Losing Streak (The Lane)

by Kristine Wyllys

  As our tongues battled, Brandon’s hands slipped behind me, creeping up under my shirt. A second later, my bra was being unsnapped and he pulled away long enough to yank my shirt over my head and slide the bra straps down my arms, leaving me naked from the waist up. With a fiercely approving look, he attacked my lips again, leaving me breathless and panting my need.

  His shirt became my sworn enemy after a few minutes, the way it teased my nipples and was between me and his bare chest. I grew enraged at it, showing no mercy as I jerked it over his head, separating from him only long enough to throw it across the room where it belonged, far away from me and the smooth expanse of Brandon’s skin.

  Shoes and pants were next, the top button of my jeans becoming a casualty as Brandon ripped at them, his movements frantic in his drive to get them off of me, as if their presence was somehow a danger to myself and others. His own pants followed and before I could wonder at his ability to multitask, both strip and kiss me senseless, he’d lifted me up and backed me to lie on top of the kitchen table.

  He stood there for just a second, gazing down the length of my body. The sunlight poured in through his living room blinds and did funny things to his features. Then he grabbed me behind the knees, the movement abrupt and unexpected, and yanked me down toward him. I wrapped my legs around his hips just in time for him to slam forward, filling me up, erasing everything else.

  He started to pull out, tortuously slow, and I arched off the table to glare at him.

  “Don’t you dare.”

  “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

  And then he jerked forward, filling me again, and the relief was so complete, so whole and unmatched, that my chest felt tight with it. He pounded into me furiously and, God, I didn’t want it to end. Didn’t want him to end. I feared the moment that it would.

  Over and over he pounded and slammed, and it was borderline violent and so very necessary. When his grip slipped back down to my hips once more and he heaved me off the table against him, I held on even as I shattered. I broke into a million pieces that scattered across the room, and the noises that clawed their way out of me sounded as though they came from a some ancient, keening beast.

  From somewhere far away, I felt him follow, crushing me to his chest.

  We ended up on the floor sometime after that. It could have been only minutes later. It could have been hours. I sighed, the tight feeling of his arms around me and his breath in my ear filling me with an ache that radiated from the point where we were still connected.

  We lay there for a few minutes, struggling to catch our breath, until finally he lifted me enough to extract himself and rolled over, dragging me with him until I was splayed across his chest.

  And there, on the kitchen floor, the room growing darker and darker around us, I finally started to truly panic.

  Chapter Eighteen

  There had been no word from the MacBains, and while I hadn’t really expected there to be, I’d still hoped. Of course I had. Because I was a fool.

  Hope was the most dangerous drug of all.

  A clock hanging over my head was ticking away the minutes with a bruisingly loud intensity, made all the louder by the knowledge that Mama’s health was once again failing. It was more critical than ever that I secured the deal between Joshua and MacBain. I was going to need every dime of that bonus money to pay for whatever treatments she was going to need.

  It was a Tuesday and Jackson had the night off. We’d been sitting around in Mama’s living room in a weird, uncomfortable silence. Finally, tired of attempting to keep any kind of conversation going with a sullen Jackson and a Mama worried over him, I’d suggested we all go out to dinner. Jackson instantly put up a halfhearted fight, which caused Mama to hesitate too as she cast quiet looks in his direction.

  “We don’t need to do that, Rose. Not if Jackie has plans.”

  I saw Jackson’s shoulders tense from across the room and shot him a look he didn’t turn to see.

  “He doesn’t,” I replied before he had a chance to. “He’s just being difficult. Aren’t you, Jackie?”

  He gave me a look that told me how he felt about me calling him by Mama’s nickname for him, and I met it with a look of my own. One that told him to knock off his shit. I knew by his grimace that he understood and there was just enough of the old him left that he was gonna listen, despite how badly it chapped his ass.

  “Yeah.” He turned to Mama. “Yeah, Rosie’s right. I’m just being a jackass. We should go. Get you out of the house.”

