“And you want my blessing,” he says after a long moment.
“She’ll marry me no matter what you say. But giving us your blessing is probably the best gift you could give her. All things considered.”
His eyes darken a little with the challenge, but he’s challenged me too. Neither of us has forgotten his hand in all of this. I’ll love Isabel until the day I die. If he hadn’t tried so hard to turn me away from her, I’m certain I still would have found my way back, more dedicated to being with her than ever.
Gabriel marries us on a Sunday in November, just as the Southern heat starts to give way to cooler weather. We make the sandy beach our church and the winding path through the dunes our aisle. Her parents are here—a nonnegotiable term of Morgan ultimately giving his blessing. I wasn’t allowed to whisk her away and leave them out of it.
Skye, Zeda, and Noam, who all have started to become more regular fixtures in our lives, made the drive from New Orleans too. With Karina by his side, Mateus, who’d championed for us harder and longer than anyone, wouldn’t miss it either.
I may not have been keen on sharing our wedding day with anyone else, but the minute I see Isabel, everyone else ceases to exist in my mind. Even her father, who clutches her arm possessively before relinquishing her, couldn’t distract me from the breathtaking woman who is about to become my wife.
She looks like an angel in her white dress, an uncomplicated gown that leaves her shoulders bare and ripples in the breeze as our bare feet sink into the powdery sand. With a little laugh, she pushes from her face the tiny wisps of hair that fall free. I help, using it as an excuse to touch her since I can’t kiss her yet.
Our vows are simple but absolute, a testimony of the unbreakable bond we forged long before this day. She cries, and I brush away her tears with a trembling hand, not caring who sees us so vulnerable. I can only marvel at the enormity of it all, the profound gift I’ve been given after all the wrongs I’ve done.
Gabriel ends the short ceremony with a prayer in Spanish. Words that are only important to me because they are important to her. Her eyes glitter with emotion as he speaks, and I make another vow in my heart that I’ll worship her the same way some people give themselves over to God. I’ll let her carry my sins away and dedicate myself to the love between us. And if I do all this right, maybe I can walk through this life with her for the rest of my days a better man.
ISABEL
Wind whips the ocean against our windows in loud torrents. The waves are angry but barely lick the stilts that hold the house above the shore. The news is going in the background, trying to predict where the hurricane will make landfall. Tristan is at the kitchen table with a fully disassembled ceiling fan that hasn’t worked since we moved in. His features are scrunched in concentration.
I need a distraction, but once he zeroes in on a project, I’ve learned to just let him be.
I rub my arms and stare out at the rolling waves, tinted green under the stormy sky. This is our first big storm since we’ve been in Perdido Key, and my nerves are already shot. I have to do something, or I’m going to worry myself into a frenzy.
I go into the bedroom and start tidying up. I fold a pile of laundry and start putting it away, which leads to a total overhaul of our dressers, including the one that holds Tristan’s endless sea of black T-shirts. I empty them onto the bed, intending to refold them. Once I do, I notice a stack of paperwork in the bottom of the drawer. I pull it out carefully, casting a quick glance out the bedroom door. The weather reporter is broadcasting from a pier about an hour away, repeating the same things they’ve been saying for the past hour. I’m sure Tristan is still in his own little world.
I set the contents atop the dresser. A ripped yellow package is held to a manila folder by a rubber band. Tristan’s name is written on the package above a DC post office box. I pull off the rubber band and tip the package so its contents fall out. They’re wrapped in several layers of bubble packaging that I quietly unwrap until two vials roll into my palms.
If I thought I was on edge before, my nerves are rioting now. I swallow over the knot of anxiety in my throat. I read the writing on the masking tape stuck to each one. One is marked “antidote” and the other “sedative.” I place them carefully on top of the plastic wrap for fear I’ll drop them.
