Revenge

by Anne L. Parks

  I glance at Alex, his features have softened a bit, and he's stroking my hand. Such simple touches from him, but they always give me an enormous amount of strength.

  "From the start, my period was not what doctors would consider normal. It was wildly sporadic—sometimes once a month, sometimes twice, often spotting in between. I guess I knew something wasn’t working like it should, but I also didn't know what I could do about it. Fast forward to college, I started having pain, but pretended it would go away. It didn't, and by the time Ryan and Paul figured out something was wrong, they were driving me to the emergency room. The doctor's discovered I had severe endometriosis—as in, life-threatening at that point. Since I was not anywhere close to menopause, they did a full house cleaning."

  "Jesus, Kylie." Alex runs his hand over his face, staring at something or nothing on the wall opposite us. "So, that would definitely make it impossible to be a surrogate." He turns towards me, and his eyes are a mix of wary hopefulness. "But that doesn't necessarily mean you can't have kids."

  This is exactly what I feared. He wants kids, even if I can't actually carry them. "Do you mean have someone be a surrogate for me? Or adoption?"

  "Both options are available to you," he answers.

  I shake my head, sigh heavily, and squeeze his hand. "Alex, I've had a long time to think about this, and I don't want kids. I'm happy in my career. With our lives—now and in the future. I love dreaming about where life will take us, all the things I want to experience with you, and I can tell you unequivocally I do not want to raise a family."

  I lift his hand and kiss his knuckles, knowing this next part could end everything between us, and destroy all my hopes for a future with him. "If that's something you want—a baby, a family—then we need to re-evaluate our relationship, and where this is going. I won't change my mind, Alex, no matter how romantic the notion of sharing a bond with you through a child might be, it's not enough to make me want that life."

  I inhale slowly and hold it, watching him, waiting for his reaction. My heart pounds, my hands tremble, and a thin layer of sweat breaks out over my skin.

  Finally, he looks at me, and a smile lifts the corners of his mouth. "Baby, I don't want kids, either. If I did, I'd have them by now. My life is my company and my charities—at least, until you came into it. If there is any woman I'd want to have a child with, it's you, but I am perfectly happy just having you. Building our future and sharing dreams. I can't imagine my life being any more complete than it is now, with you. I don't want or need more."

  I nearly burst into tears. At least this won't come between us, but this is not the only thing standing in our way. I might as well address the elephant in the room and make him tell me why he hasn't touched me in any meaningful, intimate way since before the shooting.

  The little bit of relief I felt has evaporated, and tension wracks my body once more. I need to know what's going on—but that doesn't mean I necessarily want to know.

  "Alex, I need you to be straight with me about something."

  "What?"

  "I need you to tell me what's going on with us. I need for you to be honest…and tell me why you don't want to make love to me."

  Alex drops his head back, closes his eyes, and rubs the bridge of his nose. "Kylie, it's not that I don't want to make love to you—I do. You have no idea how much—"

  Well, that's true…

  "Are you scared for some reason?" I ask.

  He opens his eyes and gazes at me. They're so blue and beautiful, but the dark circles detract from them, and the corners dip down. "Many reasons."

  A chill runs through me. "Why?" I hate that my voice is shaky. My fingers toy with the double heart pendant Alex gave me hanging around my neck.

  He closes his eyes again, takes a deep breath, and slowly releases it.

  "Please talk to me, Alex. Whatever it is, no matter how hard it might be for me to hear, I need to know what's wrong." I wrap my hands around his. "Are you afraid of losing me?"

  "Yes."

  "I'm fine, Alex. The doctors say I've made a full recovery, and there's a low risk of me developing any complications from being shot or hitting my head."

  "Well, I admit, that did worry me at first."

  "And now?"

  He drops his head, his thumb making a circle on the back of my hand, and he's quiet for a moment. "You don't need me anymore—don't need me to protect you. The reason you fell in love with me is gone now that John can't hurt you anymore."

