by S. L. Scott
Maybe I was all those things my father and men like this scum fuck of the Earth—Cruise’s name—called me. Maybe.
But I’m also good, and kind, smart, and Cruise even finds my jokes funny. His name for me, Dove, that’s who I am to him.
Because I’m irrevocably loved.
29
Cruise
“Run, Dove!”
She takes off down the hall. The act both making me happy for her safety, and sad that she’s so damn trained to listen when told what to do. Her safety is at the forefront of my mind, and the most important. The rest we can work on.
This fucker’s gonna die for what he’s done to her. Glancing to Vaughn, he lies motionless on the floor. I’m not sure if he’s dead or alive, but I can’t concern myself with him just yet. “Kick the gun to me very slowly.”
“The famous Mr. Cristley,” he says, tilting his head. “What an odd way to meet.”
“Shut the fuck up. This isn’t a meeting. This is where you fucking meet your maker for hurting my girlfriend.”
“Girlfriend?” He sighs, taking a step closer to the gun that fell from his hand when Clara elbowed the shit out of him. “What an awkward predicament we’ve found ourselves in.”
What’s he rambling about? “Not awkward. Deadly if you don’t shut up and get me that fucking gun.”
He starts to reach for it, but I add, “If you so much as touch that gun with your hand, you’ll lose it.”
Shrugging his shoulders back, the black coat hangs open. A three-piece suit is underneath. This guy isn’t your average criminal. I’m not sure what’s going on here, but he hurt Clara and knocked Vaughn out cold. He threatened to take her son.
“I didn’t want to hurt anyone. I asked for my investment back or to deliver what I paid for. I asked very nicely. Surely, a man of your societal stature can appreciate an approach that is both reasonable and beneficial.”
“You don’t know anything about me, so don’t assume you do.”
“I once had the pleasure of doing business with your brother, Fredrick. It was a smaller trade deal in the Middle East. Reasonable and beneficial.”
Fuckers. The both of them. “Why are you here?”
“For my son.”
“What are you talking about?” The question no sooner leaves my mouth as the answer arrives.
“Clarissa’s son. She’s a beautiful girl. We made a handsome son together, don’t you think?”
Toby.
Holy fuck.
All the calm I tried to retain evaporates with that one name. “You raped her.”
“Rape is a harsh word. Do I look like a man who needs to rape a woman?”
“You sure as shit didn’t pay her a social call. You fucking raped her.”
His foot is finally on the gun. “She bred the heir I was never fortunate to have with my ex-wives.”
“You deserve to suffer like she did. I don’t know whether to call the cops to send you to prison where you’ll be fucked every day and night or to send you to hell.”
The images of him having his way with my little dove cause my thoughts to spin. My hand holds steady. I can kill him. I can get rid of the body. Jason. King. They’ll help me. He deserves to die. He fucking deserves it just like her father.
“She begged me for more. She likes it—”
He drops like an anchor hitting the ocean floor. Screaming in pain, his vile words are cut off, his arms wrapped around the leg where I shot him. Walking over to get the gun, I kick it away with my foot, and tap the barrel of my gun against his head. “I warned you to shut the fuck up. You made your choice. Prison it is.”
A calm comes over me as I dial 9-1-1. I remain there with my gun aimed at his temple as he wails in pain until the sirens are outside and I hear the cops invade the front porch.
I’m slammed against the wall, my cheek hitting the textured paint. I take it. This time I do as I’m told, cooperating. My parents would be so proud. When the gun checks out as registered to me, along with my story, and they find out my identity, the treatment changes. Vaughn is rushed in an ambulance to the hospital, still breathing, and they give me the leeway to look for my love.
I’m almost positive she ran to her bedroom. When I walk into the room, I can feel her near. I look over my shoulder to find the bear missing from the nightstand. In the middle of the room, I still my body and my mind, stop my breathing, and listen.