Tristan never heard from Mushenko again. That’s what Tristan’s always told me. But if this is what I think it is—a recipe to reverse the memory loss he sustained—then it could have only come from one person. I’m angry with him for lying to me, but why would he hold on to it? We’ve been here for months. We’re building a life. I don’t want to change anything about it, least of all the man I’m completely dedicated to.
I push the vials aside, feeling sick at the mere sight of them. They’re an ugly reminder of the life we left behind along with a thousand memories that will haunt me forever. I’m still too curious not to open the folder. Inside it, I recognize the files Tristan stole from Jay’s apartment. His whole history is spelled out, from the enlistment letter my father penned to the brief about the bloody mission that changed Tristan’s life forever. Set atop the papers is his red notebook. The ledger of lives lost at Tristan’s hand.
I pick it up and thumb through the pages. Seeing the names and the numbers beside them doesn’t help the sickness roiling through me. I get to the last page, where I’d written my own name once upon a time. Tristan since scratched it out so it’s barely legible. The last entry is the one name neither of us will ever forget, though.
Simon Pelletier.
He’s the one who’s responsible for all the others. He’ll never be able to mark someone else for death. Those days are done. It’s not justice, but it has to be enough.
Tristan walks in, startling me so hard I nearly scream.
He looks between me and everything laid out, then back to me.
“What are you doing?”
I clutch my lower lip between my teeth. I learned a long time ago he’s not a fan of me going through his things, but that was before we agreed to share a life together.
“Sorry. I was reorganizing the drawers, and I found these.”
He moves between me and the dresser. He replaces the vials in the package and binds it back to the folder the way it was before I started snooping.
“Is that what I think it is?”
“It’s nothing you need to worry about,” he says quietly as he stashes everything back into the empty drawer.
“I’m your wife. I think if you’ve been holding on to an antidote, it’s my business.”
“They’re my memories.”
A spike of fury runs through me. “And what about the ones we’re making now? Isn’t this enough?”
He turns toward me, his brow angrily furrowed. “Obviously it’s enough. I haven’t taken it, have I?”
“If you’re keeping it, that means you’re not ruling it out.”
“That’s a pretty big assumption, Isabel.”
“Is it?”
He works his jaw, avoiding my penetrating gaze. “I have no intention of taking it. I’m happy with our life. I’m happy with everything the way it is. It’s just…” He closes his eyes a moment before lifting them to me. “I’m afraid to get rid of it. I’m afraid I’ll change my mind and wish I had it. That’s all.”
I don’t know how I feel. Betrayed that he kept this from me. Heartbroken that he’s had this choice hanging over him. Most of all angry because the choice isn’t mine.
“Don’t you think I should have a say in this?” Tears spring to my eyes. “You’re everything to me. You’re my whole world. What if you have a bad day or are feeling impulsive and you decide to take it and…” I can hardly breathe at the possibility that Tristan could lose more than just his memories. I’m so overwhelmed by it, I rip the package out of the drawer and storm out of the room.
“Isabel! What the hell are you doing?”
He catches me in the kitchen on my way to his tool bag, where I have every intentio
n of finding something to help me destroy the godforsaken vials. He grabs my wrists, but I twist away. He catches me again in the living room, but I trip and we stumble to the floor. I stretch as far as I can to keep the package out of reach. His body covers the length of mine. He’s bigger and stronger, so it’s only a matter of seconds before he tears the package from my hand. A furious cry leaves my lips as I try to get it back to no avail.
He takes my hands and pins them to the floor above my head. “What is wrong with you?”
I’m breathing hard, and so is he. Maybe I’m being crazy and erratic, but if it means saving the man I love from an uncertain fate, I’m only getting started. I’ll fight until I’m bruised and bloody. I’ll fight until I win.
“I won’t let you take it. I want you to get rid of it,” I say between ragged breaths.
“You’re saying that now. What if you change your mind?”
“I won’t. I won’t ever change my mind.”
He searches my eyes like maybe I don’t mean what I say. “You used to want my memories more than anything.”