  And because it was Jackson, because her beloved Jackie okayed it, Mama agreed. Of course she did.

  We drove separately, something that never happened normally, and I had to bite the inside of my cheek to keep the comments back when Mama eyed Jackson’s Civic with longing. I wanted to scream at her that she didn’t have to ride with me, that she could have fun crawling into “Jackie’s” go-kart if she really wanted to. But I didn’t, God, no I didn’t. Because I wasn’t supposed to. I was supposed to turn a blind eye to those kinds of things. Those looks. Those comments. Those little sighs that said out of the two kids she birthed, Jackson was her always her pick.

  I’d expected Mama to bring him up in the car, because if she couldn’t be with him, she could at least talk about him, so I was surprised when she stayed mostly quiet, the only talk she made small. Insignificant. Not what was obviously troubling her.

  I thought, naively, that we could use dinner to talk. That maybe being out, doing the things we’d always wanted but had never been able to growing up, would be enough to snap us back to something that resembled the old us. Maybe we could actually discuss what the doctors had told me and maybe, for once, come up with a plan like a family.

  That wasn’t what happened at all.

  The Stables, a four-star joint near the outskirts of town, was probably the only upscale place around, and I know I, at least, had always coveted the people I’d see going in the doors, believing I’d never see them myself. I’d imagined what it looked like in there, but I had nothing to compare it to. Until I went to work for Joshua, none of us did, yet here we sat, amidst the oil paintings and dark tables and chairs, with sconces on the wall the only lighting, and we were the ones who someone else, another Rosemary, envied. Yet with Jackson’s scowl and Mama’s furrowed brow and the hot ball of emotion sitting in the back of my throat, we were a miserable lot. We looked as if we’d rather be anywhere else in the world.

  Our food was pushed around on our plates, and what conversation there was, was stilted and awkward. I’d never been more excited to see a waiter bringing a check in my life.

  Jackson begged off almost immediately, muttering something about inventory. I glanced at Mama with a frown that grew deeper when I saw how she watched his retreating form weave through the tables as he made his way to the door.

  I sighed and set down my napkin.

  “Come on, then. I’ll take you home.”

  The ride back was almost as silent as it was on the way there but this time I felt as though I should fill it up. As if I needed to make up for Jackson somehow.

  “He’s fine, you know. Just going through that moody teenager stage late. He’ll snap out of it soon. Probably after declaring that we don’t understand even a little bit and slamming his door a couple of times.”

  “I don’t think that’s it at all,” she replied softly, more to the window and the smeared night beyond it than me. “Mothers know. They always know when something isn’t right with one of their babies. Intuition, they say.”

  Surprisingly, I didn’t even feel the need to scoff at that.

  “He’ll work out whatever is. He’s a big boy.”

  “You’re probably right.” She let out a sigh and turned her head in my direction. “I was going to tell him tonight. Tell both of you, actually. I just didn’t want to add to whatever’s burdening
him.”

  Of course she didn’t.

  “Tell us what?”

  “I’m going to stop treatment.”

  It was a miracle that I managed to keep the car on the road, as hard as I jerked in my seat. As it was, I swerved into the next lane when I whipped my head to stare at her in shock.

  “What? No. No you can’t.”

  “It’s a losing battle, Rose. I’m tired of fighting it. How much happier could we all be if this wasn’t hanging over our heads?”

  “It won’t be!” I insisted, gripping the wheel so tight my knuckles stood out bleached white against its dark gray. “When you’re better—”

  “Oh, Rose,” she cut me off, her soft, sad smile almost glowing in the darkness. “I’m not getting better. I’ve never been getting better. We both know that. We’ve known that for so long now.”

  “You will. God, no. Don’t say that. Don’t say you won’t. You have to. Otherwise what’s the point? To any of this?”

  She probably assumed that I was talking about the chemo. And I was. But I was also talking the big picture. All of it. Everything I’d done, everything I continued to do, was for her. For her and for Jackson and for Jackson for her. Brandon had even placed that bet for them when you got down to the nuts and bolts of it.

