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Us, Again

Page 24

by Elle Maxwell

I pull myself to an upright position. My momentary dizziness is confirmation that I haven’t eaten enough the last few days. I’ve been embracing the melancholy and sinking into a funk, not fighting against my desire to sleep most of the day or make myself do more than pick at the food my mom brings me. Mom has actually been really great since I got here, not asking too many questions and letting me be—except for a few times a day when she comes in to give me food or fresh water or help change out the bandage on my stitches.

  Apparently, she’s only been biding her time, placating me while conspiring with my bestie all along.

  Marisa’s Shawn Mendes ringtone fills the room, and I lean over to nosily glance at the screen at the same time she does. I spy the words “OFFICER GUAPO” before she hits “ignore” and shoves it back inside her pocket.

  “Is that who I think it is?” I ask, perking up a little. For the first time in days, a small buzz of interest, of life, courses through my veins.

  “Mmm,” she mumbles evasively, shrugging.

  “Come on, Ris, take my mind off things. Is that the hot cop from the hospital? Derek … Schwartz, right?”

  “Es posible.” Maybe. I swear if she could blush with that golden complexion, her face would currently be bright red.

  “Tell me everything!”

  “Okay, I will. After you shower!” She punctuates her command by grabbing a towel from the top of my dresser and tossing it at me.

  “Okay, okay. I’ll shower.” I actually laugh a little and feel a bit more like myself.

  * * *

  “So … Officer Guapo is calling you. Have you gone out with him?”

  I’m clean and changed into a fresh set of clothes, perched on the edge of my bed ready for some gossip.

  “No, not since we had coffee at the hospital. He wants to take me on a date, though. He texted to ask me out the same day we met, and now he keeps calling.”

  “And …?”

  She shrugs, eyes darting to the side.

  “He’s a hot as hell police officer who speaks Spanish! I see no problem here. Why are you ignoring his calls?”

  “When we got coffee, I feel like he spent more time looking at my hand than my ass.”

  “Like he’s got some sort of fetish?” I half-whisper. I wouldn’t put it past my mom to be listening at the door right now.

  “Dios, no!” Marisa lets out a quick trill of laughter. “I mean that it seemed like he was imagining putting a ring on this.” She holds up her left hand and waggles her ring finger at me.

  I roll my eyes.

  “Only you could manage to have commitment issues with a guy you haven’t started dating yet.”

  “Okay, so maybe I was imagining the ring finger ogling. The man spent an appropriate amount of time checking out my fantastic T&A. But I still don’t know if I want to get involved. I doubt he could do casual. Everything about him screams ‘looking for a girlfriend to bring home to mom.’”

  “And would something more than casual be so bad?” I ask, more gently.

  She shrugs, and I catch a rare glimpse of her deeply hidden vulnerability. When we met back in freshman year, one of the things we instantly bonded over was the fact that we both happened to be nursing broken hearts. I suspect that even after all this time, hers hasn’t recovered much more than mine has.

  “Girls?” Mom calls from outside the door. “Are you coming out for lunch?”

  Marisa peeks at my face before answering. “We’ll be there in a minute, Mrs. T!”

  We sit in silence listening to my mom’s footsteps as they retreat in the direction of the kitchen.

  “What’s up?” Marisa asks when Mom is out of earshot. She knows me too well and can clearly read my hesitation.

  “I was so childish,” I admit. “I haven’t talked to them for months. I ignored so many of my mom’s calls. And the last time we spoke …” I cringe, remembering the confrontation in the diner parking lot. That partly seems like it was a hundred years ago, while my memory of the disquiet it created inside me is still as fresh as if it happened yesterday. “I think the worst part is that I was basically choosing Graham over them. Standing up for him, standing by him, because I believed in him. But I guess they were right after all.”

  I will not cry. I will not cry. Another tear slips out.

  Marisa doesn’t say anything right away. She tilts her head, thinking. The movement makes her beautiful black curls swing to one side and drape over her shoulder.

  “Do you think they’ll rub that in your face?” she eventually asks. “Is your mom an ‘I told you so’ person?”

  Will they? Is she? We’ve never had this kind of fight before. I’ve always been the good daughter—obedient, respectful. But do I really think they’ll hold a grudge against me?

  “No. I don’t think so.”

  “Well, chica, your pride is hurt along with your body and your heart. But you’re going to walk out there anyway. You are Mackenzie Motherfucking Thatcher, the biggest badass I know. You’re a fighter. You are not a girl who hides out under the covers feeling sorry for herself.”

  I sit up a little straighter. Honestly, at the moment I feel pretty damn far from “Mackenzie Motherfucking Thatcher,” but I can take this first step toward being her again. When we stand up, Marisa immediately reaches back to give me a light swat on the ass, like a sports coach telling her player to “go get ’em!” I yelp a little and step farther away from her.

  “Now find the giant lady cojones I know you’ve got inside those leggings somewhere and let’s go have lunch. If it gets awkward, think of dessert. Abuela made a huge batch of cookies she insisted I bring you.”

