Crown and Anchor Series: Book 1-4

by Kerri Ann

  I don’t have the space in my heart to react yet.

  “Car, give me something, please.”

  “Love, I wish I could, really. The Governor would have my head and my black card if I didn’t hold to a secret. It’s common knowledge that WikiLeaks was bad. Don’t make me a part of Crowngate.”

  “Car.”

  She blows out a heavy breath. “Fuck. If I’m fired, I will murder you, Circe Maco.”

  “You won’t murder me, you love me.”

  “Yeah, but you need me more for correct coffee runs, clothing and gossip.”

  “Then give me the gossip. Something miniscule.” I’ll plead. Not that it’ll do me a lick of good, but I’ll try anything. “I’ll trade you shoes for information.”

  “Oh, come on! Circe, that’s dirty warfare. Shoes are not to be used in such a way.”

  “Give me something, Carli. I’ll tell the Governor about the Jell—”

  “Don’t you dare! No. You promised no one would know about that night. It was dark, it was dangerous, and I was not sober. You said girl code reined. Don’t break it now.” Striking the deep chords that make her fold, I bet I can get something with one more shot.

  “What about the girl code? Are you trying to break it, Carli?”

  “Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuckity assholes and sparkly dragons, you’re a bitch. I love you. Your tactics are evil, Circe Matcheson.” I can hear her failing.

  Staying quiet, I wait. She’s caving.

  Waiting.

  Waiting.

  “Fine, but this is all you get and I’m hanging up. Take this as the only thing you get, and if you call me before things change in the media, I will swear, I won’t answer the phone.”

  “I solemnly swear that I’m—”

  “Yeah, yeah, HP. Hold off the oath. I’m saying it fast then hanging up. Ready?”

  Quietly, hiding the phone über close to the bed, in case Sali or the doc come in, I reply, “Yes.”

  “I’m going to get in so much shit. And if I’m missing in a few days, get bail ready. Oh! And Captain America.”

  Pausing further. The line is quiet, quiet, quiet.

  “Someone died.”

  Hearing the resounding click of the line going dead, I can’t move.

  Leaving the receiver where it lies, I turn over without another thought and cry myself to sleep.

  CHINA

  I’m pacing back and forth in the room, unsure of what to do.

  “I’m hiding in a fucking broom closet, Har!”

  “Get your shit together, CD. You knew you had a chance of running into her at some point. I had a running bet with Hallee that you’d see her by week three. You made me lose a thousand bucks!” Talking to Harlow always puts things into perspective. Well, sort of.

  “You had a bet on when I’d run into Circe? You’re fucking with me?”

  Her high-pitched voice carries over the phone’s speaker in the tiny space. “Fuck off. Don’t act surprised, Uncle Buck. Of course I did. We even have a running tally on when Casper will be awake too. Right now, Catty owes me five grand, and I’m hoping he keeps it up.”

  Fuck me. My friends are idiots. “Of course you have running bets on shit like this.”

  “What else would we bet on? Whiskey isn’t about to wake up at the snap of my fingers to fall in love with me, so I have to try and fleece my besties any way I can.”

  “So you haven’t answered my question. What do I do? I mean, she doesn’t know we’re that close, and I don’t want her to know yet. The last thing I need is someone else in the room worrying alongside me.”

  “At some point, you have to tell her.”

  “Not yet.”

  Flicking my nail on the handle of a broom, I listen to Harlow admonish me for being a pussy about my brother’s girlfriend. “You can’t hide out in a broom closet for weeks on end, so pick up those five hundred dollar undies—”

  “Not wearing any today,” I interrupt.

  “That’s my girl.”

  “I’d love to be, but Jamieson ditched me, and didn’t bring me a jump bag.”

  “Oh. Well then, I’ll go shop and bring you some goodies. Anything else you need for your tryst with the maintenance man?”

  “Har har, harlot. No. Just bring me lunch and coffee. Make it a venti this time, cheapskate.” Pulling open the door, peering around corner, I don’t see Circe or her mother anywhere.