“I want you more than anything. The man you are. You can’t…” I swallow hard, and tears stream down the sides of my face. “I can’t lose you again, Tristan.”
He lowers his forehead so it touches mine. “I won’t let that happen.”
“Then get rid of it. Please.”
He doesn’t move for a long time. Finally, he drags his palm down my arm, still keeping me trapped to the hard floor with his other hand. He feathers his fingertips across my lips before kissing me lightly. His gaze is a tractor beam of intensity, so focused that I hardly notice when he reaches to the side and slams his fist down against the package. The sound of breaking glass is unmistakable, loud against the quiet roar of the waves crashing onto the beach below. More tears slip from my eyes, but these are different. They’re tears of relief and acceptance and love.
“Thank you,” I whisper.
EPILOGUE
Simon
The four white walls I call home don’t bother me too much. It’s a strange comfort…the blankness of this place. The people here add the color and the substance with their storied pasts. For the most part, I’m silent. I watch. I learn. For others, the long road of confinement causes trouble. They grow angry and act out. We’re all surviving here, paying a penance one way or the other, but I do my best to follow the rules—the official ones imposed on us and the ones we impose upon ourselves.
I quickly figured out how to use what little I have left on the outside to buy my safety on the inside. Determined to do things a little differently than I used to, all I bargained for was my own security. Eight more years and I can start fresh and worry about creature comforts. I don’t know what I’ll do then. I’m still learning about myself and what I’m good at. Maybe by then I’ll be good at something that won’t land me back in prison.
Two years ago, I woke up—a forty-eight-year-old man who had everything and nothing. I had a beautiful, charismatic wife. More money in my bank accounts than anyone could ever hope for. All the fun, expensive toys. Boats, cars, houses. Interesting, powerful friends. To some it looked like a dream life, but I soon learned that having nothing is a lot less complicated than having everything.
The days after they found me were a confusing blur. Doctors were everywhere. My wife was hysterical. I just wanted to go home, wherever that was, so I could get back on solid ground. Someplace where things might make more sense.
A few weeks at home did nothing. Athena went from manic to detached. Our friends weren’t sure what to make of it all. People I’d done business with didn’t trust me. After the neurologists confirmed the concussion I sustained when I fell during the evacuation destroyed my memory, the circle of people in our lives got smaller and smaller.
Then the investigation started and there was no one. Athena left. My attorneys did their best. Having a client with no recollection of his wrongdoing wasn’t a terrible circumstance, but it couldn’t erase the things I’d done. Suddenly the dream life was all trash. Every time more information came forward and new accusations were made against me, I felt like I was watching my past unfold on the screen like a movie. The star wasn’t me—just a doppelganger I shared everything with.
Apparently I’m a terrible person. Or at least I was. If I hadn’t hit my head, I think I could have found a way out of all those troubles. I could have implicated some other people and skimmed some time off my sentence or maybe gotten away with doing none at all.
I’d never say it out loud, but I like it better on the inside. I like the routine. The monotony. Outsmarting people and sidestepping trouble is a game I’ve learned to play, and I think I do it well. I don’t have a lot to compare it to, so it’s enough to keep me entertained for now.
I don’t feel like I’m missing anything, which is probably a good thing. Because deep down, I know I’m missing so much.
* * *
TO BE CONTINUED
* * *
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Also from Waterhouse Press
Keep reading for an excerpt!
Excerpt from Shark’s Edge
Book One in the Shark’s Edge Series
“Tell me, Little Red.”
I bent forward, almost brushing my lips to hers.
Waiting.
Waiting for her answer.
“Twenty-two. I turned twenty-two at the beginning of January.”
“Jeeeessssus Christ.” I pulled back, scrubbing my palm down my face and around to the back of my neck, where I squeezed tightly, trying to get a handle on my lust-addled brain.
“What just happened? What did I miss?” Her confused look wasn’t unexpected.
“Momentary loss of my better judgment. Forgive me.”
