Volume One: In Moonlight and Memories, #1

by Julie Ann Walker

  And a raging spirit that will not be broken

  I dream

  Through hard losses

  And harder wins

  Through pain and defeat

  Joy and hope

  Through hot, sleepless nights

  In the cold light of day

  I dream…

  His words are so full of imagery. Of pain and sorrow and…strength.

  There’s a lump in my throat. I don’t want to contemplate the meaning behind this poem, especially if it pertains to me or Cash or—

  “Y’okay?”

  His deep voice is a cattle prod, shocking me into standing. Yard looks at me in concern before turning to pant happily at Luc, who’s looking very Paul Bunyan-y in jeans and a thick flannel shirt. Leaning against the doorjamb, arms and ankles crossed, it appears he’s been there a while.

  “Sweet Jesus!” I press a hand to my chest. “You scared the stuffing right out of me.”

  He toes out of a pair of galoshes, leaving them by the back door, and on stockinged feet makes his way over to me. After giving me a quick hug, he flops down on the sofa and squints up at me. “Did I know you were coming?”

  “No.” I tentatively resume my seat. “It was sort of an impulse on my part.”

  Once I made the decision to let go of what was and embrace what is and what will be, I couldn’t wait to deliver the letters. Besides my box of keepsakes and the time capsule, the letters are the only things I still have from our time together in high school. Somehow, giving them to their rightful owners feels like closing the door on the past and opening the window to the future.

  “You should act on impulse more often.” He winks.

  I’m quick to shake my head and come back with, “Said no smart person ever.”

  That makes him chuckle.

  “I like what you’ve done with the place.” I circle a finger in the air.

  “Reckoned it could use a spruce up.”

  “You’ve got good taste. The leather on this sofa is buttery soft.” I rub my hands over the cushion beside me.

  “I just know what I like.” His eyes flick from me to the open journal, and I feel the sting of blood rushing to my cheeks.

  Sack of crap. I was hoping he didn’t see me.

  “Uh…sorry I was snooping.” I make a face. “I shouldn’t—”

  “Hush, woman. You can snoop all you like. I don’t have anything to hide from you. Not anymore.”

  The sting in my cheeks has moved to my ears. Quickly changing the subject, I say, “I came to give you two things.” Grabbing the framed napkin first, I hand it to him.

  When he turns it over, his eyes widen. For a moment, he’s quiet, as if he can’t find the words. Eventually, his voice rough, he says, “How the hell did you manage this?”

  “He did a gig in town three years ago. I snagged a backstage pass.”

  Luc rubs his fingers over the glass and reads aloud what’s written on the cocktail napkin. “Luc, just a little bit of luck will do.”

  It’s a quote from Luc’s favorite Steve Earle song. And below it is the signature of the man himself.

  Luc’s eyes are bright when he looks at me. “Three years ago? You’re telling me you got this even after I spent seven years not talking to you?”

  I shrug. “I hoped you’d come back someday.”

  “Oh, Maggie May.” He shakes his head, staring hard at me.

  “I was going to wait to give it to you for Christmas, but I got too excited,” I say, forcing a bright grin in an attempt to lighten the mood. “I knew how much you’d like it.”

  “I don’t like it. I love it. Come here, woman.”

  When he pulls me into a hug, I breathe in his smell. It’s the great outdoors, wind and moonlight and cool green foliage. His embrace feels as warm and comforting as ever. But it also feels…different.

  Not in a bad way. Not in a good way either. Just different enough to make me pull back and busy myself by grabbing the binder full of letters.

  He frowns. “And what’s this?”

  “Letters.”

  His frown deepens.

  “So here’s the deal,” I explain. “When you and Cash left, I was…lonely.”

  “Maggie May.” He takes my hand. His palm is warm and wide, his fingers long and strong. “I never meant to hurt you. Making a clean break seemed like the thing to do. So you could move on from that night. So I wouldn’t be there as a reminder. And I thought my going would mean Sullivan would lay off. Then there was Cash. He…needed me.”