  That does the trick, propelling me to rise and turn the doorknob. Marisa’s grandmother makes the best chocolate chip cookies, and I suddenly want to eat a mountain of them. I’m well aware there’s no magic cure for a concussed head or a broken heart, but chocolate seems as good a place as any to start with the healing process.

  36. ALL DRESSED UP, NOWHERE TO GO

  Graham

  “Do you think you’re depressed, Graham?”

  I shrug. “I don’t see how that matters.”

  The doc’s eyebrows draw together in a small frown. “Of course it matters. How have you been spending your time? Are you doing anything productive?”

  “Until Eli is in jail, taking him down is my only focus.”

  Shady waits for me to say more. When I don’t, she prompts me again. “Have you moved into the new house?”

  “No. I figure it’s better to live with the ghosts of the past than the ghosts of what could have been my future.”

  “That’s quite a bleak perspective.”

  “Things are pretty fucking bleak right now, Doc.”

  “I want to keep seeing you weekly. And you have my cell number—use it if you need to talk in between sessions. You’re not alone, Graham. Please remember that.”

  * * *

  Rays of sun hit my closed lids, signaling to my body that it’s time to wake. I roll over to my side to get away from the light, trying to go back to sleep, but consciousness has its hold on me and I’m soon alert no matter how tightly I squeeze my eyes shut.

  I guess my dick missed the memo that we have nothing to get up for, because underneath the sheets I’m hard as granite. Yeah, I see you’re all dressed up, but we got nowhere to go, buddy. Not long ago, I would have been able to reach over to the other side of the bed and make use of my morning wood with Mackenzie. But that side of the bed is cold and empty, as it has been for weeks now.

  My phone buzzes and I answer it with a single grunted word. “Update?”

  It’s the lead guy on Mackenzie’s security team. I’m not worried. He’s only doing as I’ve instructed, calling and checking in with me every twelve hours.

  “All clear,” he replies.

  I hang up without another word. I figure he’s in no position to be offended, not with what I assume is the astronomical salary he’s pulling. If the security company asked for payment in organs,
it would probably be cheaper than what I’m paying them, even with the hefty discount I received as an apology for their failure to keep Mackenzie from harm. As though saving some cash makes anything about what happened better.

  There has been no word on or from Eli since he attacked Mackenzie nearly a month ago, but I still have three guards assigned to her 24/7. I’m also keeping a guy on Marisa and another on Griff and Shaina’s place, just for good measure. Who knows how far Eli is willing to go to make me suffer? I won’t let him surprise me again. The guards are out in the open now, and I couldn’t care less if the girls don’t like it. I want those guys free to shadow as closely as necessary to protect them. Griff isn’t aware of his guard, of course, because he’d lose his shit thinking I’m questioning his ability to keep his family safe. But I couldn’t stand it if anything happened to them. It’s not worth the risk.

  At least paying for the security makes me feel like I’m doing something. I’m going out of my goddamn mind here, waiting for Duluth to get back to me about involving the DEA. I’m sure by this point the chief and the station’s front desk lady are sick of me calling and dropping in to ask for updates, but it’s all I can really do right now. It seems as though nobody is taking this seriously. I mean, it’s been more than THREE WEEKS, and they’ve got nothing. I’ve even dropped off more dirt that my PI found, including some leads he acquired through legal sources, public records and shit that might be admissible in court. (And yes, I’ve been researching “admissible evidence” and “police jurisdictions,” because I can’t just fucking sit here doing nothing.)

  The only other person who seems to be on top of this thing with me, shockingly, is Mackenzie’s dad. He has never told me to chill out, never gotten annoyed with my persistence. We exchange updates a few times a week via text. He won’t tell me much about Mackenzie, of course, but even getting that small personal confirmation that she’s okay means everything to me.

  Knowing I won’t be able to get back to sleep now, I throw off the bed sheet and walk buck naked into my attached bathroom where I take a piss then turn on the water in the shower. My shower is a nice big walk-in one with enough space for a guy my size to move around. Unlike the shower at Kenz’s place, which is so small I always end up banging my elbows on the walls when I try to wash my hair or basically make any movement. Somehow, though, we still managed to have sex in there a couple of times.

  The memory of Mackenzie naked and wet has my dick standing at attention all over again, like an eager puppy who hasn’t realized its master isn’t coming home. Not that the memory is necessary, because I honestly think about having sex with her all the time. The only time I’m not thinking about sex with her is when I’m remembering everything else about her. All the millions of tiny things I love about her. The way she looks when she’s all serious, curled up on the couch studying. Her adorably over the-top-obsession with guacamole and all things chocolate. The light freckles on her face that come out of hiding during the summer then fade away again in winter. A fucking movie style montage of her ass in all thousand pairs of yoga pants she owns. And … we’re back to sex. But it’s still Mackenzie on my mind. Always Mackenzie.

  * * *

  In the early afternoon, I get a text message.

