by B. B. Hamel
And that’s fine by me. I love the challenge. I have a better relationship with the board, and I’m really growing into my position. And the best part of it all is, Ingram is long, long gone.
After that day he kidnapped me, we drove him to the county seat and had him arrested. He’s rotting in jail now, with a bunch of cellphone videos entered as evidence of what he did. Most of the cops that were there that day haven’t been prosecuted, which is fine by me. I don’t care about any of them.
I just want Ingram to rot.
As for Roy, well, we don’t talk about him. As far as I know, he skipped town and never looked back. That’s a sore spot for Samuel, so I don’t push him too much.
I give Stacey back to Samuel, kiss him again, and head upstairs. I get changed into more comfortable clothes, and by the time I’m finished, Samuel has dinner on the table.
“What a great house husband,” I say.
He grins and shrugs. “When I take a job, I do it right.”
“I can’t complain,” I say, kissing him and sitting down. “I think I have the best life in the whole world.”
He laughs and we start eating, with Stacey in my lap.
The early days of having a baby were hard, but Samuel was there the whole time. We got married right after she was born, and we’ve been living in my big house, although we’re talking about finding a new place. There are too many memories in here, and we both want to start over fresh and clean.
Mostly though, every day’s a little better than the day before. Stacey’s growing so fast, and Samuel’s such a good, supportive husband and father. He cooks, he cleans, he does everything around the house. He takes care of me and lets me go to work.
One day, I’ll return the favor. I’ll make it up to him when I can. I don’t know how, but I will. I try to make it up to him every night in bed, and he seems to be pretty happy with that.
We’re already talking about having another baby. I suspect we’ll have a big family, and that’s okay with me. I love having a big family. The miners already feel like our extended family, and that’s perfect.
I’m in their world now, and I think they all mostly accept that I’m on their side. Sure, I’m corporate, but I’m one of the good guys. I gave up all my money for them, after all.
I feel like I’m walking around with a smile on my face at all times. I can’t help it really. Things are too good, too happy, and they’re going to continue like this as far as I can tell. I don’t want anything to change, wouldn’t ask for anything more. Samuel smiles at me from the other end of the table.
“What?” he asks.
I smile at him. I was looking at his handsome face, his deep, intense eyes, everything about him.
“Nothing,” I say. “Just happy.”
“Yeah.” he says, a soft smile. “Me too.”
We go back to eating, and I feel such a wave of contentment wash over me that it’s impossible to describe. I hold my daughter tighter and smile, just letting that smile define me.
Lovemaker: A Secret Baby Romance
1
Cora
There’s not a lot of mourning at my brother’s funeral.
I don’t really blame them. Atticus was a problem for most people, the kind of guy that you slowly steered clear of until one day, he was a total stranger and you were warning people about him. He was an addict, an asshole, a dangerous guy.
But he wasn’t always. I remember Atticus the way he was before drugs ruined his life, when we were just kids. I looked up to Atticus and his friends back then. I thought my older brother was the coolest guy in the whole world, and his friends were even cooler. He and his best friend, Wyatt, used to spend hours down by this creek near our house, trying to catch fish and frogs and whatever else they could get their hands on, but mostly just messing around. And they’d let me tag along on those lazy, young afternoons, back when we were still just kids, before puberty, before responsibility.
If people remembered that Atticus, they’d be sad. Instead, they all remember the drug addict, the junkie, the thief, the asshole. That’s the Atticus these people remember.
All except for him. I look across the gravesite as the priest says his words. There aren’t many people here, just my mother looking distraught, a few of her friends, a few other distant relatives I barely remember, and then him. The guy I remember so fondly, the guy I’ve thought about so many times over the years.
Wyatt Reap, my brother’s best friend.
He’s tall now, a lot taller than I remembered. The last time I saw him was in high school, and he’s probably grown a few inches since then, definitely put on more muscle. There’s stubble on his handsome face, the sort of face that girls used to go insane over back when we were younger. His full hair of thick hair is styled neatly, though cut short, and his black suit fits him perfectly. He stands straight, a frown on his face, looking like he actually gives a shit that my brother’s being buried.
Wyatt and Atticus were as close as you could possibly be with another human being from the time they were six or seven up until Atticus found drugs. That was sophomore year of high school, when they were only fifteen. I was three years younger, an awkward twelve-year-old on the verge of growing up, and I still remember it all vividly.
The fights they used to have, how angry Wyatt would get when all Atticus wanted to do was sit around and smoke pot, sometimes drink stolen liquor, sometimes drop LSD and stare at the wall for hours. Wyatt was a star football player, and eventually Atticus started hanging out with the other troubled druggie kids, and their relationship was basically dead by senior year.
I’m honestly surprised to see him here. I didn’t know he kept in touch with Atticus, although he might not have. It wouldn’t surprise me if Wyatt just heard about Atticus’s death and, despite all the bad shit that happened since they were last friends, he decided to show up and do the right thing.