  A sudden coldness hits me square in the chest, my extremities tingling with disbelief. "You think I fell in love with you because you protected me from John?"

  He nods.

  I sit, time seems to stand still for a moment while I gather my thoughts. "Alex, I love that you protected me, but that's not the reason I fell in love with you, and certainly not why I'm still so in love with you."

  "But will you ever be able to truly forgive me for failing you?"

  My mind races to find answers. "What are you talking about?"

  "John shot you—almost killed you—while I watched it all unfold. I swore to protect you and I failed."

  "God, I hate this—even from the grave— he can still come between us. But, baby, you did not fail me. I wish I could make you understand all the ways you have saved me. I know you're scared, but if you give up on this part of us because you're afraid you'll lose me somehow, then you've already lost me. I'm doing a really horrid job of explaining this—it's just that—anything can happen, at any time, or nothing could happen. We could have thirty years together or thirty minutes."

  "I watched you die," he whispers, and my heart breaks.

  "I came back to you, Alex."

  His hand caresses my cheek, his eyes reach into my soul, his lips press against mine. He gently sucks my lower lip, releases it, and murmurs against them, "Can anything this good really last forever?" His hand cups the back of my head, and he pulls me into him, our lips crashing together.

  I rest my hands on his thighs, not sure what I should do, how far he will let me go before he shuts this down like he has every time we get to this point. He's going to have to take the lead on this, I'm not sure I can handle the rejection again.

  He pulls his head back, his eyes dark and lusty, but his eyebrows gather together. "What's wrong?"

  "Nothing," I blurt out a little too quickly. He sighs and drops his head. "It's just…it's hard for me to start down this path—think we're going to make love, and—" My voice cracks, and trails off.

  "And I never let it go there." His hand is still at the back of my head, and he tilts it back so he can see directly into my eyes. "I'm not perfect. I make so many mistakes, but I'm trying to learn, also. I have come up with so many reasons lately to keep you at arm's length, to deny that part of me that is so desperate for you, because I thought it would somehow hurt both of us. It's flawed thinking, I realize that, especially after hearing it out loud, but it's what I've been clinging to. What I lost sight of is, even with all the reasons I've come up with, the one reason I'm ignoring you—is you. You're the reason I changed who I was in the first place. The only reason that should matter to me is you…and it is."

  My chest rises and falls more quickly, and my head is swimming in a sea of lust and need and want. I grab at the button of his jeans, fumbling with it until I finally work it free. I slip out of my jeans and top and slide onto the bed. Tossing his jeans to the floor, Alex crawls on top of me, suspending himself above me, his eyes roam over my body. His tongue licks along his bottom lip, the blue of his eyes darkening.

  The muscles in his arms flex, and he slowly lowers his naked body on top of mine. He drags his lips along my neck and shoulder. A low, luscious moan escapes from somewhere deep within me, and I raise my chest to meet his, pushing my breasts against his taut chest muscles. I run my hands over his back, feeling every curve, every dip, and every muscle of his tempting body.

  Our lovemaking is slow and sensuous and so overdue. The thrill throughout my body
is almost more than I can handle—I'm on sensory overload—and I'm desperate to have all of him. It's been so long since we've been this close—this intimate.

  Once we have both found the magical release that had evaded us for so long, his lips find mine again and we kiss, softly, our bodies coming down from their highs. He collapses on top of me, and I run my hands into his hair, as his head falls to my chest.

  "You okay?" He asks.

  I laugh. "I'd say much better than okay." I place my hands on the side of his face. "I trust you…I know you will never hurt me like—like I've been hurt before. This is not just sex. It's never just been sex with us. It has a deeper meaning for both of us."

  He kisses me, runs his fingers into my hair, his hand grasps the back of my head. "You showed me how to love, and be loved, and share this kind of intimacy. No one will ever hurt you again—I will never take anything from you that you're not willing to give. I love you, and I respect you and your body."