  I stare at our joined hands. My skin is so pale compared to his.

  “I knew he’d run headfirst into the first bad batch of trouble he could find if I wasn’t there to pull him back,” he continues. “But I’m as sorry as I can be that you were left all alone. I truly am. If I could go back and do things differently, I—”

  “Shhh.” I squeeze his fingers. “You were doing what you thought was right for everyone involved.”

  Everyone except for himself. How much has he sacrificed by being friends with me and Cash? More than I’ll ever know, probably. Definitely more than he’ll ever admit.

  A soft, wet breeze blows through the open door. Outside, the trees whisper their pleasure at its touch. But inside, the two of us stay quiet. Then he says, “Seeing as how we’re clearing the air, there’s something I needa ask you.”

  I frown. “That sounds portentous.”

  “Did you tell Jean-Pierre what happened that night?” When he sees the shock on my face, he’s quick to add, “I wouldn’t blame you if you did. He’s your friend, and I’m sure you’ve needed someone to talk with about it over the years and—”

  “No,” I interrupt, shaking my head vehemently. “I didn’t tell Jean-Pierre. I’ve never told anyone.”

  A line forms between his eyebrows. “Then what was he talking about when he thanked me for riding to your rescue?”

  I glance down at Yard, who’s unabashedly licking his private parts. Usually, I’d take this opportunity to make a joke. But there’s nothing funny about the thing my fourteen-year-old self contemplated doing. “You know how depressed I was when we first met,” I say slowly.

  “We were both depressed.”

  “Yeah, but I’d been depressed for years. More than that, I’d been guilty.”

  A muscle ticks in his jaw. “Maggie May, you are not to blame for what happened to your folks.”

  I sigh, not fighting the old pain, instead letting it wash over me. I’ve learned it’s easier that way. Just to…give in to it. To feel it in all its wretchedness.

  “Maybe I am. Maybe I’m not. The point is, at the time I was convinced I was. And I was tired of feeling that way, of fighting that pain and what seemed like an unbearable loss. And then you take all that and mix in a bunch of teenage hormones? Needless to say, I was a mess.”

  I hesitate before revealing this next part. It took a whole bottle of wine before I opened up about it to Jean-Pierre.

  Where’s the Cabernet when I need it?

  “I’d decided to end it,” I finally whisper, shame heating my face.

  “Jesus, Maggie May.” His sympathetic expression contorts into one of horror.

  “I know. And I’m embarrassed to admit it now, because I think it’s the coward’s way out. But back then, I didn’t see any hope that things would change, and I couldn’t stomach the thought of spending the rest of my life feeling that way. I told myself I’d reread the Harry Potter series and then I’d do it. My version of a last meal. Then you came along.”

  He searches my eyes.

  “Meeting you in the library after school was a gift I looked forward to every day. And little by little, so slowly I didn’t realize it was happening, the volume got muted on that insidious voice that whispered in my ear and told me it would be better for everyone if I just went away. You did that for me, Luc. You saved me. That’s what Jean-Pierre was talking about.”

  “Jesus, Maggie May,” he says again, pulling me into another hug. This o
ne is so tight I feel my ribs creak.

  It takes me only a moment to become aware of how warm he is. How strong he is. How much he’s not the boy I used to know.

  I wiggle out of his embrace, frowning at my own discomfort.

  Clearing his throat, he glances toward the binder on his lap and takes pity on me by switching topics. “So, the letters?”

  “Right.” I nod, clearing my throat. “After y’all left, I pulled a Noah Calhoun and wrote one letter to you and one letter to Cash every day for a year.”

  “You pulled a who?” His brow wrinkles, making his Superman whorl wiggle.

  “The character from a Nicholas Sparks book?” I explain. “The one that was made into a movie starring Rachel McAdams?” I pound my chest like Ryan Gosling and quote one of the best lines ever about relationships being hard and requiring work, about love being a choice you make every day.

