by S. L. Scott
“The pay was awful.”
“But the benefits are great.”
Toby is running around without his shirt and banging on his chest like Tarzan, delivering just the right dose of reality.
With a loud sigh, she says, “In the meantime, thank you for taking him. I should be at your house by eight.”
I track every step he takes, flinching when he falls, smiling when he dusts himself off. He’s a handful, but he’s my handful . . . I mean, my mom’s. This time I sigh, contemplating if what I’m doing is the right decision for him or a selfish one for me. I go with my gut. “Maybe he can spend the night?”
My mom continues to un-stack the chairs and line them up row by row. “If you don’t mind, that’d be great. I could use the sleep after the long day I’m having.”
I appreciate that she keeps it casual though we both know it’s a big step, a big change for all three of us. “Yeah, you sleep. I’ll take him tonight and you can come by in the morning. I don’t have class until ten.”
“Perfect. I’ll come get him at nine.”
“Great.” We share more than a knowing look. We share a moment that we both know has been a long time coming, but needed to arrive when the time was right.
She wrangles Toby and we find his shirt and missing sock and shoe. Once he’s dressed, she kneels in front of him, and says, “Go with your m—with your Clara. I love you, baby.”
Her cheek is covered in spittle from raspberry kisses, but she doesn’t complain. She just hugs him tight and smiles before standing up in front of me. “Love you.”
“I love you. See you tomorrow.”
“See you two then. Have a good night.”
With Toby as my backseat copilot secured into his car seat, I check on him in the rearview mirror. “You want to go to the store with me? We can get some yummies.”
He claps in excitement. “Nummies.”
“Yes, nummies.”
When Cruise is home, we grocery shop or he has something delivered. Without him to cook for, I fall back on an old fave—mac and cheese. The comforting blue box of a childhood lost before its time.
At home, Toby and I play I’m Gonna Getcha and I chase him around while the water boils. Once the food is ready, I sit on the couch, and place him on the floor in front of the coffee table, our bowls in front of us.
Clicking on the TV, he wants cartoons and I give in since it’s too early to see Cruise.
Another hour passes. The dishes are cleaned. Toby has been bathed and is now busying himself with scribbling on a piece of paper. His personality is reflected in the crazy, colorful scribble. He’s a wild child and just like the drawing, I love it. After we hang it on the fridge, I settle him on a pallet on my floor, worried he might fall off my bed if I let him sleep on the mattress.
Before I turn out the lights, I look over at my nightstand. Picking up the little brown bear with one eye, I show it to him. “Mine,” he says, snatching it from me before I can argue differently.
“Yours,” I reply, tapping him on the nose.
Snuggling with it, he rolls to the side and closes his eyes. I lean down, taking in the scent of his innocence and praying he always holds on to it. “I love you,” I whisper, then turn out the lamp beside the bed.
I tiptoe out, but leave the door cracked open and the hall light on for him. And for me.
When I return to the living room, I click on the news and wait for the story to come on. There are lead-ins before the commercial breaks to make sure you stay tuned when they come back. It’s salacious, even when Cruise is paraded in front of the rally. In the short thirty minutes I’ve been watching, they’ve called him a party animal, wild, out of control, and the Cristley adopted son. Not once have they just called him their son.
It’s so dumb. Those terms aren’t him at all. I take offense on Cruise’s behalf. If they knew him, really knew him, they’d know what a big heart he has.
I turn up the volume when the Cristley segment finally comes on. The report covers Senator Cristley’s life from his not-so humble beginnings to his standing in society to this day. Beatrice is interviewed and then each of the kids in the order of their age from eldest to youngest. It’s good to put faces with names, like Paige, and his brother Matty, but I’m not interested in their stories. I’m interested in the youngest Cristley. Cruise, or as they call him, John.
He answers every question with integrity and ease, until he thinks the segment is over, but they pop in a random question while the cameras are still rolling.
“Why were you and Alexander Kingwood the fourth abducted?”
When he talked to me about the kidnapping, he was convinced it was to get to Alex, but on TV, he shifts before answering.
“That would be a good question for the kidnapper.”
“As you know, he’s presumed dead. His body has never been recovered. Was it for money? You’re both from prominent families.”
“I can’t presume to know what a maniac is thinking. The police closed the case—”
“Despite a body never being found. Isn’t that highly unusual for them to close an open case?”
“Again, that would be a question for someone other than myself.”
“Okay, how about your dating life? You’ve been seen with some of the most beautiful eligible women. Do any hold your attention longer than a Friday night?”
This reporter is a bitch, and I’m not even regretful for calling her out for her horrid behavior. Cruise would be proud.
As for the reporter, I’m fully annoyed. She’s trying to not only hack up her prey on live TV for entertainment purposes, but his reputation in the process. I’m angry for him. He’s much nicer than me. Wait. What did he say?
“I’m in a committed relationship.”
“Who’s the lucky lady?”
“When we’re ready, we’ll step out, but there won’t be a formal announcement or a press conference associated with it. It will be a date between two people who care deeply for each other.”
“Are you in love, John?”
“Yes. Irrevocably in love.”
