by James, Ella
I feel Barrett shift until I’m in his lap, lying between his legs and on his chest. He pulls the covers over us and gently cups my head with his big hand.
“It’s what was in the dart. Those sedatives will throw you off the next day.”
I hold my breath, then sniff softly. “They will?” I look into his gorgeous eyes; hard eyes.
“They will.”
He looks so…mad.
“Barrett—are you mad at me?” I whimper.
“Of course not.” I feel his cool palm on my forehead. “Why would you think that?”
“I don’t know.”
“Never mad at you, Piglet. You’re my heart,” I think I hear him say. It has an echo, though.
I don’t remember falling asleep. I wake up to dark windows and an eerie sense of stillness in the little attic room.
When I get down off the bed, my knees feel wobbly. A quick look at myself reveals I’m wearing a huge flannel shirt. It’s rolled up nearly to my elbows—neat, square rolls by Barrett’s deft hands. It’s got navy blue, light blue, red, and white in the plaid pattern.
I stand there with one hand on the mattress, listening to the silence. It feels big and heavy. I can feel it in my chest, my hair. I look at my hand on the bed. Over the knuckles, there are red scrapes.
Tears tighten my throat. I can hardly even remember the man in the mask. That’s why he gave me the shot in my neck. So I would forget. Who was it? Who was it, and what did they want to talk about?
I smell the snow. The road salt. I can feel the cruel, pervasive cold. I feel like I’m turning real to ghost and back again, as if I’m flickering as I stand here.
He already killed you.
I don’t even know where the words come from, but they make my chest feel tight, my body even less substantial. Suddenly, I just want Barrett. I need him.
I’m worried about making it down the ladder, but I go anyway. I hurry from the second floor to the first and find Barrett sitting in an armchair in front of the fire. He’s shirtless, in a pair of loose, black sweats.
As I near the bottom of the stairs, he springs up, lithe and gorgeous in the firelight, bounding over to me like…“a leopard,” I giggle.
“What?” He tilts his head and smiles, taking my hands.
“You remind me of a leopard.”
He gives me another handsome smile and squeezes my hands. “You seem to be feeling a little better.”
I nod, even though a mere moment ago, it wasn’t true. “I feel better when I’m with you.”
He kisses my cheek and cups my shoulder with his hand. I look at his face and notice that the beard is longer. Even though he’s smiling, his eyes look…tired? Or red? I can’t tell in the dim light. I wrap myself around him and he holds me against him. We sit in the chair, and as happy as I felt a moment ago, now my eyes start leaking.
“What did I miss?” I ask in a raspy voice.
His hands rub circles on my back. “Not much.”
I look around the room and notice a small glass on the table beside us, filled with amber liquid. I squint. Is that whiskey?
“Nothing happened? While I’ve been in zombie mode?”
“I missed you,” he says softly.
I look up at him and find his face looks tight, despite a small smile. “Are you upset?”
He cups my cheek. “I should be asking you that, Pig.”
I kiss his jaw, rubbing my lips over the little beard hairs. “That is not an answer,” I whisper.
I cut my gaze upward in time to see him blink. The way his face is frozen—it looks like he’s struggling to stay composed. He shuts his eyes and exhales.
So he’s upset. Well, of course he would be. Given his past… He probably has a hard time knowing that he couldn’t stop it.
“I love you.” I burrow my hands behind his back and draw my knees up, so I’m tight and cozy in his lap.
“I love you too,” he says a little roughly. The fire crackles. I watch his Adam’s apple bob along his throat. “I’m sorry I wasn’t there.”
“You didn’t know.”
He laughs dryly. “I bought a car.” He shakes his head.
“What?”
He blinks at me. “That’s where I was.”
“Can I see it?”
I’m out of his lap before he even answers. Barrett’s up behind me, chuckling as I dance around to make him laugh. We bound down the front porch steps like puppies, him catching my hand as our feet hit the dirt.