  I smile, his words wrap around my heart like a shield, and protect it from harm. I never thought I would trust a man again, be able to give myself fully and completely. Alex changed all of that. I trust him with my heart, and my body. And I am all his. Forever.

  7

  I toss my purse onto the kitchen counter and flop down on the couch in the family room.

  "I love visiting Ryan and Paul, but they wear me out."

  Alex chuckles from the kitchen. "Yeah, well, they better have fun now because once they get a kid, they won't be able to go out and party."

  Alex's cell phone rings before I can comment. I reach for the remote and turn the TV on. "A Special Investigative Report" flashes across the screen.

  "Tonight—James Wells was convicted of the 1986 murder of his wife, Ellen Stone Wells. Reporter Christopher Terry takes a look back at the crime and the trial that shook the community, hear from the man who sits in prison and what he has to say about his billionaire son, well-known businessman and philanthropist, Alex Stone."

  My chest tightens.

  Alex sits down beside me and tosses his cell phone on the coffee table. "That was Jack. He and Annabelle want us to come to dinner tomorrow night. I told them that was fine." I don't think he's aware of what's just been on the TV.

  "Yeah, sounds good to me. I haven't seen Annabelle in a while. It’ll be nice to catch up with the both of them," I answer, but the news teaser distracts me.

  Christopher Terry is standing in front of a two-story colonial house. "A beautiful home in an upper middle-class neighborhood. The family who lived here was well-respected in the community. James Wells was an up-and-comer at a local manufacturing company, rising through the ranks of management to become the head of research and development. He was married to his wife, Ellen, for seventeen years, and had two sons and two daughters. Friends and neighbors remember the kids playing with other neighborhood children. A normal family—but behind closed doors, trouble was brewing, and one fateful night, the family's deepest darkest secret would be primetime news with the death of one family member, that led to the murder conviction of another. But was the case as cut and dried as it appeared to be? Join us for, The Sins of the Father."

  Music plays into the commercial break. I slide my gaze over to Alex. The vein in his neck pulses, and his jaw is clamped shut. He glares at the TV. I don't know much about this part of his life—he never talks about it, and only recently opened up to me about his mother's death. The memories are a demon whispering he failed her, didn't protect her from his abusive father, and his penance is a lifetime of guilt over her death.

  Now, just when Alex is beginning to come to grips with the horrible events of that night and starting to give in to the idea there was nothing he could do, everything is going to be highlighted for the entertainment of the masses, and the ratings of the news station.

  I'm in limbo, not sure what to do. Not sure what he wants or needs from me right now. I want to go to him, comfort him. Make sure he knows I'm here for him and that he'll never be alone again. But Alex deals with things in his own way and fawning over him will only stress him out.

  "It was an Indian summer night—not unlike what we are experiencing currently—when a call came into the nine-one-one dispatch."

  There is a photo of a dispatch console on the screen. The voices of the female dispatcher and young man are heard, while a transcript of their words cross the screen.

  "Nine-one-one, what is your emergency?"

  "My mother needs help. She's not breathing." Alex's voice, so young and so scared, reaches into my heart like a hand, and squeezes it. I ache for him, already knowing the outcome, and the years of hell that result from this night.

  "Can you tell me what happened?" The dispatcher asks.

  "My dad…hit her…and she fell…" He struggles to breathe through his sobs. "…And now she's not breathing."

  "Is your father still there?"

  It takes a moment before Alex responds. "No, he left."

  "Okay," the dispatcher says, her voice soft, soothing, and calm. "The police are on their way. I'm going to stay on the line with you until they get there. What is your name?"

  "Alex Wells."

  The name throws me for a second. I never considered Alex's name wasn’t Stone all along. It sounds so foreign to me. It's hard enough to reconcile the sobbing voice of the boy on the recording is the same man who sits before me with a blank expression, not saying a word.

  An older gentleman appears on the screen. His name appears at the bottom of the shot—Kent Markinson. Under his name it states that he was the first officer on the scene.