  One month left and all of it, every last bit, would have been for nothing.

  She reached over and patted my cheek gently.

  “This new drug. That experimental one. It wasn’t to save my life. It was to prolong it. But what more is there? Other than acceptance? I’ve thought about it for a while. And it’s time. It’s gonna be in God’s hands, Rose. I’m content to hand it over to Him. I’d like for you to be as well.”

  Yeah, well, shit in one hand and wish in the other. See which one fills up first. Had learned that one from my grandma once upon a time. Seemed fitting now.

  “How long?” I managed to choke out, unable even to look at her, afraid that if I did, I’d see her ashen-faced, lying in a casket. I didn’t need to elaborate. She already knew. Maybe she’d been waiting for me to ask it all along.

  “Three months, maybe, possibly a little longer with dialysis. Dr. Shallaby said it could help.”

  “But you’re not going to do it, are you?”

  “No,” she admitted in a quiet, nearly apologetic voice. “I’m tired, Rose. I want to be done with all of that.”

  “So then, how long? Without the dialysis?” I demanded. My eyes burned. They matched my throat.

  “Maybe two months.”

  We didn’t speak for the rest of the short drive and I nodded tightly when she said good-night in her driveway. Around me the air felt too thick, too hard to breathe. I was drowning. There was no water—I couldn’t see any—but I was drowning all the same.

  It wasn’t until I was back on the road that I started screaming.

  Chapter Nineteen

  MacBain was officially blacklisted. I called in the order myself.

  I had been so sure it wouldn’t come to this. I thought I’d have him talked around before it got to this point. But Joshua kept asking and I had nothing new to report. Pleas weren’t working. I tried threats. I cited other cases of resistance and what had happened to those people. None of the stories had been pretty. But Charlie MacBain was a stubborn man, unmoved by cautionary tales and downright hostility. I had no choice but to play hardball. A week on the blacklist, of no business, no money, would demonstrate to him how bad it could get. How bad it would get if Joshua stepped in.

  * * *

  Jackson stopped smiling.

  For months I’d seen it building up to this moment, the moment when even his generic grins disappeared under the weight of whatever was festering inside him, and yet it was still a shock. He still talked when we saw him, still remained mostly engaged, but there was silence now. Moments when we turned to look at him and he was lost to us, gone somewhere in his own head where we weren’t welcome. When we parted ways, Mama’s eyes brimming with her concern, I was relieved in ways I’d never been before. Here was something else I couldn’t fix. The boy I’d help raise was gone, and I wasn’t sure how to get him back.

  Mama stopped treatment.

  Jackson hadn’t chimed in with his own protests, something Mama probably would have listened to, leaving my voice the lone one of dissent. I was the only one on the other side, unwilling to let her go. Even Brandon, the little I saw of him, seemed to agree with everyone else. I was alone, truly alone, like I’d never been before. A lone fighter standing in an empty ring, everyone else going home after seeing the inevitable loss coming.

  Was it any wonder I forgot? That things started to slip?

  It started with Fury’s delivery. I’d been tasked with meeting him over at the Tap Room before it opened to help sort it into stashes for the dealers to pick up. By the time I remembered, he’d already done it. “I won’t be telling ol’ Boss Man, Rosie-love,” he assured me over the phone as I paced the hall outside Mama’s bedroom, one hand rubbing roughly at my forehead. “Shit happens. You lose track of time. Especially when you’re dealing with a sick parent. I know all about that, yeah?”

  “Yeah.” I nodded. If no one else understood that, Fury did. His dad was a junkie. It was the whole reason he’d gotten into business with Joshua in the first place. As a way to keep track of his old man. “Yeah. No. You’re right. I’m still sorry.”

  “Naw, none of that. You’re good, girl. Ol’ Nicky’s got ya.”