“Well, there you have it, ladies. Heartthrob and heir to the Cristley millions, John, is currently off the market.”
They cut to a commercial and I flick the TV off. I want to be irritated by how she referred to him at the end of the segment, but how can I when he said such sweet words?
Irrevocably in love.
With me.
Me.
That has to be the most romantic thing I’ve ever heard.
I reach for my phone and text Cruise: I’m irrevocably in love with you, too.
The three dots wave on the screen and then a message from him pops up: I don’t like to lie. I should have told you first. In person. I’m sorry I said it on national TV before telling you.
Me: You’ve told me in every kiss since that first kiss. In every touch of your fingertips. In every look we’ve shared. The air around me shifts when you’re near. So you’ve told me. I’ve felt it without the words.
Cruise: If you’re trying to seduce me, it’s working.
While I’m laughing, there’s a pause, and then the dots appear followed by text: I’m told it’s already a sound bite. Our love is already a sound bite. Grrrr.
Me: I have something for you to bite. #wearingwhiteundies #irrevocablyinlove
Cruise: I like where this is going. I also like you #wearingwhiteundies and being #irrevocablyinlove with me
Me: Me too. #irrevocablyinlove with everything about you.
Cruise: We’re leaving the station, but call me. I need the rescue after sitting next to Fredrick most of the day.
Laughing, I respond: Will do. This time I’ll be your hero.
Cruise: You already were.
Before I get a chance to type anything more, my phone rings. Vaughn flashes on the screen and I set it down like a hot potato on the coffee table and stare at it, debating what to do—answer it or not? Guilt sets in because he never calls me. What if something’s w
rong?
What if it’s not?
“What if there is?” I pick up the phone on the fourth ring. “Hello?”
“Clara? I need you.” He doesn’t sound drunk, and he doesn’t sound normal. This is how I imagine someone who’s panicking sounds.
“What’s going on, Vaughn?”
“Where’s Toby?”
The question is easy to answer so my heart rate starts to settle into its regular beat. “Why?” Still wearing the same skirt and shirt I wore to work and class, I stand up and push it down as I walk around the coffee table. “What’s wrong?”
“Where the fuck is Toby, Clarissa?”
“He’s with me. Why are you mad?”
“Because I thought something happened to him. I’ve been fucking freaking out over here for the last hour.”
My annoyance peaks. “He’s fine. I’ve got him. You don’t need to worry. Just go on about your night. He’s sleeping here tonight.”
“Bring him home. Now.”
“No. I’m hanging up.”
“Don’t fucking do it, Clarissa. Bring him home. He needs to be here.”
“Why? He’s fine here. Sleeping. Let Mom have a night off, for Pete’s sake.”
“Why are you doing this? Why now?”
Closing the curtains in the living room, I peek out. “What? What am I doing? You should be grateful to have him out of the house for a night.”
He groans, but I can hear his rage, the sound muffled but discernible. “Please, Clara.”
“He’s fine here, Vaughn. It’s one night. You’ll see him tomorrow.” I hang up and set the phone on the coffee table as I go into the kitchen for a glass of water.
Vaughn needs to be dealt with. He’s out of control and dangerous. Surely he won’t go near Mom while Toby’s gone. I want to text her, but I don’t want to worry her. She’ll be okay. I refuse to worry her. He won’t hurt her.
I’m glad I have Toby here for the night. My wild child and sweet baby.
28
Clara
My body startles awake to the loud banging on my door.
I’m too foggy to know if I’m asleep or awake despite the yelling. The voice calling my name from my front porch is familiar and my mind clears instantly.
Vaughn.
Toby. I jump up from the couch and run to open the door before he wakes Toby. Swinging it open, I gripe through gritted teeth, “What the heck?”
Vaughn barges right past me. “Where’s Toby?”
“Keep it down, you psycho, he’s sleeping.”
“I need to get him home.”
I rush through the living room to cut off his path to the hall. “No. Did you hear me? He’s sleeping.”
“Mom needs him.”
Spreading my arms wide across the arched doorway, I get a good look at him. Sweat beads at his hairline. His eyes are crazed, his pupils no larger than the tip of a pen. His shirt is covered in dirt and he smells like vomit. “Vaughn, what’s going on?” There’s no reasoning to be had. He’s in not state to think logically.
“She needs him.” His voice is calm from the panic at the door. “I have to get him home.”
“No, she doesn’t,” I say, trying to level mine. “She knows he’s here. She’s sleeping at home. You need to go home too.”
“No,” he says, looking into my eyes. He reaches up to rest his hand on my shoulder. “I need Toby.”
“No. You don’t. He’s sleeping. It’s late.”
His touch is light, but strong enough for me to feel how his hand trembles. Something’s wrong. “Talk to me, Vaughn. I’m your sister. Remember. It’s me, Clarissa. You can talk to me about anything.”
“I can’t. It’s too late. I just need to take care of you and Mom.”
“And Toby.”
The drop of his hands to his sides and his gaze to the floor reveals his pain, but I don’t trust he’s given up. He says, “No.”
Keeping my arms wide, the tips of my fingers are white from the pressure on the plaster. “No?”
When he looks back up, he says, “I’m sorry.”
