by Jay Kerk
She jumped into my lap and hugged me. Happiness filled my heart, I could have flown. We kissed passionately.
“We don’t have to wait for me to be older. Do me.”
“No. You should do it with someone you love,” I said, holding her shoulders.
“Oh, I love you. A lot,” she said. More kisses. “I’ve loved you since I first saw you. I love you, I love you, I love you.”
We kissed for a few minutes, and I said, “No sex, but I’ll make you orgasm. Give you oral and teach you how to give it.” She nodded.
Wow. I am proud. I waited so long, and she is worth the wait.
PART 3
JASON
CHAPTER 1:
A FREE BIRD
I got a new place. I couldn’t go back to the old one because it had so many memories, and it would drain me. Luke told me starting in a new place was better for my recovery.
Before the incident, I had been greedy. I’d wanted everything, and my priorities had revolved around materialistic goals. Those priorities didn’t matter now; I had lost the most important things - Lea, Lisa, Mathew.
The new house was good enough. It had two levels with the bedrooms and office upstairs and the kitchen and living area downstairs. It had old wallpaper and old furniture, but not antique. It smelled funny—dusty and musky. I replaced the sofa – I wanted something more comfortable – but otherwise, I kept everything the same.
I moved all our possessions from our old place to the new house, which made it feel crowded with the stuff that was already there. Decluttering and throwing things away kept me busy.
Still, the first few days were awkward. Where the fuck do I start? What do I do? What is normal?
Luke said, ‘“Get a healthy start. Go to the grocery shop, play a basketball game or watch a movie. Keep it light, bro.”
The first minute after I woke up each day was the only decent one. I’d stretch my hands and smile, excited to get up and see my family, to plan a super-productive day. Then I would remember, and I’d become instantly devastated. That summed up my days.
I wanted to call Kelly. I resisted for the first three days I was in the house. I played scenarios out in my mind: “Babe, I’m out!” or “Guess what?” or “Guess who’s out and ready to mingle?”
In the end, I decided to text her, “Hi Kelly. This is Jason. How are you? I miss you. Can’t wait ‘til we meet. Where are you? What does your calendar look like?” Pretty lame, but I went with a low-risk approach.
A couple of hours passed by, and she didn’t text back. I got worried. I sent another text, “?? All okay?”
Incoming message. “Hiii. Very happy you’re out. I’m fine, all is well. How are you adjusting? Sorry we can’t meet. Please move on. I wish you all the best and I wish you well. TC.”
Another one, “PS: I know you’re innocent. Wish I could help but I can’t. Forgive me.” Kisses.
I read it few times, and it didn’t make sense. Although we hadn’t discussed about catching up and meeting, I thought it was a given based on earlier conversations.
I called her, and she picked up on the fifth ring. “Hi,” she said, her voice distant and low.
“Hi, Kelly. What’s wrong? I’ve missed you.” She didn’t respond, but I could hear her breathing.
I broke the silence, “You know my feelings are real. Did I do something wrong? You know, other than what I was accused of?”
Once I said it, I felt bad. It wasn’t funny at all. I really missed my family.
“Nothing is wrong,” she said, “I know. Uhhh. I know. And me too, honestly. But things aren’t the same.” She sighed. “Major changes have happened, and I can’t be with you anymore.”
My jaw tensed, and I ground my teeth. “Why? Did someone threaten you or tell you not to see me?” I asked.
“No, no. Nothing like that. I haven’t been honest with you.” She sighed again. “Oh, gosh, this is tough. Forgive me Jason. I’m married. I was married and then we separated, and I started using, and then got admitted to the facility. My husband went to court and got full custody of our daughter. But since I’ve been out, things have changed. We’re now living together, for our daughter’s sake.”
“That doesn’t make sense,” I said. “You could have told me. Wow. That’s huge.”
After several moments of silence, I said, “Listen, leave him. I mean, consider leaving him and taking your daughter, and come live with me.”
