First shower.
Best cut of meat at lunch (if what they served could be called meat).
At three, he approached the guard at the end of the cellblock…and ground to a halt. Whoever this was, in the guard browns, his back to Jorge, he wasn’t George, who was usually waiting. This man was of very medium height, and medium build, almost thin, really, and he twirled his keys and whistled something jaunty.
An uneasy shudder moved down Jorge’s spine. He wrapped his hands around the bars and said, “Where’s George?”
The whistling stopped. “He’s out sick,” a thick Texas drawl returned, and then the whistling resumed.
Shit. George was supposed to bring word today. Jorge was amassing intel, working toward making a very large deposit – through his attorney, of course – into the accounts of several guards, including George, in exchange for a window. He needed a window, that was all. He and his new crew had worked out the rest of the details. The way mayhem would be loosed on the prison, and Jorge would come out top dog at the end of it.
“Know when he’ll be back?” he asked.
“Nah,” the guard said, “but I can…” He turned around, slowly, and his face was right in Jorge’s face. A familiar face. His eyes were blue as a summer sky. So bright. So wide. So eerie. “Give him a message, if you like,” he said with a British accent.
And the movement of his arm registered a beat too late, after Jorge felt the violent white-hot stab of pain just below his ribs.
Pain, pain, pain…
It throbbed. It rolled over him in a wave, closed his throat, robbed his limbs of all strength.
He sank down the wall, not of his own volition, blood pouring from his stomach. His hands fluttered uselessly.
When he hit the floor, his head slamming forward into the bars, he saw the guard walking away, heard him still whistling…whistling…
~*~
Fox
Just on general principle, Fox hated country music. But the song that sprang to mind as he walked to his bike was “Amarillo by Morning,” and he whistled it to himself as he pulled off his clip-on tie, his uniform shirt. The pants he’d modified himself, with Candy’s mother’s old sewing machine, and they were breakaway. He yanked them off with a few efficient tugs, and the Velcro gave right away. When he got to his Harley, he took the uniform belt and made a tidy bundle of the discarded clothes. Crammed the whole mess of them into the saddle bag. The cameras were watching, but they were sightless. He’d made sure of that ahead of time. Child’s play. So no one inside could see the man in the jeans and black t-shirt standing out in the parking lot dig out a small bottle of hand sanitizer and use it to scrub the blood from beneath his fingernails. Stabbing was such messy business, after all.
He slipped on his sunglasses and sat down straddling his bike, fishing his phone out of his pocket.
There was a text from Candy: Done?
Done, he typed and sent back.
When he exited out of that particular text conversation, he saw the one he hadn’t answered yet; the incoming message he’d gotten a week ago, and ignored.
Eden: Call me.
Hmm.
He kept ignoring it, and went to his home screen. His wallpaper stared up at him: a smiling shot of Michelle holding baby TJ.
The song on his tongue changed: “London Calling.” He slipped the phone away, grabbed his helmet, and started his bike.
~*~
Candy
Done.
He read Fox’s return text and pocketed his phone. That ever-present mantle he wore across his shoulders lightened a fraction. Undoubtedly, someone would rise to power in the vacuum Ruiz was leaving behind. But for right now, he enjoyed an immediate sense of relief. It was important, he’d learned over time, to feel the good things in the moment, because you never knew how long the next would take to come.
He closed his eyes, tipped his head back, and let the sun warm his face. Listened to the cackling of crows along the fence behind him. Deep breath in, and then out.
When he opened his eyes, the tombstones were there in front of him, slick black granite, the edges weathered from the desert wind and sun.
“Hey, guys,” he said, quietly. “Mom. Dad.”
Around him, the cemetery kept its thoughts to itself, silent, non-judgmental. He’d always found something peaceful about this place; he hadn’t ever associated it with the deaths of his parents. They were resting here, waiting for him; it wasn’t this patch of hallowed ground that had killed them. He’d felt grateful, during both funerals, that he could lay them down somewhere quiet, and soft, and know that he could come back and visit them.
His throat tightened now, as the breeze tugged at his hair, and pleasant shivers chased up his arms. He had so many things he wanted to say. Memories to share, advice to ask for, doubts and worries he wanted to voice.
But all he said was, “We did it. Jen and me. We finally got there.” Then he pulled the small Polaroid photo from his back pocket, knelt, and propped it against his father’s headstone. “You have a new grandson,” he said. “His name is TJ.”
And then he straightened, and walked back to his bike, heart already winging across the miles to home.
Epilogue
The thing about legends was…well, TJ was six, and he wasn’t sure what a legend was, to be honest. He knew that his daddy was one, because his Uncle Tommy – who he was named after – said so. And so did Uncle Charlie, and Uncle Miles, and Uncle Colin, and Mercy, and…well, everyone, really. Daddy was legendary, because he could hit really hard. He could knock teeth out. That had made TJ laugh, the idea of teeth flying. His own teeth seemed sunk so sturdy and deep in his gums, he couldn’t imagine the force.
But he sort of could, really, because Daddy picked him up, and swooped him around, helped him fly, like he was Superman. Daddy must be strong, he thought. Because Mama couldn’t help him fly. She just laughed, and shook her head, golden hair dancing, and said, “Go ask your father,” whenever he asked.
That was okay. He loved spending time with Daddy. Daddy was huge, and loud, and he laughed a lot, and his hair was gold, like Mama’s. And he knew all sorts of things, like how to fix cars, and bikes, and how to spit a long way (TJ only ever managed to dribble down his shirt, which made Daddy grin).
His favorite thing, though, was the clubhouse. He lived in a clubhouse, the Lean Dogs clubhouse, where he, and Daddy, and Mama had a little set of rooms they called “the sanctuary.” He liked where he lived, sure. But Daddy had built him his own clubhouse, out in the backyard, in the middle of all the sprawling dirt. A little clubhouse, just for him. And for Daddy, when they lay on sleeping bags and looked up at the stars through the skylight.
“Daddy,” he asked, as they breathed and sank deep into the floor, “what’s a legend?”
Daddy laughed a little. “I think you ought to ask Mama about that.”
“Why?”
“Because she is one.”
THE END
~*~
Candy, Michelle, and the Lean Dogs will return in
Lean Dogs Legacy Book III:
Prodigal Son
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Lauren Gilley writes Literary Fiction which is sometimes mistaken for Romance. She’s the author of sixteen novels and several short stories. When she’s not writing, she’s at the barn, plotting stories and cleaning horse stalls. She lives in Georgia.
Other Titles From Lauren Gilley
The Walker Series
Keep You
Dream of You
Better Than You
F
ix You
Rosewood
Whatever Remains
Shelter
The Russell Series
Made for Breaking
God Love Her
“Things That Go Bang In The Night”
Keeping Bad Company
“Green Like the Water”
The Dartmoor Series
Fearless
Price of Angels
Half My Blood
The Skeleton King
Secondhand Smoke
Loverboy (coming soon)
Lean Dogs Legacy
Snow In Texas
Tastes Like Candy
Prodigal Son (coming soon)
Tastes Like Candy (Lean Dogs Legacy Book 2) Page 41