  “Fine. But get me ten minutes alone with Whiskey in that broom closet, and I’ll bring you a scone.”

  Closing the door, I head back to Wyatt’s room. “Just get me a drink. And no more bets.”

  “No promises.” Is the last thing she says before hanging up.

  Pocketing my phone, I talk to myself on the way back to the room. “My friends are idiots.”

  CIRCE

  Push yourself past the pain, they said. Deal with the loss and the regrets, they said. That was then. That was when I was dealing with the loss of Shelby and Kiresa. More over, the regret of being the one left behind. They say that when you are the only survivor in a plane crash, that out of two hundred people, the single survivor will have regrets and remorse. The why me? Why did I survive? What did I do that made me the lucky one?

  That’s what I lived with. That’s what I endured as I learned to deal with the pain of being the one that still got to grow up. I was able to flounder through life and learn to be an adult. I’m the one that can live off of nine dollars a week to eat. I learned how I could be grateful for being the survivor.

  That was the first time my life was eradicated and erased. My life changed in seconds. But, I picked my ass up off the hospital bed, the couch, the floor, and sucked up the regret, turning it into a burning need to accomplish something of worth.

  This time, I think it might take a bit more. I’ve been going to physio and the pyscho-babble analyst to deal with my internal and external injuries for almost a full month since seeing China, and after hearing the words from Carli. The physio hasn’t made the progress expected because I’m not whole anymore. There’s too many broken pieces now.

  With Kiresa and Shelby, I knew the outcome. They died and I knew that life would go on if I only tried. This time, I don’t know where, how, or what is going on with Wyatt and Marca.

  Seeing China, acting like I was a burden to her, not someone considered a friend of hers or her brothers, I feel barren inside. My soul is literally curling in on itself as it loses hope of seeing him again. Weeks passed. There have been no answers and it’s killing me. Was I better off not knowing someone died? No, I wasn’t.

  Thinking about that day, reliving it over and over, analyzing it, picking it apart piece by minuscule piece, I’m searching for a sign, a pattern, a blip or a hope that I’ll remember what happened.

  Every time I close my eyes, I see the final moments. In therapy, they want me to relive it play by play, but it’s too much. When I don’t agree and do as they ask by ‘sharing my feelings,’ then I’m branded hysterical. That’s when the drugs come back out in tiny little syringes, putting me back to sleep.

  If Wyatt survived this, I will do everything in my power to make sure he’s never drugged against his will again.

  WYATT

  “Wyatt, this sucks hairy cat nuggets. There’s nothing more I want than for you to wake your ass up. I’m not doing this alone,” Doll mutters to herself as she’s watching television.

  Time is so out of sync as I flick through memories, like the stations China switches through. Hearing every minute sound, feeling everything like a ticking time bomb in my head. Nothing changes. If they leave me in my mind for much longer, I’ll be a bigger mess than I was before. I know it.

  Hearing the scuffle of people as they move around the tiny space, or when the alarms resounds with a horrific yelp to pierce the silence, I feel like a cat with my nails stuck on the blinds.

  Daily, they’re in the room switching over bedding, scraping chairs on the floor, opening and closing curtains, all to keep the perception
of normalcy. As daylight streams in, it caresses my skin when it makes the hairs on my arm stick up. It keeps up the pretence that I’m alive. I’m not alive, I’m surviving.

  Doll has spent every waking hour with me. I’ve yet to speak with her, nor have I opened my eyes, and I haven’t been able to say thank you to her for being here. There’s nothing I wish for more. Nothing.

  I want to tell her what happened, how everything changed in seconds.

  How the drive down was fine, the highway serene. Mother and I were more than fine. Hell, the day was fucking fantastic! A moment of clarity with refreshing dialogue was cordial, and I almost felt loved.

  Our relationship had always been abrasive and volatile like an A-bomb. Constantly requiring interference from Dad, or from neatly filled syringes. That was our life together. Our relationship normally sucked, and I feel horrible that now Whiskey and Doll, especially Doll, have been robbed of feeling the same as I did that day. Dad would have been so happy to see it.

  Dad.