“For what? I would’ve told you to stop.” She met my stare straight on. Ballsy girl. Sexy girl. “But I didn’t want you to stop.”
“You don’t know what you’re saying.” I stepped back from her slightly.
She quickly closed the space between us. “I know exactly what I’m saying.”
“I find that hard to believe. You’re barely old enough to order a drink at a bar, let alone tangle with a bastard like me.”
“Don’t overestimate yourself, Mr. Shark.”
I couldn’t help but grin at the flash of boldness. “Maybe you shouldn’t underestimate me, Ms. Gibson. Ask my assistant what an overbearing asshole I am. She probably has a story to match every minute of the day. Although if she were honest with herself, she’s no picnic to be around either.”
“She seems quite nice to me.” Abbigail shrugged, something I noticed she did routinely. “She even allows me to keep my trolley in the alcove by her printer while I service the offices on this floor. She wouldn’t do that if she weren’t kind.”
She looked triumphant that she proved me wrong in one simple sentence. Then a slow smile spread across her heart-shaped lips. “I’d guess you’re probably more like a Chihuahua than a shark, as your name suggests, Sebastian. All bark, no bite.”
Boy, she really thought she had me figured out, didn’t she? Time to put this pup back in her crate.
I pressed against her body with my own, thrusting her against the wall behind her. The semi-erect cock lazing in my boxers surged to full attention from the heat radiating through our layers of clothing.
“I wouldn’t mind sinking my teeth into you, Little Red,” I said softly beside her ear as I tucked a wayward strand of silky hair behind it. “In fact, I’d like to sink a couple other body parts of mine”—I pushed my hips against her belly in punctuation—“into yours.” Slowly, I pulled back to get lost in her kelly-colored eyes.
“But?” Her voice was tinged with impatience. Not the reaction I was going for, but maybe the cat-and-mouse game was growing old?
I leaned my head far to the side, lewdly surveying the curve of her backside.
“It is a stellar ass, Abbigail. But I can’t say I expecte
d you to jump right into that arena. You’re full of surprises today.” I suspected my eyes were glittering with mischief.
She gave me a be serious glower. “I’m not even going to dignify that with a response.”
“You just did.” I arched a brow in challenge.
She huffed before getting back to her original point. “I was sensing you had an objection to your own comment.”
“My objection is to several things.” I lifted my hand to hold it directly between our faces, ticking off the problems as I voiced them.
“First . . . ” My index finger popped tall, making me imagine drawing a line from her bottom lip, down her neck, and around the back to untie the apron’s knot and then watching it fall to the floor between us. My eyes skittered to the ground, observing the imaginary fabric crumple to a heap and then flashed back to hers as I made my point. “You’re much too young to be sullied by a scoundrel such as me.”
She quirked her brow at my use of such archaic terms, but I wasted no time adding a second finger to my first.
Now my brain gave me thoughts of two fingers deftly working the moorings free on her button-down shirt and then spreading the two halves wide to discover what type of lingerie she hid beneath her sensible work clothes. Was she a utilitarian girl all the way down to her creamy white skin? Or was there a little bit of vixen underneath the layers of cotton? A sexy siren waiting to be uncovered and appreciated—stroked and petted by my skillful hands.
I dashed out the second reason. “You work for me. Vendors make messy bedfellows.”
“Messy?” she asked, her voice pitching high with the insult.
Messy, I mouthed, no sound accompanying my lips’ movement.
“And lastly,” I said, adding my long middle finger to the grouping of extremities between us, losing all coherent train of thought. Dirty, dirty fantasies replaced reasonable remarks. In my mind, I stroked the inside of Abbi’s pussy with the very finger that stood tallest between us. With that digital soldier, I’d reach in and find the secret spot that made her writhe and moan beneath my touch. The unique bull’s-eye that would encourage her to call my name in a raspy moan as she rode my hand to her completion.
The Red Ledger 9 Page 9