Looking at the closet, I turn my body and walk slowly over. I don’t open the door without warning not knowing what I’ll find and not wanting to scare her even more. “Clara, it’s me, Cruise. Are you in there?”
There’s no response, not a single sound. “I’m going to open the door, Clara. I’m alone. It’s just me out here.” I reach for the doorknob and slowly turn before wedging it open just enough to let light in.
The closet isn’t a walk-in. It’s barely deep enough to fit hangers so there’s nowhere to really hide. But she did the best she could. Sitting at the bottom of the dark little room is my little dove. “Clara? It’s okay. You’re safe.”
Her body rocks as she holds her knees to her chest as if her life depends on it. It did. My heart tightens listening to her soft whimpers as she begs God to help her. Black makeup tears have trailed down her cheeks and farther down her legs. Kneeling down, I don’t dare touch her yet. Her fear is palpable as I sit in front of her. “It’s me, Cruise. Will you look at me?”
Putting my hand down on the floor, I flip it over so it’s palm side up and move it a foot away from her. “It’s me, baby. I won’t hurt you. You’re safe now.”
Hazel eyes with bright green centers find mine before her gaze dashes down to my hand. I repeat, “You’re safe.”
She doesn’t make a move, the rocking stopped along with her tears. I ask, “I know you’re scared, but will you come out for me?”
It’s not a big gesture, but she shakes her head. I can’t deny the blow to my heart, but I stay in place. It’s not me. I know it’s not. I know she loves me, like I do her. I also remember what it’s like to stand before death thinking it’s the end. Her head’s full of the bullshit they’ve filled it with. I have to undo the damage they’ve done, and I will because I’ve fallen in love with my little dove.
Mine, not theirs.
When she drops her head onto her knees, my heart breaks all over again. Her pain is mine and all I want to do is heal her. I want to find that girl with the quick tongue and sensitive heart, the one who asked me to her place on the bravery of her own intuition. I’m determined to bring back the woman who asks me to kiss her just because she likes the way it feels when we do.
God, I love her. I love her so fucking much that I refuse to lose her to the nightmares that replay in her head again.
“I never did find out your favorite food though I could venture a few guesses. What is it, Dove? What’s your favorite food in the entire world?”
She doesn’t answer, but her crying stops. I add, “Anything. Name anything in the world. I like Mexican food. It’s hard to get in New England, but I know a great place I’d like to take you to. Do you like Mexican food?”
Peeking up, she wipes the tears away from one of her cheeks, and then licks her lips. “I like—” A sniffle cuts in. Although tears still fill her eyes, she replies, “I like macaroni and cheese.”
My pride in her for fighting her way back is immense, and my smile is instant. “You do? Mac and cheese?”
This time she just nods and a little pink from embarrassment over pain sneaks onto her cheeks. I don’t dare move my hand even though she makes no effort to take it. I add, “I love mac and cheese. We can make some this week or I can take you out for the best mac and cheese in town. What about laundry? What day is laundry day or do you do a little every day?” I almost didn’t get the chance to ask her these little things about her. I won’t waste this new one.
She exhales a deep breath and her body starts to relax. “Wednesday and Saturday.”
“I’m more the send my laundry out kind of guy.
I don’t even know how to wash clothes.”
“I can show you.”
“You’d do that?”
She nods. The more I talk to her the more comfortable she becomes. I ask, “What about books? Do you like books that make you cry or do you prefer a happily ever after?”
“Always the happily ever after.”
I understand why more than ever before. “Me too.”
“Would you like to go out with me on Saturday night?”
“No,” she replies shaking her head. “I’d prefer to stay in and watch movies with you.”
My smile remains despite my breath halting in my chest as I watch her reach forward and set her hand in mine. This time I nod, not only because I’d prefer to stay in with her, which I do, but because the trust we had still exists. “Me too.” I clasp my fingers around her hand and she holds tight to me. “You can pick the movie.”
“I don’t care about the movie. I just want to be with you.”