  Wow, there’s a whole other regret. Sorrow for not being able to give him the peace of personally seeing it happen. To tell Doll there was laughter, joy, and peace at the end would seem incorrect, but it’s true; we had peace. Yeah, that’s it. We understood each other for however brief a moment it was.

  We were conversing and acting like family should. We still hadn’t really spoken about my new position then, and I’d thought about it a ton sitting here in this blank hallway of a mind, but I feel no better about it.

  Thinking about home and that day, I see everything in my mind as if I’m there. The sun is just below the horizon, falling into the bright ocean. I can see the riptide as it rolls along the coast with the promise of days in the surf; downtime and relaxation after the will reading. Yes, I knew we’d be in for a few days of odd remarks, packing, tears, copious amounts of alcohol, and dangerous emotional implosions. Plus, there would be the silent diners where we’d all ignore the vacant seat at the table. I’d hoped for a bit of friendly competition with Doll on the track, and showing Circe that heaven. Most of all, I was looking forward to the joy on her face when I asked her the one thing I’d been afraid to ask. Because of all the circumstances surrounding us the past few weeks, I’d decided that she was what I wanted in my life. She’s mine, and I won’t give her up. Knowing it in my heart that first day, it’s been the same every day. She consumes me.

  “Has there been any changes?” Doll asks, knocking me out of my silent musings.

  “Sorry, no. The doctor is still concerned with swelling. She’ll keep him in the coma for a few more days, I suppose.” The voice is elderly, kind sounding for sure, and soft, like what I’d expect a grandparent to sound like. It’s Margaret, my stand-in nurse when Sali is off.

  “Is there anything I can get for you?” Feeling the blanket on the bed being moved up my body, someone tucks it under my arms. It’s odd in a way. After checking the IV line in my hand and puffing up the pillow a bit, they move away.

  “No. I’m good, really.” Doll sounds so worn out and exhausted. “Whiskey went out to get me a jump bag full of things again today. If I find he packs like a man and forgets something crucial, again, I’ll reach out to you. Thanks.”

  Hearing the lady leave, closing the door behind her, the chair beside the bed shifts, scraping across the floor. Flicking her shoes off, propping her legs on the side of the bed, I feel her slight weight relax against mine.

  “Wyatt, I’ve had enough of this. This shit is getting fucking old, and you need to wake up.” Her cool feet rest up against mine as she tucks them under the light blankets. “I’m friggin’ twenty-one in a few weeks, and I’m not gonna take much more of you avoiding me. So...” With her soft voice cracking, choking on her words, she’s wipes tears away from her face. I know she’s reaching the end of her emotional patience. Doll doesn’t cry; she doesn’t do emotions. “Big brother, get your ass back to me so I can beat your lazy butt on the track.”

  You bet your tiny little bumblebee ass I’ll beat you, kid. This is shit, and I’m fully bored of it too. Whiskey is so much older than her, and honestly, he’s more an uncle than a brother. Here I am, the one that she normally leans on, sitting in a drug-induced coma with no one else to help her cope. How is she keeping her calm and composed demeanour?

  Skipping that thought, my mind drags me back to my Siren. I want to ask Doll about Circe. How is she? I know in my veins she was alive, barely, when I last saw her, but she was alive. That was before I passed out. Actually, I guess it wasn’t so much passed out as it was more died for a short period of time.

  How is it she’s not here? She was beside me during all the craziness with Dad. Why isn’t she here now?

  And really, how is Doll fairing? Is Whiskey helping her? Is he keeping her sane and busy, so that she has no time to realize how crappy this is? I hope to fuck he’s helping her. If not, I’m going to kick his ass when I wake the fuck up. We’ve had a shit run of luck in the past few months, and Doll’s been rather grown-up through the whole experience. I’ve heard Whiskey talking to me a few times, but it’s not really anything that could tell me how he’s helping, how he’s coping with this himself.

  All of these thoughts swim like sharks in my mind. Dangerous, and not really accomplishing anything of real value. I guess I’ll just have to wait.

  There’s more questions than answers, and no one can hear me.

