by Ella James
“How’s it going?” I ask, making my best effort to be polite to the guy.
“Going just fine. How are you?” he asks, so loud it echoes in the stairwell.
“I’m all right.” He steps awkwardly out of the way as I exit the stairwell. I hold a hand up in that basic bitch wave Luke does sometimes. “Have a nice night, Frank.”
I start in the direction of the cafeteria, through which I’ll access my preferred hall to lead me out the back of the building, where I’ll check if both the cars are still here—but I can hear Frank follow.
I whirl toward him. “Hey, man. You coming with me?”
I know he is.
He makes a wide-eyed sort of face and lifts his shoulders.
“I know it’s your job, right? It’s your job to follow me?”
He nods once. “To assess threats,” he starts, but I interrupt.
“I appreciate it, I really do. I know you’re trying to follow orders. But this time, I want to walk out by myself. Okay?”
He nods once, looking understanding. “Okay,” he says gruffly.
Now I feel like shit for waving him off.
“Sorry,” I say, sounding as miserable as I feel.
“Don’t be sorry.” He gives me a winky smile. “You’re running the show, chief. I’m just here to help you make it happen.”
“You’re here to keep me from getting shot. Isn’t that right?”
He nods once, looking almost ashamed.
“I promise I’ll do my best not to get shot tonight going to the parking deck.”
I laugh when I get out there, finding Sky took the Prius and left me the Tesla. But the Tesla doesn’t open for me without a pass code, and Sky changed that the other day, when it had to be serviced.
I try the old passcode, and yep, not gonna work.
‘Would you want to take Eden to your house for a while?’
Arrow replies fast. ‘Yeah, no problem. Looks like I’ve got her carrier, etc.’
‘Thanks. I’ll be in touch soon.’
I feel like shit for sending Eden home with someone who’s not one of us. But I’ve gotta go track down Sky.
I give a soft laugh as I fish my phone out of my pocket. One more call to Sky—and one more call ignored—and I fire up the Uber app.
I go to Sky’s aunt’s house, the place we often go to when we’re both feeling like shit. I wait at the top of the stairs that lead down to the dock for more than half an hour before deciding I’ll walk down a few blocks and call another Uber. Safer that way, to be picked up in a crowded area.
I text Luke again as I walk down the dark street.
‘Sky babe…please check in.’
When he doesn’t reply in the next five minutes, I block his ass. Not to be a dick, but so I don’t have to feel the shitty weight of knowing that he’s choosing to ignore me. He’s choosing to withdraw rather than let me help him. Let me hold him.
He doesn’t go to you, though, does he? Over the years, he never ran to you. You pursued him. And maybe that’s the way this works.
I tell the stupid voice in my head to shut up and stuff my hands into my pockets. They don’t fit, though. Big hands, always bigger than it seems like I would have.
Big hands, big heart.
Jesus, my internal monologue is stupid.
Don’t say the Lord’s name in vain, Vance Rayne McDowell. Don’t be a dick.
I suck air in through my nose and tap the pocket that holds my inhaler.
Then I text Arrow again. ‘Sorry for the change of plans, but could you take Eden to our house?’ Edey would probably feel more at ease in her own home. ‘I should be there in an hour?’
‘Sure, that sounds good.’
‘Security will let you in.’
‘Pearl said to ask you if you’ve seen Luke.’
My stomach flips at that. ‘Why didn’t she call me?’
‘I’m not sure. Sorry.’
‘I haven’t heard from Luke. I’ll get in touch with Pearl.’
I realize after the text convo that I didn’t even ask about how Eden’s doing.
Some father you are.
I text Pearl: ‘I haven’t seen him. Have you?’
‘No,’ she answers.
‘He took the Prius, I think.’
‘I canceled the meeting just a minute ago. I acted as if I’d heard from PL and he wanted the night off to process. Now I’m worried that if something happens, they’ll know I was lying and he really bolted.’
‘Fuck, I’m sorry, Pearl.’
‘Did you guys have a fight?’