I stand and bring her to her feet with me. She comes to me without coaxing. But I never expect to find what I do. If I look really carefully through a pair of jeans and some T-shirts, I see Toby lying in the back corner tucked behind where she was, curled up asleep.
Looking to her, I whisper, “He’s okay?”
“Yes. He’s okay.”
“You saved him, Dove.”
She turns back and looks at him barely visible through the clothes. “I would do anything for him.”
“Of course you would. He’s your son. He’s lucky to have you.”
Nodding, she looks down. I wrap my arms around her and lean my head on hers, closing my eyes and breathing her sweet berry scent. “I thought I might never see you again.” My confession is whispered into her hair.
With her arms around my middle, she rests her head on my chest, and says, “Do you remember how you said you thought the reason you lived was to meet me?”
“Yeah. I know it was.”
“The reason I lived was to stay with you and to raise him.”
I don’t know how long we stay there, holding each other. Kissing her head, I hear the truth in her words, and I feel it deep inside. “You did good, Dove. So good.”
30
Cruise
She hovers.
I don’t mind.
In fact, I like it.
Clara stops pacing around the hospital bed and puts her hands on her hips. “You could have been shot.”
“I wasn’t, but I guess in some alternate universe I would be the one who got shot.” I wink at her. “In that universe, I’m king.”
“Who says?”
Shit. Looking over my dove’s shoulder, I see my best friend walking in, and laugh. “Perfectly bad timing, Alex.”
“Maybe I should go by King.”
Sara Jane comes around the corner with a fruit basket in hand. “King’s not happening. I like you exactly how you are.” When her eyes land on me, they sharpen and her mouth twists to the side. “What are you doing, Cruise? Get up. Up. Up. Up.” Holding the basket in front of her, she turns her attention to Clara and her expression softens. “I hope you like fruit.”
Clara smiles. “I love fruit. Thank you.”
“We almost brought flowers, but this has chocolate tucked in there. I love chocolate and thought you might, too. I’m Sara Jane.”
I stand quickly. “Sorry.” Slipping my hand around Clara’s back, I say, “Clara, this is Sara Jane and Alex.”
As if she doesn’t have a swollen eye and bandages hiding a cut on the side of her head, she holds out her hand. Sara Jane hands the basket to Alex, takes Clara’s hand, and quickly ushers her to the bed. “You should be resting. Trust me. Get the rest now so you heal quicker.”
Clara sits on the edge, and says, “Thank you for the basket. That’s very thoughtful of you and I love chocolate and fruit.”
Moving to her side, I help her settle back against the raised mattress and remain by her side. “What brings you by?”
Alex finds a seat under the window, and replies, “You didn’t give us much choice. The call with no details was keeping my Firefly awake.”
Clara’s eyes find mine. “Firefly?”
“That’s Alex’s name for Sara Jane.”
“You call me Dove. I love those nicknames.”
Holding her hand in mine, I nod. “I do, too, my little peacemaker.”
“I wasn’t so peaceful tonight.”
“That’s why it’s not worse. You fought back.”
“From now on, I will always fight back.”
I look at Sara Jane, who’s beaming, and Alex with a raised eyebrow, who seems to have had his curiosity piqued. “Clara’s gone through a lot in life, but man, she’s a badass with a pointy elbow. She took him down with one jab.”
Clara’s laughing, and rolls her eyes. “You showed up right on time.”
Alex jokes, “He always did like a good entrance. This one time . . . well, now’s not the time for stories. You should probably get some rest. Sara Jane’s right. You’ll heal quicker.” He stands and reaches behind him without even turning.
Sara Jane’s hand connects with his and she comes around to the end of the bed. “We just wanted to say hi. See if you’re okay. When you’re up for it, we’d love to get together with you.”
Clara glances to me and I give her a smile. “We’d love that.”
As they walk to the door, I say, “Thanks for coming by.” When they leave, I tell Clara, “We don’t say goodbye.” I don’t explain why, but she gets that life is tenuous at best. Why spend time with goodbyes when there are better hellos to be had.