  Except I didn’t lose track. Not of time or things or responsibilities. And yet that was what I was doing. The books were a jumbled mess and Rice was blowing up my phone, wanting to meet me for his drop, and I had to get to Sharkie’s to pick up Lester’s rent and Dejah had sent more than one text reminding me that I needed to pick up her medical forms, declaring her disease-free. Over the course of the next few days, every time I managed to get a handle on one thing, I’d find something else had slipped through my fingers. I was attempting to clutch sand and growling with frustration when I couldn’t.

  After Dejah had given up texting me and moved on to calling, reminding me that a fight was scheduled and it wasn’t uncommon for Joshua to offer the girls up to the winning bettors, I knew I had to pull it together and go down and grab them. I’d so far managed to keep Joshua blissfully unaware of how badly I was mucking everything up, staying only one step ahead of him, but if I didn’t have those updated forms from the girls, he’d go through the roof. If I hurried, I could even swing by and grab the books from Duke’s and Bar 9 and make sense of them before he got back to the penthouse.

  The girls, bless them, had their paperwork ready for me as soon as they saw me. Carmen looked as if there was something she wanted to say as she handed hers over, but I silenced it with a squeeze to her fingers. Whatever it was, it’d have to wait.

  I was halfway out the door again, nodding to Vince as I did, before I noticed Rice on my heels. I shot him a look but kept quiet until we hit the street.

  “Can I help you with something?” I snapped, not breaking stride. “I have shit to do.”

  “Just wanted to talk. Got time for that, don’t you?”

  “Not really, no.”

  “I think you’ll want to make the time.”

  I was at the top of the stairs that led down to Duke’s employee entrance and it was clear he intended to follow me. Growling, I jerked my head in the direction of the door, indicating he could go first. No way I was letting the weasel be at my back. Not when he got so much pleasure from executing Joshua’s orders when they involved violence against anyone Rice deemed weaker than him. Because that was what he liked best. He liked hurting people. He relished the opportunity, it was obvious by the way he swaggered around afterward, drunk on the rush of power he got from it.

  He’d swaggered around the hardest after he’d beaten the shit out of Bri
Martin, a drastic and unnecessary message to Luke Turner. No matter how I might feel about her when I looked at Jackson now, I’d never, ever forgive Rice for that.

  When we reached the bottom of the stairs, hidden in the shadows of the little alcove there, he turned to face me, arms folded, back against the brick wall next to the door. My hands found my hips and a stare-off commenced. Silence stretched between us, silence I could tell he wanted me to stew in, to fret over before breaking it.

  Too bad for him that I was already loaded down too much to fit anything else on my shoulders.

  “You just going to stand there and eye-fuck me, Rice? Because I’ve got shit to do and this ain’t it.”

  “I know. About you and Williams.”

  My heart stopped and restarted so hard it was painful.

  “You don’t know shit.”

  “I know you’re not supposed to see each other. Everyone knows that. All he ever talked about in the beginning. And I know that you do.” Something in his features shifted, twisting his mostly attractive face into a cruel mask. “You don’t deserve to be King’s right hand. You’re not loyal. Not like I am.”

  “Loyal, huh?” I recovered and spat back. “So loyal you beat the hell out of Bri Martin because you were afraid she’d fuck up your opportunity to get out? Get out of here. You’re not loyal. You’re a scared little shithead.”

  “More loyal than you or Williams is. King had a problem. I took care of it. I just wanted away from Luke fucking Turner. Bastard. Doesn’t matter, though. Worked, didn’t it? I got away from them and King found out that I was the loyal one. I was the one who was willing to do whatever it took to make shit work for him. Unlike you. But he doesn’t know that, does he? Thinks the sun rises and sets on your ass. It’s all ‘Rosemary, this. Rosemary that.’ ‘I could trust Rosemary to carry this out without needing her hand held every step of the way, Mr. Rice. Why can’t I do the same with you?’ But you’ll be gone soon, won’t you? All Williams ever talked about. Getting the hell away. Then your position will be open and I’m the only logical choice to fill it.”