When the service ends and the casket is lowered, I wander away from my mother and her annoying friends. She’s already half-drunk anyway, and there’s nothing I can say to her right now that won’t come off as me trying to start a fight. It’s pretty insane of her to be drunk at her son’s funeral, especially considering substance abuse is a huge reason he’s dead, but try explaining that to her. She only drinks, Atticus had the real problem.
Not to mention my dead father, another old-school alcoholic. Cancer got him before we turned three. He’s a legend around town, or at least he was until Atticus slowly overshadowed him.
I sigh to myself. I should have seen this coming, but I couldn’t do anything for Atticus. I tried so many times and failed so many times. I’m the only one left in my whole family that has her shit together, and I can’t let them drag me down.
But Atticus is still family, and I love him, despite it all.
I spot Wyatt walking away toward the cars. I head over toward him, heart beating fast. He looks up, his slight frown turning into a smile suddenly. I can’t help but smile back at him.
“Cora Lewis,” he says. “All grown up.”
“You’re grown up yourself,” I say to him. I give him a hug and he kisses me on the cheek. He glances past my shoulder at my mother, whimpering as she gets into her car, and quickly looks back at me.
I know what that look means. He’s wondering if she should be driving now, and no, she definitely shouldn’t. But I’ve tried to take her keys away before, and I have the scars to prove it.
“You look great,” he says to me. “Really, and I’m sorry about Atticus. He was too young.”
“He was,” I say. “But it’s really good of you to show up. When was the last time you talked to him?”
He shrugs. “He called me once, a couple years back. He was in trouble, wanted to see if I could help.”
I laugh. “That’s Atticus, all right. But why could you help?”
“I’m a cop over in Chicago,” he says.
I raise my eyebrows. “I heard you were doing well out there.”
“Well, I’m
a detective now,” he says, shrugging. “After college I was a little lost, trying to figure out what to do, and I guess I watched a little too much CSI.”
I grin at him, but inwardly my brain’s moving a million miles an hour. “That’s amazing,” I say. “You’re young for a detective, aren’t you?”
He shrugs, trying to play it off. “Sure, it’s no big deal.”
“Listen, want to grab some coffee? I don’t feel like going home yet.”
“Of course,” he says.
“Meet at the Great American?”
“Sure,” he answers, laughing. “I can’t believe that place is still open.”
“It’s immortal, that’s for sure,” I say. The Great American Pub and Diner is just about the trashiest place in our town, but I love it. “See you there.”
I head over to my car, trying to avoid any relatives. I have to stop and hug some distant uncle and a cousin, but I pull out a few minutes later without too much hassle. I know how they all feel about Atticus, I’ve heard it enough over the years, and now they’re playing nice because he’s dead.
Truth is, I’m the only one that ever cared about him, especially toward the end. He’ll always be my older brother, troubled or not.
I park outside of the diner a few minutes later and find Wyatt already sitting in a booth. I slide in across from him and smile.
“Coffee?” the waitress asks and I nod.
“And some fries,” Wyatt says.
I grin at him. “Best fries in town,” I say as the waitress leaves.
“No other reason to come here.” He leans back and looks around.
The Great American is a little rundown, with red faux-leather seats and slightly sticky table tops, but it’s basically unchanged from the way it was originally built. For a crappy diner, it’s surprisingly packed.
“So what are you up to these days, little Cora?”
I raise an eyebrow. He called me that back in the day. “I’m a kindergarten teacher over at Jefferson,” I say.
“Kindergarten?” He laughs, sipping his coffee. “You must have the patience of a saint.”
“Something like that. I just like kids, I guess.”
“How long have you been there?”
This is my first year,” I say. “I subbed for a little bit until I lucked into this.”
“Good for you. So you’re still living in town?”
I nod and accept the coffee the waitress puts down in front of me, thanking her quickly before looking back at Wyatt. “Sure am,” I say. “I’ll probably live in Mason River for the rest of my life.”
He sighs, shaking his head. “You never really get away from Mason, do you?”
“Probably not.” I sip my coffee and it’s hot on my tongue. I catch him watching me and I blush a little bit. His deep blue eyes are so handsome and piercing, and for a second I forget that we’re grown adults who just came from a funeral. For a second, I’m a kid again.
I remember him standing next to me near the creek. Atticus was off somewhere digging in the mud for worms. “You ever catch one before?” Wyatt asked me.
I shook my head. “Never,” I said.
“Not that hard.” He crouched down next to the bank. “Just gotta be quick.”
I watched as he lashed out and grabbed a nearby frog. I laughed as he toppled over, splashing into the water, and the frog got away. He stood up, grinning.
“You think that’s funny?” he asked, still grinning.
“Yep, sure do.”
He chased me until I couldn’t breathe from laughing, and I ended up in that creek right along with him, grinning the whole time. I didn’t understand it back then but I felt something, deep down inside of me, the excitement of being touched by someone you like.
“How’s your mom?” he asks me, back in present day.
“The same,” I say. “You saw her.” Which is code for: still a drunk.
He nods, understanding. “Sorry about that.”
I shrug, no big deal. “How are you parents?”
“Good,” he says. “They moved out into the city, sold their house last year. I guess since I’m there, and my brother and his kids are there, they figured, why not?”