A nurse pops in to tell us that a doctor will be by soon, but as soon as she leaves, Clara asks, “Why’d you have a gun?”
“Yeah, about that. I tend to carry one.”
“Tend? Or do?”
“I didn’t have one on me when I was kidnapped. That was a mistake.”
“Do you always carry it?”
“No, but it’s always accessible.”
Her mouth opens, but she doesn’t ask anything, and then it closes. We sit there a minute before she finally says, “You didn’t kill my father.”
Looking toward the door to make sure we’re alone, I reply, “I was a part of it.” I’m not going to tell her who did because it doesn’t matter. In the end, I’m glad he’s dead.
“My heart. It sees deep inside you. When you hurt, I feel your pain. Your joy becomes mine. I’m not just in your head, I’m in your heart.”
“You are my heart.”
Her fingers intertwine with mine, and she brings my hand up to her mouth to kiss it as we lie in the bed together, side by side. “I don’t know who killed my father, but I know you carried the weight of it. I also know when you try to hide the truth it’s because you can’t lie. You can’t lie to me. It’s not that you don’t like to lie. It’s that you can’t. Not to me. Not to them.”
“Them?”
“Alex and Sara Jane. They’re more than friends. They’re your family.”
“They are.” I like her voice and the way she looks at me, the way her lips feel on mine and closing my eyes and lying next to her feels like heaven. The light in her eyes reminds me of summer and the estate where the bushes weren’t as pristine and wildflowers grew. When I bring her to my parents’ home, that’s what I want to show her. “Tell me more about what you see in me.”
Her head rests on my shoulder, her chest rising with each breath, falling as she sets it free. “I’m rethinking my position on the lying. I think you’re like me. You can lie when it protects the ones you love.”
“You might be right, Ms. Eckerd. Why did you choose sacred as your last name?”
“Life is sacred.”
I love the simplicity of the answer. She’s right. I was beaten, but not beaten down. A lot like her. She’s my dove not just because she seeks peace in a war-torn world but also because she soars above us, her wings as expansive as her dreams.
She adds, “I don’t need blue
skies to see the beauty each day. Sometimes the rain suits my mood. But every day I’m given makes it a gift.” Rolling to her side, her body snuggled into mine while her hand rests on my stomach.
I take a deep breath and slowly exhale, pressures of the life I was leading before her releasing, freeing me from the pain. “What happens now?”
As she starts to fall asleep, she murmurs, “We survive. We live. We love.”
“Irrevocably.”
One Year Later . . .
John Cristley, Sr. suffered a fatal stroke during a rally in Williamsburg on Tuesday. After a successful run for Congressman that led him to a distinguished twenty-eight years in the Senate, he had retired from politics four years earlier. He is survived by his wife of thirty-seven years, Beatrice, and their five children.
Not four and his adopted son. Five.
In the wake of my father’s death, I am finally accepted as one of his own.
I stand in front of the casket with one of my hands in my pocket and the other holding Clara’s. My head remains down as the eulogy is read. The words are almost believable as they’re delivered with award-winning performances.
For as hard and cold as the Senator was to me, he was patient and encouraging to his youngest, most carefree daughter, who brought sunlight to a stuffy man and brightened his day. It’s good to hear nice things being said, a reminder to look back and dig through the dark to shed some light on the past.
Maybe those TV interviews weren’t always staged. Maybe he actually liked to play ball with me. When we were watching the home videos we provided during our last interview in New York, he looked happy. I was busy watching the camera crews, but he was busy watching me with what looked like pride. So maybe things aren’t always as they seem, or feel.
And maybe they are . . .
Fredrick would have made the Senator proud this week. Between the public tribute broadcasted across the news three days ago to the private service today, he made sure our father was honored befitting the level of office he held.
Tears are shed under an unseasonably hot sun. The loudest sobs at the Senator’s funeral come from the fifth row of mourners on the opposite side of family and close friends.