“The way he looked at me the first time I saw him.” I don’t even have to think about it, I remember it vividly. “Like he already knew everything about me. But besides that, I don’t think he’s afraid of anyone or anything. To him, everything is just…chess pieces,” I say, letting my eyes wander across the floor. Then I shake my head, “I don’t know if I could ever be like him.”
“You hold him in very high regard, I can tell,” she smiles. “On the flipside, what are some things about him that you find challenging?”
I let out a sigh, “He feels responsible for so many people. And, because of that, he has to be in control of everything—” I tip my chin and pinch my fingers together with emphasis, “eh-ver-ree-thing!” Then I sink back into the sofa, “I get why he feels that way, but sometimes—” I clench my jaw, feeling the frustration rise, “I wish he would just fucking share some of it.”
●●●
When I emerge from the back door after showering and cleaning up, the aroma hits me and I breathe in a lungful of nostalgia. Smell memories of charcoal, cut grass, and the sweet summer heat wrap me in a protective cocoon. But I’m not back in the cozy memories of my childhood; instead, it looks like I’ve stepped into a Black Ops barbecue. Some of them I even recognize from the police department, which makes me smile.
Full-on corrupt.
They’re all people he works with or has worked with in the past. There are a couple of women I recognize from sporadic outings, but most are men with tattoos and sunglasses, wearing the same type of military-grade watch. And beards. Lots of beards.
That is, except for him.
He’s standing against the railing, dressed in black trackpants and a grey sleeveless undershirt, his long, trailing tattoo protruding from his shoulder down the length of his arm. Unlike the other guys hanging around the deck, milling about, he’s never had a beard, or any facial hair for that matter. He’s always clean-shaven with his dark hair cut shorter on the sides and longer on the top.
When he sees me, he breaks away from the group and crosses the deck, enveloping me between his broad shoulders as soon as he’s within arm’s reach. Then he reaches down and pulls my face to his in a deep kiss.
“So, where’d you go?” he asks, weaving his fingers in mine.
“Blackhorse,” I look up at him with a half-smile, “and, this time, I stayed upright.”
“You fucking better have,” he gives me a warning look and glances down at my belly, “I’ll lock you up in that house until Christmas.”
Clearly, he’s had enough of me dragging my ass home with an assortment of abrasions and contusions whenever I decide to “check out” a new trail.
“Try it,” I taunt, “you’ll just have to pay for another window,” to which he snorts under his breath and mutters a curse before wrapping his arms around me again.
Twelve months ago, he probably wouldn’t have said something like that, and I probably wouldn’t have had that response. But, in many ways, I’m a different person now. I’ve learned to accept where I am and take more risks. But a tiger doesn’t lose its stripes. I still evaluate, analyze, reevaluate, and make educated decisions. I could never be anything close to impulsive, especially now.
I glance over his shoulder and see a gargantuan figure lumbering toward us. His platinum blonde hair is tied back into a messy bun at the crown of his head and his icy blue eyes are hidden behind a pair of mirrored sunglasses. Many of the others are still in uniform, but he looks like he just rolled off a catamaran with his flip flops, cut-off t-shirt, and bottle of Corona. He’s technically the boss, but it’s never felt that way. Since the moment I was first introduced to him, they seemed more like brothers.
He wraps his massive arm around my shoulder and I have to tilt my head back to see his face. He’s like a cloud blocking out the sun.
“Hey,” I nudge him in the side, “are you wearing sunscreen?”
He arches his brow, which might as well be non-existent because of how they blend into his fair skin, “I didn’t know when he decided to put a baby in you that you’d become my mother, too,” he scoffs.
I glance down at the front of my shirt that now protrudes enough for people to notice, “You should be thankful I’m not your mother,” I retort.
Out of the corner of my eye, I spy a white Ford Raptor roll to a stop at the top of the hill. The dog jumps up from the edge of the stairs and starts barking his usual alert. But once he sees who it is, he quiets and lays back down. My pseudo-sister-in-law jumps out of the passenger side seat, followed by her husband. As soon as she sees us, she takes off down the hill and scurries up the stairs to the deck. She flies into my arms, nearly knocking me over, and then turns to her brother and does the same.
He keeps one arm wrapped around her as her husband approaches, to which he swings out his arm and they clasp hands. I keep trying to imagine what these two men were like in high school together—angsty teenage boys who played soccer and drove fast cars. But, in many ways, I know it wasn’t the same as my high school experience. When my angsty phase finally came to an end with the approach of graduation, his was just beginning.
Before I can say a word, she pulls out her phone and thrusts it in my face, “Look what my mom just sent me.”
“Whoa...” I rotate her phone so I can better see the photo, “are you serious?”
It’s my book, and it’s on a shelf at a Barnes & Noble, sitting right next to other authors whose books are sitting on my shelves inside this very house. She shrieks with excitement, tucking her phone back into her pocket.
Even though I’ve been seeing things like this for weeks, I still can’t believe it’s real. Probably because this book was supposed to be a trauma dump, not an overnight sensation. Granted, I hoped it would be successful, but I thought it would be a much slower process. I didn’t think it would take on a life of its own.
Maybe it does if the story is fucked up enough…
Suddenly, I notice her eyes darting back and forth between me and the ground, “What?” I give her a once-over, eyeing her suspiciously. “What are you up to?”
She shoots me a coy smile, “I came up with a really stellar PR campaign.” Her expression changes into one bordering on diabolical. “It’ll be like blood in the water. I’ll tell you about it later,” she winks.
I look away, unable to contain my smile, “You’re way too excited about this.”
But I can’t blame her. She’s been waiting for this opportunity. I may have written the book, but she’s been right there with me for all of it, and she always has been, more than most people will ever know.
“Get ready,” growls the voice one foot above my head, scanning the thick line of trees across the lawn, “now, the real fun begins.” Then he swaggers back across the deck, bobbing his head to Korn playing from the speakers next to the grill.
And, this time, I know neither of them are talking about the book.
CHAPTER TEN
Brett
One Year Ago
Early the next morning, I open my laptop and glare at the last page I typed the day before. I was so excited to have finished this chapter. I click the page break icon and stare at the cursor blinking incessantly, mocking me, and then glance down at my phone, the text still visible.
BOWEN (7:43AM): Work emergency. I had to leave early today.
He’s gone. He didn’t even wake me up. I opened my eyes and he was just…gone.