  WYATT

  More days blend, bend, and bow. How many have passed? The beeping monitor tells me nothing. There’s no phone I can glance at, no one that will answer my internal musings; no one but me. If I start answering my own questions, I know I’m good and fucked.

  Right now, I’m caged, alone, and really hitting the end of my proverbial rope. I’m stuck in the rubber room, banging on the padding with my arms stretched out, dangerously entwined in tight cloth wrapping around me. I’m fucking chained. That’s how it feels.

  Dark. Dank. Horrid. This cage of mine is worse than anything a psyche ward could ever envision.

  Placing a person who feels every emotion to an excess in a straining situation, in their own personal jail, that’s cruel fucking punishment. It’s claustrophobic, cramped, and constrained in here. I’m fucking drowning in Wyatt. The memories, the disillusioned family ties, the sadness, disasters of days gone by, fucking crap I hoped to bury and hide away from the world. All of it swims to the surface, drowning my sanity. Doing everything I possibly can, I try holding it together, but I can’t see myself keeping this up. My mind will be a tortured pig lead to slaughter soon.

  Let me out! Screaming at the top of my lungs is futile. They think what they’re doing will help and it won’t.

  Quiet is worse than noise.

  How much longer can they keep me in this dangerous space with no contact, no conversation, and no way to dull the ache of the voices. They chatter, telling me I’m not good enough, I’m not the rightful person to control the business that Dad created, and that I’m a disgrace. That my proclivities just make me more dangerous to their public personas.

  This was his to do! This was meant to be Dad’s. It was never meant to be my future. With him gone, I’m afraid. A deep-seeded fear of showing my illness in public scares me the most. All I want to do is curl up in the corner, cuddling my sides, rocking away the stress of this.

  FUCK!!!!

  I want to give up, but I ignore the doubt of being nowhere good enough for the position they’ve given me, because I can’t fix it. I tell myself to be strong, to hold out just a bit more and to control the cracks in the dyke, staunching the flow of my internal disaster.

  It doesn’t work.

  I need Siren. She can fix me.

  I need out of here.

  I need out now.

  I want no more of this blackness, no more dangerous thoughts.

  Wyatt may be the broken one, but Casper fucking Crown bows to no one, let alone his own fucking head games.

  Time to go, boys. I’m finding the door and leaving this hell.
Now, where were those fucking keys?

  WYATT

  All day it’s been like watching old family films, slides of long ago trips from the forties, or finding an old journal that was filled in by a grandparent. It’s from a lifetime ago; it feels historic. I know my own head well enough that if I focus only on the negative, I’ll be warring with myself. Like screaming down a long tunnel at no one, or being lost in a labyrinth without a string to find the exit. I’ll get lost. It’s stories that feel so real because of the emotions portrayed and conveyed will trap me. They’ve been flipping by so fast, I can’t grasp them.

  It’s nothing more than snippets, like a fast scrolling video. You get the gist of the story, but it’s sped up. Remembering days when we were at home, dealing with Mother, days of joy on the track, and losses as I learned to be conservative with my words. All of it’s damning. Dealing with my own convoluted mind has been difficult. When this is done, either I’ll have further cracks in my psyche, or I’ll be a slave to it no more.

  Our parents’ mansion had its privileges. The days on the track when it was calm and peaceful helped. Being stuck here, inside this trash compactor of a brain I own, it’s bike wreckage and shards of joy. The longer I’m here, the less I’ll be sane on the other side. I know it. I feel it deeply.

  Wading through catalogues full of times on the track, I’m remembering another time that was joyous. Doing this keeps the despair at bay.

  The day is warm and inviting. The steaming Californian air is thick. Even the birds in the nearby palms are hiding under leaves to stay cool in the midday sun. It’s perfect in every way. This is the perfect time to hit the track. The heat and the humidity from the ocean, the salt gums up the track. Both Dad and Doll say it’s ludicrous, and I love it.

  Hopping over the concrete stanchion that lines the track, landing on the heated blacktop that is my life, I’m happy.

  This is where I live.