email protected]
Subject: Standing still
So I’m writing this from a cell.
I decided to desert out of worry.
Or panic. Never really felt that before. Consider myself a laid-back kind of guy. Especially with chicks. You change it all, Snow.
Radio silence only works in life-threatening situations.
So of course, I thought the worst.
Then I stalked your Facebook again. I had to pay Duke $50, so you’re buying dinner when I get home.
The dress you wore on Saturday night was too fucking short, and the man you were in the photo with was too fucking close.
He’ll go on the kill list too.
Along with “him.”
Wear the dress while I do it. I need something nice to look at
when I do that.
Reply to me, please, Snow. We don’t have to talk about running.
Talk about your job. Your breakfast. Your stance on crunchy versus smooth. No pressure, but the answer is a deal breaker. I’ll give you a clue: crunchy.
I gave it all away.
That’s how much I like you.
K
PS: I’m not in a cell. I just said that to get your attention. But if it doesn’t, I’ll have to do it for real.
You don’t want that on your conscience. You know I’m too pretty for prison.
I drummed my fingers on the keyboard, thinking.
Not about the deadline for the story, nor the column.
All I wanted to write was the e-mail.
For once, I did the sensible thing.
Covet wanted another column. They were on a Sex and the City kick and wanted a commentary about life and love, but in a way that was palatable. Funny, neither life nor love was even close to palatable, but I did my best.
Bad Habits
We all know certain things are bad for us. Chocolate. Wine. Microwaves. High heels.
It’s the things we love that will destroy us in the end. Sylvia Plath knew it.
We all know it on some level.
Knowing it doesn’t mean we’ll stop eating chocolate, drinking wine, microwaving popcorn, because it’s a must when watching any movie, and wearing high heels that damage both our feet and bank balances.
What’s the point in loving something when you know there’s no risk, no promise of destruction or at least a little chaos?
There is no point.
That’s the point.
We’re adrenaline junkies. We may not all jump out of planes or ride motorcycles, but we love what’s bad for us. And the stakes are so much higher than broken bones.
So I’m asking you, my fair reader, does the prospect of destruction make it all the more exciting?
Or is it safety that gets you hot? Because I’ll just say it. I’ve never had an orgasm from a guy who promised a good retirement plan and no chance of heartbreak.
But maybe I’m just fucked-up.
Like the rest of the world.
From: [email protected]
To: [email protected]
Subject: Bungee Jumping
People back home invented this sport where you jump off a bridge with elastic attached to your feet. The free fall is short, terrifying, but you can feel the rope at your feet so you know that you’re not exactly going to crash and burn. But for a split second, your body forgets.
Then the mind catches up.
What I’m tryin’ to say, baby, is with me, you don’t have a rope attached, but I won’t let you crash either.
And FYI: I don’t have a good retirement plan.
But I do give great orgasms.
K
I gaped at the screen and typed my reply before I knew what I was doing.
From: [email protected]
To: [email protected]
Subject: Re – Bungy Jumping
First of all, crunchy. And I’m not just saying that to impress you. I’m just not some kind of smooth-loving heathen.
Second of all, what are you doing in a warzone reading a women’s lifestyle magazine? Need tips on the five ways to know he likes you? Or perhaps how to pick the best waxer?
Laser is the new waxing. Just to let you know.
And you New Zealanders must get bored over there at the edge of the world if you must throw yourself off buildings in order to feel alive.
And about the orgasms—oh, honey, you might, but so does Bob. And he’s a lot less complicated, and there’s no free fall involved.
L
He’d worn me down. And surprised me. The fact that he was still interested while he was over there, doing whatever soldiers did. Or maybe it was only because he was over there that I was interesting. A welcome distraction. But then he went and read my column. And saw the meaning behind it that I didn’t even know I’d put there.
The reply was in my inbox within hours, right after I’d filed a story over smooth versus crunchy and what it meant for your personality.
I thought that one was a Nobel Prize winner. I’d mention Keltan in my acceptance speech.
From: [email protected]
To: [email protected]
Subject: Hitmen… again
Reminding you again, babe, I don’t hire hitmen either. I do the dirty work myself.
On a completely unrelated note, who the fuck is Bob and where does this fucker with the completely boring name live?
I bet he’s got ropes attached.
Glad to hear from you, babe. Even if I did have to go out and punch Duke for stealing my last tub of Marmite, thinking about Bob.