He turns slightly to the left and there, along the house’s side, I see a Jeep.
“Oh my God, I love it! Take me for a drive?” I dart over on my rubber legs and lean against the driver’s side window. The glass is cool under my splayed fingers. A shiver ripples through me, making my mind hazy. But I shake it off.
Who was it? I push the question down.
“C’mon,” I grab Bear’s hand. “I want to smell the new car smell.”
He obliges me, of course. Half an hour later, he runs off the road, onto a grassy shoulder, moaning as I make us both feel better with his dick stuffed in my mouth.
FIFTEEN
Gwenna
By the time we get back to Barrett’s house, I’m ready to hear more about the attack. Did they see the man on camera? (No). Did they find footprints? (Just one. Shoe size 10). Have there been any other attacks or any suspicious people in the area? (No). Was it for sure a syringe or a dart that went into my neck? (A mini dart gun thing). What was the medicine? (A fast-acting sedative called Haloperidol). Who the hell was it? What if they come back?
I swallow both questions, and Barrett seems to read my mind.
“I think the police asked you. Do you remember what you told them?”
“About what?” I ask.
“Who it might be.”
I shake my head.
“I don’t know either. I wasn’t in the room with you. Do you want to call the station and see if they recorded it?”
I shake my head again. “I can just think of it again. Who would it be? Someone relating to the bears maybe. Sometimes enviro people get weird about bear places.” I swallow. That’s not what I really think, but I’m not sure I want to talk about what I think.
Barrett squeezes my leg under the table. “Can you think of anything else?”
I swallow hard. Again. Finally, I force myself to look at him. “Maybe,” I whisper.
“What?”
I shiver. “The person.”
“What person?”
“Where am I, Daddy?”
“Oh my God.” My mother’s voice.
“The one who hit me.”
“You mean the driver from the accident.”
I nod. “They never found him.”
“What do you mean, found?”
“He just…took off.”
“He?” Barrett’s eyes are wide.
“It could have been a female. I just think of it as a male.” My eyes fill up with tears.
“What’s wrong, Gwennie?”
“I just wonder if the person keeps track of me. If they know where I am. Is that crazy?”
“No. It’s not crazy. But I doubt that’s what happened.”
“What did? How is it possible that once again, I don’t know what happened to me? I got attacked a second time. It’s like a ghost is after me.”
* * *
Michael
‘What the fuck?’
I cast my eyes in the direction of my father, my fingers texting under the table cloth even as the General drones on about my mother’s campaign. ‘What?’ I ask Dove.
‘What did you do to Bear?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Answer your phone.’
“So…we have options,” Dad is saying. “What your mother needs to see is…”
‘Dinner. Dearest dad.’
‘He flew in?’
‘Tracked me here. We’re in Nashville—Capitol Grille.’
‘Fuck.’
‘That’s the word
. So—what’s up?”
“Do you see my reasoning?” Dad’s asking.
“I do. I think your theory makes good sense.”
‘Shit, let me slip off to the RR.’
“So—what?” I ask a few moments later.
Dove’s voice is low. “Bear’s fucking pissed off, man. He texted me and said to tell you to watch your back. He said to tell you that the ‘brother operator’ shit is over.”
“What kind of cryptic shit is that?” I pull my dick out, aiming for the little round blue toilet freshener thing hanging along the back of the bowl.
“You know. Means you’re not his brother anymore.”
“So—what? He gonna take me out?” I hit the blue thing—score—but waver as I chuckle. Then I sigh and run a hand back through my hair. “He should appreciate this shit I’m doing for his ass. My whole fucking fam would like to see him— You know what they want. My dad is shitting gold bricks, man.”
“You don’t know why Bear’s pissed off?” Dove asks.
I laugh, the sound as miserable as the pounding of my head. “I didn’t do dick shit to Bear, except protect his ass. He been acting okay?”
He sighs. “I can’t tell. Too far away. You’d know more than I would.”