I grit my teeth. ‘He was just upset. I wouldn’t say we fought.’
‘I’m really sorry, Vance. I’ll let you know if I hear from him.’
I hate asking the next question, but I have to. ‘Do you think I should be worried? You know…like for mental health reasons?’
‘I can’t imagine. Not with you and Baby. I think he was shocked by how it went.’
‘Me too.’
‘Sending lots of hugs your way, Vance. You’re the best thing in his life. He’s going to be okay.’
My chest aches so damn much after I slide the phone into my pocket. Fuck, this feels so fucking awful.
I can’t let myself go back to thoughts like: He doesn’t want me. He doesn’t want to talk to me. This is not about me. Like…it’s really not. It’s about Sky, and what he wants and needs. And how to make him feel okay. Like he’s not so rejected and displaced and…fucking lost.
I want to make him feel like he’s loved. Like he’s wanted. Like he’s safe.
I stop at a bench by a park and check out social media. I’m getting good at this: assessing how things went, what was a hit and what was a miss. I think the message is mixed. Media outlets are reporting the spitting incident, and they’re covering it kindly but also not really in a positive way. The spin is sort of ‘Down-and-out Luke McDowell, Fighting the Good Fight…But Losing?’
Someone on Twitter posted a photo of Sky in my arms backstage. So that’s good. Got a fucking mole on our team. Still, my eyes well up looking at the two of us in the shot: my hand around his nape, my other arm around his lower back, the way our feet are intermingling, like we’re standing as close to each other as we can get.
I unblock him on my phone and walk slowly to some shops a little ways over, stopping into one of them for something I want to give Sky. Then I catch an Uber to some shops near our house—including the veggie burger place.
This is the price of all this shit, I tell myself as I walk toward our house. We can’t even take an Uber home.
But I don’t really care. My inner monologue can fuck off. I’d walk anywhere for Luke McDowell. If I can’t find him soon, I’m gonna fucking lose it.
My heart sinks when I get to the gate and Dara from security greets me on the cam.
“Luke back?” I ask, feigning casualness.
“You made it back first,” she says.
I nod. “When I get inside, you can sign off for the night.” I don’t need any extra people seeing me mope.
She nods. “I’ll monitor remotely. As always.”
“Sounds good.”
I feel sick when I see the two empty spaces in the garage. I’m surprised the door is open. Usually, it only opens for a clicker or a punch code. Maybe Dara got it for me. I take a step into the space and realize that the garage door light is off. It’s never off, not when the door is open. I look around.
“Come at me, fucker,” I growl.
No one does. I’m losing my mind.
Inside, I find Eden’s sleeping in the living room swing. Arrow gives a good report and acts like everything is normal; as if they don’t know I can’t seem to locate my husband.
“Thank you for everything,” I tell them.
“Absolutely. I’d be happy to help any time.”
“Do you need a ride or something?”
“Nah. My folks live right behind you, remember?”
“Oh yeah. Well, that makes sense.�
� I need a fucking coffee.
They smile.
“Hey, Arrow,” I ask as they reach the door to the garage. “Did you open the exterior garage door?”
“I don’t think so.” They look puzzled.
“It’s okay. No worries. Thanks again.”
I check the security room as Dara stands up from her desk to head out.
“Did you open the garage door?” I ask her.
“The exterior? No.” She sounds mildly alarmed.
“No one came in through that garage-hall door, right?”
“Definitely not.” She offers to check the cam footage to figure out who opened that exterior door, but fuck, I need the space cleared. I just want to be alone with Eden right now.
“Have a nice night,” I tell Dara as she heads out the front door.
“You too, Vance.”
I make a beeline for Miss Baby, smiling at her little self as she sleeps in the swing. The gas-lit fire is burning behind her, all cozy.
“Hey, cupcake.”
It’s the softest whisper, but it wakes her. She fusses until I pick her up and settle her in the crook of my arm. I sit on the squishy middle part of the couch and push a pillow under my elbow to keep it straining.