He isn’t talking to me.
Thinks I overreacted.
He obviously doesn’t understand how precious Marmite is.
K
And so it went. E-mails that said nothing and everything at the same time. E-mails that quickly became the favorite part of my day. That I could safely smile at because he wasn’t watching me from the screen, though sometimes I did wish it, despite a little thing called self-preservation.
I kept the Bob thing up for a long enough time before letting him know it was actually an acronym and what it stood for. It was safe to say the responding e-mail describing his utter excitement in getting “very fucking well acquainted with B.O.B” managed to get me beyond hot despite Marty spluttering with the flu not five feet from me.
I shut down that line of conversation pretty quickly. I didn’t do sexting. Nor e-mail sex. It was the real thing or nothing. Adding words to it quickly translated to feelings, and sex wasn’t a place for feelings. But then not having it was almost more dangerous, because getting to know him through a computer screen was more intimate, attraction not there to distract me. Though the memory of it was there and got me through a lot of nights with B.O.B.
He said he had another three weeks until he was back, and I was terrified.
Terrified of him coming back.
Of him not.
Of everything, really.
Which was why this conversation, back in the present, with my sister about how levelheaded I was, was almost laughable.
Polly chewed the side of her lip. Her face screwed up, the spattering of freckles on her tanned skin moving as she did so. “Okay, I guess not. Considering it was you who burned down the high school that time.”
I slapped her hand, despite the fact that it hurt me more than it hurt her on the account of all of her chunky jeweled rings. “We didn’t burn down the entire school,” I argue. “Just the science building. And that was an accident. And we were teenagers. And Mr. Hatrill deserved it. He would make Rosie go up and do demonstrations so he could look up her skirt.”
She raised her pierced brow. “What about Blaze’s car?” she asked.
I struggled to keep a straight face. “With a name like Blaze, what else would he expect to happen to his car?”
She gave me a look. “You don’t have youth or inappropriate teachers to blame for that.”
“No one has yet proved, including the authorities, that I had anything to do with that,” I protested. I squeezed her silver-clad hand. “Plus, he hurt my baby Lol.”
Polly was six years younger than me, and if you put us side by side you wouldn’t say we were related apart from our matching violet eyes. Her hair was jet-black like mine but instead of my long locks, she chopped hers to her shoulders, messy layers giving her permanent bed head and a look that screamed she belonged in a rock band. Her music of choice was the Bobs—Dylan and Marley—while mine veered towards Bach and Beethoven and classic rock when around the club.
She was peace and love and lived most of the time in her head. She was the one who believed in fairy tales and princes and princesses. Though so far she’d found only frogs and fell in and out of love like I fell into trouble.
Hence why Blaze�
�s car got torched.
She was shorter than me, had more curves than me. Not that she would ever be called fat. She was beautiful, even at twenty years old, the kind of beauty that men stopped on the street for. And she wasn’t afraid of that. Of jumping into whatever lust they offered. Nor was she afraid of color. Or mixing prints. Or wearing too much jewelry. She was a complete original. And in need of protection because with her head in the clouds, too many men here on the ground wanted to take advantage.
It was mine and my dad’s job to do the protecting. Polly was an imprint of Mom, a dreamer with romance on the brain always and a little buffer between the real world and hers. I was an imprint of Dad, despite him not being my biological father. We were levelheaded, cool in a crisis but not afraid to laugh with the right people or while watching the right movies. Which we did, every month. Dad and Lucy movie night.
He was the only hero I’d met in real life. He’d saved me, Mom and Polly after all. The only one I could trust completely and utterly with my heart. The parts my biological sperm donor and he hadn’t ruined, anyway.
“Still, you didn’t have to burn his car to the ground,” Polly pointed out.
I grinned at her, happy to have distracted my easily distracted sister from my own distraction. “Yes, I did.”
She waved her hand. “Whatever, it’s done. He’s done.” Her eyes narrowed. “Now you shall tell me what you were thinking of.”
Damn, spoke too soon.
“Blaze’s car. And how I can perfect the gasoline-to-fire ratio next time,” I answered immediately. “Rosie wasn’t the best person. She just kept saying ‘more flames, Lucy, more.’”
Polly frowned. “You know what I mean, Lucy. Is it a guy?” Her eyes lit up, and she started bouncing on my sofa. “Has a man finally done it? Caught your attention?” She looked like she might burst into spontaneous applause at the thought of such a thing.