“I didn’t see much, but do we need to? Maybe he’s finally gone off the rails, D.”
I prop the phone on my shoulder, tuck myself back into my pants, and zip.
“Maybe,” Dove says. “Maybe so.”
“Tell him I’m fucking campaigning for him.” I laugh bitterly. “I’ve done nothing to get his panties in a fucking wad. Didn’t even do much looking in on them when I was in their neck of the woods. Told my father’s team to settle down, there’s nothing dangerous going on.” I lower my voice. “Is that true, Dove? When I saw them, they looked like more than friends. You told me—”
“So when you met up with your dad today, it wouldn’t be all over your face, I didn’t give you all the details, no.”
“All over my face.” I snort and push my sleeves up, pump some fancy coconut soap into my palm. “I’m better than that.”
“You’re not the best, Blue. C’mon.”
“I’m a good liar.”
Dove’s silence is an indictment. I grit my teeth. “So he’s what, fucking her now?”
“He says he loves her.”
“Holy fuck. You kidding me?”
“I wish I was.”
“Goddamnit, Dove.”
I hang up, and wash my hands again. The water’s cold. I close my eyes and feel how cold it is. I focus on that detail, and I wish to fuck that Dove was wrong. I am a shitty liar. Always have been. Guess the ole politico gene skipped me.
I dry my hands with the plush towel on the marble countertop and straighten up my tie. My dad will wonder where I’ve been all this time.
My dad, General Hubert R. Broomfield—Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff.
My dad will want to know soon who he should take out: Barrett, Gwenna White, or both.
* * *
Barrett
At first, I think it’s Bluebell. The guy walking a half a step behind Gwen’s friend Jamie has his head covered with the hood of a gray sweatshirt. He’s got the same large build as Blue, and something about the way he moves is familiar.
Pain streaks like a rocket mortar through my chest.
Not Blue. Breck.
He moves a little bit like Breck. Because—oh God—it’s Breck’s brother. That must be Nic.
I didn’t know he would be here. I didn’t know when Gwenna left to go to lunch with Jamie, she was seeing Niccolo as well. If I had…
I push my fist into my jeans pocket, gripping the fabric flap with my fingers.
Even if I’d known I would see Nic, I’d still have come. Because I have to protect Gwen. I have to be sure Blue can’t get to her. Even though that means following her.
It feels wrong, given our history. Before, she was no one to me. Not beyond the circumstances of my knowing her. I didn’t care about her. We’d never spoken. Most of the time I watched her through my scope, she was no one to me.
Now I feel as if I’m lying to her.
But I do it gladly. Just like after she returns to my house, says she’s tired, and tucks in early, I push a silencer onto my handgun, break out some night goggles, and practice shooting with my right hand until my eyes are crossing. It scares the shit out of me that I can’t protect her. Not the way I could in the past.
I try to ball my left hand into a fist and feel the same vague, numb discomfort that I always do, the nerves protesting. I hiss my irritation, go inside, put up the shooting stuff and pour myself some whiskey.
I down it in a few swallows and watch the flames blur in the fireplace.
Need to stop this. Hiding. But it feels good to hide. I need the numbness. When Gwen wakes me up some hours later, my head aches a little and my throat is dry and scratchy.
“You’re having trouble sleeping,” she murmurs, her hand pressed against my scratchy cheek. She leans in to kiss my cheek right by my nose. “I can tell, you know. Is it the nightmares?”
I shake my head. It’s really not.
“Whiskey,” I murmur, not looking at her face.
“You’re drinking at night?”
I nod.
She sinks down onto the couch beside me, wrapping me in her arms…and her legs. We fall together softly on the cushions. Her cheek rubs my forehead.
“Bear.”
And I love her for it, for just saying that. She doesn’t ask me why, and so I want to tell her. I just need to have her sweet words whisper in my ear that it’s okay. Because it’s not. It’s not okay, and it will never be. That’s why I have to have Gwen tell me that it will be. It’s why I need her so much in these moments.