  GRIFF: Want a beer?

  GRAHAM: I’m in.

  GRIFF: Got some in my fridge. Come over whenever.

  The real reason behind Griff’s invitation becomes quickly apparent when he answers the door looking straight up frazzled—a word I would usually never associate with him. He has a wailing two-week-old baby boy slung over his shoulder, and he waves me in with one hand as the other huge paw sporadically pats his son’s back. He follows me inside slowly, stopping every few steps to bend his knees in a bobbing motion like he’s trying to mimic something he’s seen Shaina do and failing miserably.

  I don’t laugh, but it’s hard.

  Shouting to be heard over his son’s continued shrieks, Griff explains that Shaina went out with Layla for a couple of hours for some special “girl time” since baby Harry has been getting so much attention. It turns out this is the first time Griff has been left alone to care for Harry since the baby was born, and he’s not doing a great job of hiding the fact that he’s freaking out.

  Griff is a big tough guy hardened by life and the streets and prison, and he’s generally not ruffled by much. Even when he is stressed or upset—like those first few months we were cellmates, when he and Shaina were having serious problems—he’s more of a strong, silent brooding type. So it’s actually a little shocking to see him this way. His eyes are wide with panic, his beard in disarray as though Harry has been pulling at it, and there’s some unidentifiable substance in his hair and on his shirt that could be puke, poop, pee, or milk (most likely some combination). His giant tattooed hands are currently gripping his son as though he’s never held a baby before, which he definitely has—he’s seemed calm and competent the other times I’ve visited since Harry’s birth.

  Again, I try not to laugh. I guess I’d be out of my depth too if I were in his shoes.

  I do not let myself stray to thoughts of Mackenzie and the children we won’t have if she never takes me back. I have to be here for my friend right now, so I can’t let the sorrow drag me down.

  I hold out my arms and Griff hands the kid over so fast he nearly throws him. As soon as his hands are free, he begins pacing agitatedly around the living room and rambling as though he’s been waiting to pass the baby off before losing his shit.

  “He won’t stop crying! I changed him and fed him, and I’ve tried everything Shaina does and he won’t stop. I’m a fucking shitty dad!” His hands tug at his unkempt beard. “Ah, fuck! I’m not supposed to curse around the kids!”

  This is one of those moments when I’m reminded that Griff wasn’t around for the first couple years of Layla’s life. This baby business is all as new to him as though Harry were his first kid. Actually, I’m kind of flattered to be the one he called for backup.

  “Hey, little guy,” I say to the screaming infant, holding him the way Shaina showed me. I keep my voice calm, trying to model good behavior for both of the O’Brien men. “Sit down, Griff,” I say in the same tone.

  Griff sits on the edge of the couch and runs his hands over his face, barely blinking when some of whatever is in his hair ends up on his fingers.

  “Okay, first of all, you need to calm the fuck down,” I tell him evenly. He glares at me and I roll my eyes. “Language is the least of your worries right now. He doesn’t understand anything at this age. Layla’s the one you need to watch it around.”

  He seems to relax a tiny bit, shoulders lowering from their tense position up near his ears. I go on.

  “So, I don’t have much experience with babies, but I figure they’re not that different from dogs, right? You know how animals can sense your mood, smell fear and all that? I bet you being stressed out isn’t helping him calm down.”

  His face shifts from the stormy glare that appeared as I compared his kid to a dog, and I see his brows lift in consideration.

  “Go clean yourself up and … I don’t know, take deep breaths or something. Chill out and then come back. Harry and I will be fine here.”

  We both turn to the tiny hurricane, whose cries have remarkably lessened a bit since his dad sat down. Griff nods, trudging down the hall to his bedroom after giving Harry a quick kiss on the top of his head (giving no fucks if it makes him look soft, which honestly makes him a bigger badass in my eyes).

  Ten minutes later Griff is back in a new shirt, beard and hair neatly brushed and slightly wet from a shower, looking more himself, which is to say gruff and intimidating as hell. I smile at the welcome sight.

  While he was gone, I’ve managed to distract Harry with some stuffed toys I found, which I’ve been dangling above him one at a time making them dance with my free hand. I’ve been using my best baby voice to tell him a story that bears a strong resemblance to the rules of American football. Now I hand him
over to his dad, and right as we complete the pass, a loud fart comes from the little guy, closely followed by the foulest stench I’ve ever smelled.

  * * *

  Three hours later—hours during which the two of us fumbled to deal with a poop explosion while Harry literally laughed at us and pissed in our faces, attempts at baby talk that can never be spoken of again, and some truly trippy children’s television—an O’Brien boy is finally fast asleep. Of course, it isn’t Harry. No, it’s Griff who is passed out cold on the couch, head tipped back and mouth wide open in a deep exhausted sleep. Harry is still awake but cheerful and calm for now, so I leave Daddy Griff to his well-deserved nap and decide to bring the baby out to the backyard. I quietly maneuver open the back door with Harry in my arms then take a seat on a patio chair.

 

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