As if her husband would say, Yeah, take my daughter to live with a murderer.
“It’s not that simple. Actually impossible.” She chuckled. “Oh, honey. I’m sorry. You don’t need this, and you deserve better. Sorry. You’re adorable. Bye.”
She hung up before I could say a thing.
The next day was boring. I did some chores, walked around, and watched a couple of movies. By evening, I was wondering what to do next and how would I sustain myself over a longer time period.
I wasn’t supposed to, but I had a drink. Nothing heavy, just a glass of wine, but two hours later I poured the last of the bottle. I put on a comedy. I knew I couldn’t laugh, but I needed something light to pass the time.
I closed my eyes, and I could hear them. Lisa, Lea and Mathew. I squinted, and I could see shadows, which I decided were them.
I drifted into the memories. We listened to a song at home, and we started dancing.... Our bodies were close. Suddenly I felt my shoulder grow wet. Lisa was crying.
“What’s wrong, babe?”
“Don’t laugh at me. I have an unshakable hunch that you’re going to die. It’s irrational, but this feeling is constantly inside of me.” She sobbed, then started laughing.
“Don’t say that,” I told her. “We’re healthy. We take good care of ourselves.”
I left the living room and went into the kitchen. I wondered if she thought I was unstable. I thought of the last time I’d had such an intense desire to leave this life. Nothing that I’d acted on, but a sense of emptiness and darkness, a wish to just vanish. The peak was maybe a decade ago, around the time I’d graduated.
During that period, I talked a lot to myself. I’d decided to keep going in life, even knowing how much energy it took to continue doing so.
After I’d had a family, the feeling came and went. Nothing scary, although some days were very bleak. I just had to wait for them to pass.
I sobbed in the living room, emptying the glass of wine. “Oh, babe. I’m so sorry.” Look how silly life is. You are dead, and I’m alive. You loved life, and I’m indifferent.
I jolted and became alert. Dr. Thompson had warned me about spiraling into negative thoughts. He said drinking with my medication might have detrimental effects. I’d said that “detrimental” was a fancy word. He’d said that would help me remember it, and I should call him if I had any suicidal thoughts. I chuckled to myself and wondered what I would do if I were always suicidal.
CHAPTER 2:
GO ON
Having decided that my current life was unbearable, I finally convinced Luke to help me take on a new business venture. I chose a local pub to turn around. I had to admit that I wasn’t in the best shape, and I needed to keep better track of my medication and stop drinking. I promised to check in with one of the doctors on Dr. Thompson’s team on a daily basis.
Looking at the numbers was calming, and acquiring a business had its own thrills. We thought the place could be profitable. Three weeks passed quickly, and we reopened the pub. We named it the Diamond Ace. Luke asked me not to spend all my time in the pub, I didn’t want to upset him, so I let it go. I knew he didn’t want me to drink.
We hired new staff and the recruitment was fun: Andrea, a bartender and manager; Stephanie, a waitress; and George, our all-in-one guy. He could work the bar, wait tables, and break up fights. George was a young college graduate who soon would transition into corporate life but wanted a year or two before he became a slave, as he called it. He was a bulky guy with piercing eyes. I trusted him.
Stephanie wa
s the money-maker. She knew what the customers wanted, and she had groups ordering specialty shots. She was tanned with dark eyes and blonde hair. They didn’t go together, but she pulled it off. She had curves that she was proud of. I liked her. I guess I was attracted to her.
Luke saw that I was starting to resemble my old self, so he got me the files for the case against me. Reading was depressing and painful. I requested my family’s phones and laptops, but he resisted a bit, saying, “Bro, really, it would be too painful. Please, no.” Then, he gave in.
I bought a whiteboard sized more than two yards long. He said that once I’d finished going through everything, he would put me in touch with the private investigator we had on payroll.
He said, “They are professional and know what they are doing.”
I said, “Ok.”