“Did you know you’ve been dreaming, too?” I whisper. Around 3 a.m. every night.
I get her back to sleep. That’s why I’m not sure she knows.
She whispers, “Yeah.”
“You talk about how cold it is.”
“I know.” I feel her lashes tickle my cheek, stopping when her eyes shut. “I think what happened made me think about the wreck.”
My heart aches. “Tell me.”
I hear a sob catch in her throat and want to bleed, it hurts so fucking much. “I just … sometimes I dream I’m lying there. And it’s so cold. I’m by myself. I think about how I was by myself in the hospital and Elvie left. It just makes me feel alone, I think.” Her voice is soft and broken, but she doesn’t outright cry, which makes me love her more.
I hug her tightly, kissing up her throat and all along her jaw. “I love you, Gwenna White. I’ll always pick you up and carry you away.”
I mean it so damn much.
I do it now. I lift her in my arms and spread a blanket in front of the fireplace, and I show her, in the warmth, how much I love her.
I’m going to find a way to fix this. When I do, we’ll have our happily ever after. I’ll do anything I have to. I lie awake beside her that whole night, seeing snow.
SIXTEEN
Barrett
December 31, 2012
11:07 p.m.
All the whiskey in this place won’t be enough. I can drink myself into a blackout, and it still won’t numb the raw throb in my chest. I know for sure now that the bar has got that heavy, amber glow and everything feels slow and surreal. Like an old home movie.
There’s this girl on the movie. Snowflake girl. I watch her dancing with her friend, Red Lipstick. Snowflake never looks at me while she’s in motion, but between songs, as she drags a palm over her silky copper hair or presses her lips together, her eyes drift to me. Once they touch down on me, they feel warm and patient. As if she’s drinking in the corner table scene. She’s just observing. I wish she’d come closer. To the table.
I polish off the rest of my scotch and feel my body shift. I blink, then turn my head. Oh. Cause Blue is elbowing me.
“Think we could put a sandwich on that redhea
d?”
I blink a few times, trying to focus on his words. “Sandwich?” I rub my numb face.
“More like bagel,” Blue murmurs. “I could take her from the back and you could fuck her cunt. She would be the cream.”
I chuckle. “Fuck.” I moan, shaking my pounding head. “That’s bad. Even for you.”
“You’ve heard of that shit, Bear, c’mon. You’re not a choir boy.”
I watch the girl. She’s shaking her ass like she’s in some kind of contest. She’s good enough to get me hard despite all that I’ve had to drink. I have to reach down to adjust myself under the table.
“She’s too good for you,” I tell him, slurring slightly.
Blue laughs. “You’re fucked up, Bear.”
“Not enough,” I murmur, staring at my empty glass.
“I’ve got some molly. Pot, too. I would recommend the molly, though, and not a lot, just—”
I shake my head as he speaks, trying to mold my mushy thoughts into coherent words. “Tried that shit,” I say. I shake my head again. “Tomorrow.”
“Oh, the comedown. Ehh. That can be managed, bro. You’ll be feeling good I tell ya.”
I shake my head. Don’t want good. I don’t deserve to feel good.
“She’s a good one. Gwenna, that’s her name.” He makes a low sound of approval. “Actress. Staying next door to Breck’s fam. The other one, the friend, is getting hit up by ole Nic.”
I nod, not really hearing. I drink water and wait for our server to bring more scotch. I could quit for the night, but I kind of want to fuck myself up. I need to sober up a little, then have a few more. Get just shitty enough to pass the fuck out in a bed at Breck’s. I’ll take a cab home. Get someone else to drive my rental.
I watch the girl some more, then look down at the table. I don’t know how obvious I’m being. I don’t want to leer at her, and I’m already fucking wasted, so I might be.
I feel a hand on my neck, see Breck lean around from behind my chair. “Hey, bro. Want to step out for a smoke?”