“Sorry?” That wobble to my voice is a weakness I could never hide despite trying many times in my life. Fear floods me as I stare at my brother who now towers over me. “Why are you sorry?”
“I need to take Toby.”
“Where?”
“Please. Don’t make this harder than it is.”
“You need to go home. You need to leave, Vaughn.”
Someone hidden behind the wall of my brother asks, “Where is the boy?”
Vaughn doesn’t move, not a muscle, but I bend enough for my eyes to see around him. A man stands in my doorway—black trench coat and piercing blue eyes so light only the dark pupils are seen in the dim light.
My body freezes, my bones locking, my muscles straining, but my eyes manage to look at my brother’s. “What have you done?”
The man says, “It’s your father’s deal. The kid is just following through.” When he laughs, the dark and insidious sound fills my ears.
I know that laugh. I heard that laugh over and over in my nightmares for so long.
Vaughn whispers, “I had no choice.”
“You did,” I say under my breath. “This is on you.”
The shadow of the attacker climbs the wall beside us, just enough light from the lamp by the couch to set a scene of terror. My heart pounds against my ribcage, fighting to run free, but I can’t leave. I won’t leave my son behind and I refuse to let him be taken away.
His voice is shallow, an octave too high to be taken seriously in any setting other than this one. “Bring the boy to me now, Clarissa.”
“No,” I reply, staring at my brother as a tear slides down my face. To Vaughn, I look him in the eyes and say, “How could you do this to us?”
“It was him or all of us.”
“Him? You mean Toby. Your brother.”
“My nephew from a rapist.”
“My son. From me.”
“I had no choice. I can’t lose Mom.”
“But you will lose us. All of us for what you’ve done.”
A black-gloved hand reaches for Vaughn. “Step aside. I’ll get him myself.” There is no escaping. There is only fighting.
Vaughn’s eyes stay trained on me and he silently pleads, “Forgive me.”
“No. Rot in hell.”
Tears streak down his face and he starts to move just as metal reflects the light to the wall, catching my attention. A gun.
There’s no time to run. There’s nowhere we can be safe. He’ll collect what he’s come for over our dead bodies.
We were nothing in his eyes.
I was everything in Cruise’s. A lifetime of surviving comes down to this—penance paid for our father’s sins.
I often wondered what damage would be done to me, to Vaughn, to my mother, and to my son. Would the effects remain in that moment, or last a lifetime? I always knew who my allies were, the ones who would die fighting, just like me.
Looking at my brother who bears such a strong resemblance to the man that has destroyed so much of who we are, I wonder if there was ever going to be a place for him in this world. Such a kind little soul who bore the brunt of a treacherous man. His heir. His pride. His only son.
All the times I took a beating or worse for him, the times I hid him in my closet or under my bed, I tried to protect him, to heal his wounds, but I could never heal him on the inside.
My shoulders go back, my spine stiff. I stand as tall as my body can stretch. I expect him to do as he’s told like he’s done most of his life.
But sometimes expectations are defied for loyalty. I’m not sure what’s come over him, or what caused his change of heart, but I do hear, “I love you, big sis.” It’s just a murmur before Vaughn yells, “Fight!”
Fight.
We stand here without weapons, using our bodies as shields. Me shielding the hall that leads to the best part of me sleeping in my bedroom. Vaughn standing guard, shielding me
, and refusing to step aside. The flicker of metal reflection rises high and then barrels down taking Vaughn with it.
Piercing blue eyes meet mine as I scream, my hands covering my mouth in horror as blood covers the side of my brother’s head, tangling in his hair.
He lowers the gun and aims it at my fallen brother. The trigger is cocked, and the second his eyes leave mine, I swing as hard as I can.
The shell of his ear is soft and pliable, but I hit hard enough to make it ring. Knocked sideways, he catches himself, and I turn to get Toby from the room, but my legs are flipped out from under me and something hard strikes the back of my head causing me to slam against the hardwood floor.
Dazed, I lie there.
All I can think about is how close I came to the fairy tale. The bad haunts me when all I want to do is dream of the good and think of Cruise. Irrevocably in love.
The dream, the fairy tale, the future—I almost had it all.
I feel the weight, but my soul refuses to acknowledge the truth. My body decides to fight. Pushed off my back, he hits the wall. “Bitch,” is shot my way, a punch coming right after.
I think it’s my blood I smell. My eye begins to swell and the taste of blood confuses me. I think I might be dying, but I refuse to die before I know Toby is safe.
An elbow to whatever I can reach gives me space away from him and sends the gun flying from his hand. I’m grabbed by the arm and yanked, and then he twists it. “Let her go.”
My dark angel.
My soul’s keeper.
My hell.
My heaven.
My solace.
My safe place.
My savior.
My hero.
As if the cavalry arrived just in the knick of time, my dark knight stands in the doorway with his hands in front of him and a gun aimed in our direction.
“Release her.” When he doesn’t, Cruise adds, “I’ll fucking do it without a second thought or a single regret.”
I’m called a whore and property, owed to him, and trash. But I am freed.
He is pushed away from me, and I try to move closer to Cruise, but I’m struggling to move at all.