Luke said, “Let me know when you’re ready, I will put you in contact with Danny Miller, our private investigator.”
Kelly called me a couple of times. Once to check on me, to find out what I was doing and whether there was anything new happening in the investigation.
The other time she called, she was really upset because her husband had found out that she was practicing online without a license, and they didn’t need the money. She said she had to have her own income so she could set some aside in case they broke up or she needed to run away. She told me how much she missed me, and I missed her, too. I needed her, and truthfully I was disappointed that we were apart.
I had my doubts about her being married and having a daughter. I still couldn’t find any details about her online, so I asked her for her address. She didn’t want to give it up, so I asked her to meet up for coffee.
She agreed, and we met. We exchanged pleasantries, and then she told me that she still had feelings for me. I told her the feeling was mutual. She showed me photos of her family. We hugged, we kissed, and she left.
I shouldn’t have done it, but I followed her to where she lived. When she parked she rested her head on the wheel, and I could see she was crying. She entered the house, a regular suburban place. I couldn’t resist following her inside. It was noon, and her daughter and so-called husband shouldn’t have been around.
I opened the door and walked slowly inside. She had nice furniture, but too many rugs.
“Kelly? Kelly! It’s Jason!”
I went up a few more steps, and she jumped out in front of me holding the largest knife I had ever seen.
She screamed, “Get out! Get Out! What the fuck are you doing here, Jason? Get out!”
I took two more steps and hugged her. She dropped the knife.
“I swear I’ll get a restraining order if I see you in this neighborhood again,” she said.
I could see the kitchen from where we were standing, and I saw a large calendar and drawings. I kept hugging her. She was sobbing. I said, “You’re amazing. I wish you well.”
“Jason, don’t do creepy things.” She sniffled. “I know you’re paranoid and it is normal after what you’ve been through, but I am married.”
I hugged her from behind and pushed my body against hers. I whispered, “I want you.”
I pulled her blouse up a little and unhooked her bra. We moved a few steps, and I pushed her against the wall.
“JASON,” she yelled.
I froze.
“I said NO. NO. What is wrong with you?”
This wasn’t me. I didn’t recognize myself.
Oh fuck, I’m crazy.
I hadn’t heard her say no.
I swear, you have to believe me.
“I’m so sorry. I’m leaving,” I said, holding my hands up.
I apologized and promised her never to come to her house again.
I wondered what had gotten into me. I had never obsessed over sex and never imagined I would miss a signal from a woman, let alone a NO.
CHAPTER 3:
GUARDIAN ANGEL
I was visiting the pub much less often, at first, the ownership or the challenge of turning the business around stirred me. But now the pub generated enough income to cover most of the costs and would soon make profits, I had to accept that the excitement had passed.
I reached the pub at 3 p.m., and Andrea stood behind the bar drying some glasses, the lights were dimmed. We no longer opened early to offer the scum of the Earth their daylight drink. When we had opened early, the customers who came for happy hour at six crossed paths with the wasted noon drunks, and we learned the mismatch proved harmful for the business.
“Hi. Glad you still remember how to find the place,” she said sarcastically.
The place is mine, I can come and go as I want, You can fuck off.
“Hey, yourself. Come on, if I could, I’d stay here twenty-four seven.”
My lies are always convincing.
She was wearing a sleeveless black denim shirt over low-rise blue jeans.
Who the hell still wears this retro outfit? I hated myself when I judged people, but at least I was aware of it, so I stopped myself before analyzing her further.
“Here, I have the box of ornaments you requested,” I said.
Thirty minutes tops and I’ll be out of here. Must continue working on the case.
I walked over to the bar and handed her the box. Holding it, she turned and squatted down with her back to me so she could put it on the floor. When she bent down, I could see her lower back skin, and then a gray thong appeared. While in a full squat, the thong rose out of her jeans by an inch or two.