  "When I got there, I found a woman, lying on the floor. She appeared to be in her late thirties—early forties. She was not breathing and when I felt for a pulse, there was none."

  Alex bolts to his feet, making me jump. My heart races, and I fight to get my breathing back to normal. Without a word, Alex leaves the room. I listen for the door to the study to close, and presume he's going to escape to his sanctuary. A moment later he returns, a full glass of scotch in his hand. He sits down but doesn't look at me. His gaze is trained on the grainy black and white video of a young man sitting in a police interview room. Seated next to him is a much younger Jack Daniels, my boss.

  "Alex stated during the interview his father had been drinking and became violent, hitting his mother and knocking her to the floor,” the voiceover of Markinson explained. “Alex said she appeared to be unconscious. At that time, he engaged his father, and attempted to fight him. His father punched him a few times in the stomach and when Alex tried to stand, his father punched him in the face, knocking him unconscious. When Alex came to, his father was gone. His mother was alive but bleeding out of her mouth. She died before he could get to the phone and get help."

  I stare at the young man in the video. He sits up straight, nods and answers questions by the investigator. He doesn't appear to be crying. In fact, he has no emotion at all. I glance at Alex. The reserved look on his face is the exact look of the young man in the video. The realization hits me like a slap across the face—Alex became detached almost immediately after his mother died. Had he ever been a carefree young man? Or was there always an ominous presence around him, darkening his world? Had he ever been free of the demons after that horrible night?

  A cold wave passes through me, I grieve for the lost boy in the video, and even more for the man next to me. How different would he be today if he hadn't witnessed his mother's death? The tightness in my chest nearly takes my breath away, and leaves my limbs tingling. No child should have to watch a parent die. I had been spared that much, at least. But I would give anything to be able to take the memory from Alex and give him back his youth.

  Video of police officers breaking into a hotel room replaced the police interview. The reporter's voiceover is providing the play-by-play explanation. "A few hours after Alex accused his father of his mother's murder, a be on the lookout was sent out with the license plate number and description of James Wells' vehicle. Wells
' car was discovered in the parking lot of a motel. Police obtained information from the clerk that Wells had checked in but had not left the motel room except to get food and alcohol. Wells was found in the room with a prostitute he had picked up outside the liquor store."

  "Bastard," Alex mutters, and empties the last of the scotch in his glass. I take it from his hand, and head to the bar. I need a drink, and I might as well refresh his while I'm at it. It may be the only way either one of us can get through this documentary.

  My phone buzzes, and I fish it out of my pocket. Leigha. "Hey," I answer, my voice just above a whisper.

  "Hey, are you guys watching this show?"

  "Yeah, you?"

  "Yes. Will looks like he is on the brink of either crying or killing someone. Did you have any idea all this stuff had happened?"

  I pour a healthy portion of gin in my glass and top it off with a little tonic. "Some of it…but just the basics."

  "How is Alex taking it?"

  I glance over my shoulder to the entryway to the living room. I don't want Alex to know I'm talking about him. This is so personal to him, and even though I'm talking to Leigha, I would hate for him to feel I betrayed his confidence. He is already wound tight at the moment.

  "He's pretty quiet—you know Alex, but he's had a death grip on his scotch glass since it started. I'll just be glad when it's over and he, Will, and the rest of the family can put it all behind them."

  "Me, too. I only have one more case of beer left, and at the rate Will is going through them, I may run out before the end of the show." She laughs, but there is no humor in it.

  "I better get back in the other room with Alex. I'll talk to you later."

  "Tomorrow," she says and ends the call.

  * * *

  * * *

  The interior of a courtroom is on the screen when I walk into the family room. I lower next to Alex on the couch and pass him the glass of scotch. James Wells’ attorney, Walter Sweeney, according to the name on the screen, is sitting at the defense table with his client. The district attorney at that time is addressing the jury.