  When one corner of his mouth quirks, I shake my head. “The point is, after y’all were gone, I couldn’t turn off all the thoughts and feelings I was used to sharing. So I wrote them down.” I point to the binder. “And not that I think you should read them. I mean, honestly, I’d be a self-involved idiot if I thought for one minute that whatever I had to say ten years ago is important enough for you to waste your time on now. But I wrote them for you. They’re yours. Feel free to put them on a shelf or burn them in a pyre.”

  “Why give ’em to us now?” he asks, because he’s always been far too intuitive. “Did something happen?”

  I don’t know why, but I can’t bring myself to tell him it’s my way of letting go of the past. Of letting go of Cash. All I say is, “Like I said, they’re yours. Giving them to you just feels like the right thing to do.”

  Chapter Thirty

  ______________________________________

  Cash

  Be ever vigilante. The devil has a way of sneaking up on you.

  “What the fuck are you doing here, Rick?”

  I’ve been stripping the paint off the fireplace bricks, listening to music through my AirPods because, for once, my head isn’t killing me. So I didn’t hear Rick knock. Instead, from the corner of my eye, I saw the front door open. And now here he is. Bigger than life and wearing an air of superiority that’s particularly irritating given his lack of worthy accomplishments and/or redeeming qualities.

  Glancing around, he stays quiet for too long, forcing me to ask again, “What are you doing here? What do you want?”

  “Came because I’d like to help you out.” He pulls a cigar from his breast pocket and shoves it in his mouth, unlit. If he lights it and drops it on the floor again, heaven help me, I might have to rip out his lungs.

  “Help me? Yeah, right,” I scoff. “And I’d like to take a bath in a tub full of chocolate chip ice cream with three Victoria’s Secret models.” I place my AirPods on the mantel beside the wire brush I was using on the bricks.

  He doesn’t say anything for a beat.

  “Okay.” I stuff my hands into my pockets. “Color me intrigued. What exactly do you think you can help me with?”

  “Your life.”

  “Ha!” I slap my thigh. “That’s a good one. Since when have you ever cared about my life?”

  “You’re my son. I only want what’s best for you, and that’s the truth.”

  I snort. “You forget I know how casual your relationship with the truth actually is.”

  “Fine,” he snarls, his thin mask of civility falling away to reveal the sinister sonofabitch beneath. “Here’s the deal. George is determined to make someone pay for Dean. And despite my friendship with him, that someone is you. But he can’t touch you because of your alibi. The same can’t be said for your friends. He’s going to bring them down, one way or another.”

  Adrenaline and dread spurt through my bloodstream. “They didn’t do anything wrong,” I grit through clenched teeth.

  He pulls his stogie from his mouth so he can point it at me. “Maybe they did, and maybe they didn’t. George doesn’t give a fuck either way, which is why I’m here to tell you not to try to pull any superhero shit. Just stay out of it, let George do his thing, and you’ll come out the other side of this smelling like a daisy.”

  I narrow my eyes. “Why would you care how I come out the other side of this?”

  He shrugs. “Because I don’t want my good name dragged through the mud alongside yours.”

  “I find it laughable that you actually think you have a good name.”

  He puffs up like a peacock. “People in this town respect me.”

  I roll my eyes. “If you’re finished standing there stealing my oxygen, I’ll thank you to get the fuck out.”

  He takes a step in my direction. “Don’t disrespect me, boy.”

  “In case you haven’t noticed, you dumb prick, I’m no longer a boy.”

  He takes another step. “If you think I’m going to stand here and take your abuse, you’ve got another think coming.”

  I try to fight the thing rising up in me that would love to spill Rick’s blood. But it’s bigger than I am. Thirstier. “Come at me, old man. I dare you.”

  For such an overweight guy, Rick is lightning fast. He catches me off guard when he lunges and lands a blow on my chin. He’s always been a strong sonofabitch. Now he has all that extra weight behind him.

  The momentum of his punch sends me flying. My shoulders slam into the fireplace mantel, and my head whips back, smacking the bricks.

  Pain explodes.

  I moan, and the low, weak sound infuriates me.

  Balling up my fists, I prepare to knock his head off. “That’s the last freebie you get, you bastard!” I roar.