Soo sexy and provocative. The sight turned me on. Given my recent emotional history, I was taken aback by the fact that anything could move me. A few moments later, I became worried about my erection and my rapid sexual arousal.
How long has it been? Four months. No, five months.
She stood and pivoted. She caught me staring.
“What?” she said.
“What what?” I knew exactly what.
“Relax, hon.” She said. I hated the word hon. “You liked what you were seeing. Normal.”
I smirked at her, unamused.
She took a couple of steps around the end of the bar and toward me. A few inches separated us, her breath gently caressed my cheek, and we locked eyes.
I liked her short hair, and the shaven part on one side was so funky, albeit out of fashion. The few pink tips showed nicely when she wore her hair in a ponytail. She was really tall, and her face was pretty. Despite her radiating the power of an independent woman, her eyes conveyed a certain kindness.
Say something, dammit.
“Don’t worry, I can take off the thong before the customers come in,” she said in a flirtatious tone.
Is it flirtatious? I can’t be sure. I might be imagining sexual signs.
Did she mean she would literally take them off, or she would take them off and something would happen between us?
“Free country. Take them off, leave’m on. Your call, hon.”
After a minute I added, “you don’t want customers to hit on you or anything. But they look nice, hot.”
What the hell!
I could laugh at myself. “Sexy, I mean. I would… pfffff. Sorry.”
I could feel how warm my ears were, which meant my face was red from embarrassment. The best thing to do was to flee the scene.
“Listen,” Andrea said. “How about I make you a nice cocktail, and we can have an honest, hearty chat, just until you finish the drink?”
My story interested everyone and anyone - a broken man, a murderer, a molester, a rapist... People’s motives differed between uncovering the truth, getting famous, or simply being curious.
“Sounds fine, Andrea,” I said.
Within a couple minutes, she served me a Rum and coke, and I took a sip. It had been some time since I’d sipped so politely. I preferred gulps and clean bottoms. She drank hers in one shot.
“Jason,” she said, “we all deserve a chance in life, at whatever endeavor we take on. Sometimes we deserve a second chance.”
Oh m
y god, was she one of those find Jesus freaks? Was she going to start with the forgiveness talk now?
She sensed my dismay and changed strategies. She took off her sleeveless denim top, revealing more of her body. Her bra showed through her white undershirt. Very hot, but cheap.
“Stephanie. Don’t ask her out.” She folded her arms, and I wasn’t pleased with the conversation. “I overheard her on the phone, and she isn’t who you think she is. She is only pretending to like you.”
I replied with a cliché. “We all have a past.” Mine is a bloody one. “And she’s allowed to have one, too.”
“She’s a fucking journalist. An undercover, investigative journalist,” Andrea said.
I became concerned. Was Andrea lying or was Stephanie really a journalist?
“Listen, Andrea, I shouldn’t be talking about this,” I said. I was bluffing. “We can’t be sure she’s a journalist. But thanks for letting me know, anyway.”
“Let me show you something. Follow me,” she said and walked ahead of me to my office.
She walked behind the desk and took my seat, so I sat down on the leather two-seater. She took out a bag from one of the cabinets and came to sit on the arm of the couch. She smelled nice, nothing fancy, probably a body cream and not a perfume.
She opened the bag. “Look. This is what I found in her locker.” A laminated press pass ID and an old smartphone.
“Her true name is Rosa Dempsey, and she has written a book on missing children. If you search for online, you will recognize her face despite the changes.”
I tried not to react, but I was fuming. “And here’s a photo of her going into the newspaper office,” Andrea said. “I followed her.”
I carefully prepared my words, “We all have a job to do, and hers happens to be this,” I said.
She fooled me. She didn’t like me—it was all an act!
“What?” Andrea asked angrily. “Seriously? You know she’s getting close to you just to find out where you buried your son.”
Her words brought a lump in my throat, words escaped me, and I could only nod. I didn’t bury my son; I didn’t kill my son. I miss my son, I would do anything to get him back.