I grin at him. “Just your brother’s kids? None of your own?”
“Nope,” he says. “Proud bachelor.”
I ask about his brother and as he talks, I watch him closely. I’m not really listening, but I can’t help but inspect him. Wyatt still has those good looks, that easy charm, but he’s grown up. He’s more careful, more reserved. I catch him glancing around the place like he’s marking the exits in his mind.
He finishes and I nod and smile at something he said. He takes a sip of his coffee and I take a deep breath, readying myself.
“Listen, Wyatt,” I say. “I wanted to get coffee for a reason.”
He looks instantly uncomfortable. “Cora—“
“No, listen. I know you heard about Atticus and what happened to him. The people in this town, they don’t give a shit about him, nobody does. They’re not going to find his killer.”
Wyatt looks uncomfortable. “I’m sure they’re trying.”
“Hardly,” I spit, angry. “I need your help. Please, Wyatt, you still have some fond memories of my brother. Help me find out who killed him.”
He sighs and shakes his head. “Cora, I can’t.”
“You’re a detective. I know you’re not a detective here, but still. The police will talk to you.”
He glances away. “Cora,” he says, sounding defeated.
“Please,” I ask, practically begging him. “Just talk to the cops, see what they know. I’m dying here. It’s been almost a month and they have absolutely nothing, won’t tell me a damn thing. You know how it is here. They wouldn’t even let us have the funeral until now, said something about needing him for the investigation.”
He nods a little. “I know,” he says finally. “Look, I can ask. I still know some guys, but…”
“Thank you,” I say, feeling relieved.
“But don’t get your hopes up,” he says, talking over me. “Seriously, Cora. Your brother’s case is hard, and he wasn’t well-loved, but Mason doesn’t get a lot of murders. They’re taking it seriously.”
“Thank you so much,” I say to him, elated. “I won’t get my hopes up.” I take some money out of my purse and toss it onto the table.
He laughs a little. “That’s it?”
“I’ve gotta go,” I say. “I’m sorry. This means a lot to me.”
“Wait, hold on. What’s your number?”
I raise an eyebrow, suddenly not sure if he’s hitting on me.
He sighs. “To call about what I hear.”
“Right.” I tell him my number and he types it into his phone. I get a text from him a second later, and I save him into my contacts. “Thanks again,” I say, and hurry out the diner.
I didn’t want to stay too long. I could tell he wanted to make an excuse, get out of looking into what happened.
But I can’t let him do that. I need his help. Because I can’t solve a murder on my own, and I’m going to solve this.
Someone killed my brother. They found him dead in an alley, shot twice and stabbed four times. They have no explanation, no leads, no nothing. They wouldn’t even release his body until recently.
But I’m not going to let this town forget about my brother. I’m not going to let him be just another dead body in the streets. Mason may not get a lot of murders, but there’s a lot of darkness in this town. Atticus was wrapped up in a lot of it, although I don’t know how much.
Wyatt’s going to help me. He has to. I don’t know who else to turn to. But I’m not giving up.
I’ll take this all the way, one way or another.
2
Wyatt
I don’t think about Mason River all that much anymore, but when I do, I’m always glad I left.
It wasn’t a hard decision. After getting into college at the University of Chicago and majoring i
n Criminal Science, I knew that I couldn’t go back to some small Midwestern town. Of course, at the time, I didn’t know that I was going to take my fancy, expensive degree and get a job as a cop, but that’s another story.
In Chicago, I’m in demand. I’m young, handsome, and doing damn good moving up through the ranks of the Chicago PD. I get pussy when I want it, and I want it more often than not. I’m killing it out in the city, and that’s the kind of guy I’ve become. I left behind all this small-town bullshit, this backwoods bumpkin garbage, and made my life better out in the big city.
But back in Mason though, things haven’t changed at all. Hell, I even feel more like my old self here, like the guy I was back before I got my nickname. The guys in the force call me the Lovemaker, and that was supposed to be some kind of jab. Like it’s bad that I get more pussy than they can even imagine. Really, I’m the Fuckmaker, but they can’t call me that around the brass. Here in Mason though, I’m just Wyatt Reap again, good old boy, past football player and all-around nice guy. I’m not so nice, not anymore, not since I started to see the world for what it is. Being a cop changed me, for better or for worse.
Maybe not everything changes, though. The Great American is exactly the same, the people are exactly the same, and the motel I’m staying in clearly is exactly the same as the day they built it in the ‘50s.
I sigh and lean back in my chair. I glance at the window and back to my phone, wondering if I’m doing the right thing. I keep seeing Cora’s face in my mind, so familiar but so different. I wasn’t kidding when I said she’s all grown up. I remember a spindly young girl, auburn hair, pretty face, but awkward and uncomfortable. Cora isn’t any of those things anymore, well, except for the pretty face. She’s gorgeous, to be fucking frank, the sort of beautiful that always surprises me. Her auburn hair is still long and thick, and she still has that pretty face with those nice green eyes, but her figure’s all filled out. I feel fucking weird, thinking about the sister of my dead friend, especially since I’m picturing her in the black dress she was wearing to his funeral.