  Before I can make a move, however, Maggie appears in the doorway and yells my name.

  Rick spins around, breathing heavily, sweat glistening on his brow. My muscles actually ache for action. My veins sizzle with bloodlust.

  “I saw you hit him!” she wails at Rick. “That’s assault! I’m calling the police!” She has a blue three-ring binder in one hand and her phone in the other.

  “Call them.” Rick laughs, wiping his brow. His stogie is lying on the floor, but he’s too winded and overgrown to bend down and get it. Instead, he reaches into his breast pocket and pulls out another. “Nothing will happen. I got friends in high places.”

  She looks at me, and all I can manage through the rage is a quick dip of my chin. Rick’s right. He wouldn’t get charged with anything. Sullivan would make sure of that.

  “Then get out!” she snarls, her eyes flashing fire. “Get out of this house and never come back!”

  In a signature move, Rick spits on the floor. “With pleasure.” He turns to leave. But before he reaches the door, he swings back to me. “Remember what I told you, boy.”

  The boy hits my ears like a percussion grenade. I’m so keyed up, my heart thrumming, my need to maim and dismember like a living thing inside me, that I don’t think. I lunge. But Maggie is there to stop me, materializing in front of me like she teleported there.

  She shoves her hands into my chest. Hard.

  “Don’t, Cash,” she pleads, staring up at me with eyes so big and blue. It’s her eyes more than her words that stay me. “You’re better than that. Better than him.”

  Rick doesn’t say anything, merely looks us up and down and shakes his head with disgust. He squeezes through the door, slamming it shut behind him.

  Uncontrollable fury has me stomping over to the wall. I punch it, leaving a fist-sized hole in the new drywall. It feels good, but not good enough, so I punch it again—and again and again and again—imagining it’s Rick’s fat face.

  “Cash!” Maggie grabs my arm, dropping her phone and her binder in the process. “Stop it!”

  I know my eyes are wild, because when I turn to her, she takes a startled step back. “I need you to walk away from me,” I manage through a clenched jaw. “Now!”

  “No.” She shakes her head.

  “Walk away from me, Maggie!”

 
She winces, but stands her ground. Shoulders back. Chin high. “You can rail at me and the world and your a-hole of a father all night. You can punch as many holes in the wall as you want. But I’m not leaving.”

  I glower at her. She glowers right back. For good measure, I pull the flask from my back pocket and take an angry drink. Can taking a drink be angry?

  She snatches the flask from my hands and knocks back a big slug herself. Just like that, my blood settles from a rapid boil to a slow simmer. It’s hard to reconcile, but I find myself smiling.

  Then, with the rage gone, the agony hits. “Oh fuck.” I grab the back of my head and go down on one knee. My jaw aches where Rick’s meaty fist connected, but it’s my head that really hurts.

  She kneels beside me. The flask is on the ground next to her phone and binder, and her hands are on my shoulders. “Cash?”

  “Feels like a bomb went off inside my skull.”

  “I’m calling an ambulance.”

  “Don’t need an ambulance.” Now that the adrenaline is gone, I’m exhausted. The kind of tired you can’t sleep off. And I hurt. I’m so sick of hurting. “Help me to bed,” I tell her.

  The master bedroom is no longer packed with building materials and piles of rubble, so I’ve moved the mattress in there. I get an arm around her shoulders, and she helps me stand.

  “I’m not sure you should go to sleep. You might have a concussion.”

  “No. But I’ll have a lump the size of a goose egg tomorrow.”

  “Are you sure?” She follows me down the hall, switching on the hundred-watt bulb I installed in the bedroom because I wanted lots of light while I worked on the plaster moldings. Now, my retinas are seared by it. White-hot pain slices from the backs of my eyes up into the top of my skull.

  “Just need is an ice pack.” An ice pack and another go at Rick.

  Can’t believe I let him get in a shot. Six months ago that wouldn’t have happened. My reflexes have gone to shit, thanks to my broke-ass brain. Or maybe it’s the booze. Hell, it’s probably both.