Then I lean my head against the couch’s cushy back and let my eyes shut as I bounce Edey.
My ringing cell phone wakes me.
Sky Babe
“Hey,” I answer, breathless.
What time is it? I blink at the clock, which says it’s a quarter till midnight. Shit.
“Hi.” He sounds unhappy.
“Hiya.” I make my voice gentle.
“Sorry.” Stormy Sky.
“It’s okay.” I’ll be sunshine.
“It’s not okay.” He sighs.
“You wanna fight about it?” I smile, shutting my eyes.
“No.”
When he says nothing more, I ask, “Where are you?”
“At the townhouse.”
Shit. “You went there?”
“Yep.” He sounds frustrated.
“Damn. Do we need to talk or something?”
“Well, I called.”
“What did you call to say?”
He blows a breath out. “Oh, just that I’m sorry. I’m just fucking everything up.” It always startles me when he curses.
“You’re not, sweetheart.”
“Don’t call me that.” His voice sounds muffled. My heart starts to pound as Eden squirms and gives a soft cry.
“I’m always gonna you sweetheart. You know what else I’ll always do?” He doesn’t answer, so I murmur, “Tell you to come home.”
I prop the baby on my shoulder and head toward the kitchen. “We miss you.”
“I miss you, too.” He sounds completely miserable.
“Why don’t you tell me what’s on your mind? I’m making a bottle. Little Missy says to tell you she loves Papa.”
I’m almost afraid he’ll say he doesn’t want to keep her, but he says, “I love you and her too.”
“Come home, babe. It’s late and I’m tired, and I want to hold you.”
“I just…can’t.” He puffs a breath out. “Not tonight.”
My stomach sinks. “Why?” I whisper. I balance the phone between my cheek and shoulder, sliding the formula jar closer to the edge of the counter.
“I just need to think,” he half groans. “Not about us. About all this stuff with the church.”
When he doesn’t expound, I murmur, “Okay.”
“I’ll be home tomorrow. I’m not going in until noon.”
“Did you talk to Pearl?”
“I texted,” he says. He sounds tired.
“How’re you going to sleep without me?”
“I don’t want to sleep. I need to think.”
I want to tell him I can help him think. Instead I say, “I’m sorry things are like this.”
“Don’t be sorry, Vanny. Never sorry—about anything. Give Eden a kiss. And please, disregard that crap I said up in the office. I was losing my shit…as the kids say.”
Fuck, I want to hug him so bad. “I love you, Sky. I love being your husband.”
“Love you more,” he whispers.
“Call me if you need me.”
“Always,” he says.
Then it’s me and Eden again, alone in the house’s midnight quiet.
“You look like a wrinkly potato,” I tell her, as she stares up at me with her rumpled eyebrows. Then the garage-hallway door creaks open.
26
Vance
My heart slams up against my ribs so hard that my arms go weak. I tighten my grip on the baby as my lungs scream for more air. Already, I can't fill them. Before I even see the person's face, my hands are shaking, and I know it’s not gonna to be good.
"Who is it?" I call in a voice I hope sounds tough. My mind is racing, wondering how I'll fight someone off while holding Eden—with two fucked-up arms.
There's a big thump, the sound like a collapse or something falling. Holding Eden tight against my chest, I step into the hall between the kitchen and the garage door, finding...someone.
Fuck. The guy is big, but crumpled over like he passed out.
"Hello?"
A soft, pained sound comes from him.
"Dara?" I step past the dude and look into the empty garage. Maybe Dara didn't leave yet after all and Tased him?
The garage is empty. Fuck.
"Are you okay?" It's my first instinct. But my second one is tucking Eden under my bad-shoulder arm and freeing up the newly surgerized one—which, sadly, is stronger—so I can punch this fucker in the face if he jumps up swinging.
As I do that, I'm running my eyes and up down his sprawled-out body, searching for some clue of who the fuck he is and why he's here, face-planted in my hallway.
Younger. Big guy. Built. He’s got on jeans that sag down, showing me a swatch of underwear, and a T-shirt. Short hair—really short, like mine—and a sunburned neck.
As I'm checking him out, he pushes up on one arm. His face twists as he looks up at me, and I notice he's got some dark, thick eyebrows.
"Are you...Vance?" His voice is soft, like he barely has the energy to speak, and his mouth is sort of trembling, which makes me notice that his lips are pretty chapped.
The way his eyes are squinted makes me think he's got a headache or something.
"Who's asking?" I don't mean to sound so surly, but fuck. "We don't like to get surprise guests at our house. You need to start explaining or security will come down the stairs. Hold off for now, Steven," I say, raising my voice like Steven’s here.
I can tell this scares the guy because his face loses some color. "I'm sorry." He tries to get to his feet, but his knees buckle as he does. He grabs the wall, but it's not wall, it's one of the Rothkos.
"Fuck! Let go of that thing." My arms are like a pinwheel, trying to hold onto the painting and also Eden. Then at the last second, as the guy sags back down to the floor, I realize I should let go of the painting and help him.
I manage to keep the painting on its mount and support Eden's floppy little head. I crouch down beside the guy. Part of me feels like I should touch his back, but...I think that's the wrong move.
"What's wrong, dude? What's the what here?" I notice his white T-shirt seems dirty, and he smells like the inside of a locker room. "You need some help or something?"
He shakes his head. He lifts his head off his arm, gray eyes holding mine even as they seem like they're about to roll back. "Don't call the cops."
"How old are you?" I demand.
"Nineteen." His voice cracks on the word.
"You need some food? Or water?" Jesus. Nineteen years old. I don’t even know that he looks that old. "Listen, dude. You got a gun or knife or some shit like that?"
His eyes widen. "No. Nothing like that."
I watch as he hoists his upper body fully off the floor, and, with some difficulty, he scoots back against the hall wall.
"This was
a bad idea," he moans softly, holding his head. He folds his arms over his raised knees, then rests his cheek on one knee and folds both arms over his shaved head. "I'll get up."
But he starts breathing harder. I can tell there's something wrong with the kid.
"You have asthma?"
He shakes his head, and I notice that he's shaking again.
"Are you hungry?"
He shrugs, and it kills me, because when he does that, I can see how fucking bony his big shoulders look under the T-shirt.
"Yeah, okay. So I've got food. And I can bring you some. Okay? We've got these good croissants. You okay with dairy?"
The dude laughs, a dry huff of air, even as his eyes are looking dizzy and his lids are sagging.
"I don't care," he says, and he sounds...like a Texan?
"You from Texas, dude?" I ask him as Miss Baby starts to cry. I have to turn my back to him to walk into the kitchen, where I grab the box of croissants and set one in the microwave atop a napkin. I do just ten seconds, because I just want to get some food into this guy's mouth.
"Food is coming," I tell him as it warms. "Did you say yes or no on Texas?" I peek out into the hall, just making sure the guy is where I left him—and he hasn't moved an inch. He looks fucking drained.
"No," he says. He holds his head again, and Eden’s cries get shriller, and I take the croissant out of the microwave with a hand that shakes a little—empath that I fucking am—and take it to him.
"Here…try this." He takes it from me, and I head back toward the kitchen, some ten feet down the hall from where he’s sitting. "Okay, Miss Baby, you're next." I spot a glass that someone left out on the counter, and I realize, "I'm lying."
I grab a clean glass from the cabinet, fill it up with water, and take that back to the guy in the hall.
Then I focus on the bottle. When I've got the thing in Eden's mouth, we move back out into the narrow hallway, where I find the guy leaning his head against the wall. His eyes are shut. I realize he's holding the croissant. Only one bite is gone.
I look around, and when it seems like nothing sketchy’s going to happen, I shut the garage/hall door, lock it, and ease myself down so I can sit beside him, cross-legged, balancing the baby on my scarred elbow.
He lifts his eyelids, giving me a glazed look.