by Nia Arthurs
When she got into the car earlier, it took a ton of willpower to keep my eyes on the road instead of on her thighs, a peek-show her skirt insisted on delivering as it rode up every couple of minutes, only to be tugged down by Kayla’s fingers.
She’s being distant.
She didn’t answer my text yesterday.
I don’t know what she wants from me. How I can help. How I can make this day feel less gloomy.
So I keep a few steps behind her, close enough to be there if she needs me but far enough away to give her privacy.
Her feet know the path like she can walk it in her sleep. I don’t want to think about how many times she’s been here. Prancing down this unnaturally leafy path, bringing flowers to a corpse.
Damn.
I shouldn’t be this bitter.
Kayla’s told me nothing. For all I know, this guy could have been good to her.
But somehow… I doubt that.
I don’t know why, but this trek doesn’t feel like one you make to a loved one.
It feels like a pilgrimage to appease an angry god.
As if there’s some superstition that she’ll earn a hundred years of bad luck if she’s not standing here today.
I shuffle from one foot to the next as Kayla stops in front of a tombstone that’s halfway to the back, at the end of the row.
I read the name carved in the stone.
Andrew Williams.
Kayla steps forward, her gait uncertain and shaky, and carefully places the bouquet at an angle on the ground so it’s leaning against the little phrase beneath the dates.
Here lies a beloved son, a faithful brother, and an honored soldier.
Ex-military.
That amps my respect a bit.
People who lay their lives down for the good of our country deserve recognition.
Kayla wraps a slender arm around her torso and whispers something inaudible.
I turn my eyes away. Give her a moment.
My gaze lands on a tombstone right across from me. Someone named Elli Joseph. Born the same year as Mom.
A lump pops out of nowhere and stops traffic in my throat.
Soon… pretty soon, that’s where she’ll end up.
It hurts.
Just the thought of losing her.
I want to punch something.
It’s not fair.
But Mom’s so freaking serene and accepting about everything. Showing how much I’m struggling will only screw with the peace she found.
Still, being in a cemetery like this is messing me up.
When I offered to accompany Kayla, I expected to be bombarded with my own issues. I prepared for it, even. What I didn’t expect was to see a tombstone with Mom’s birth year staring me in the face.
It’s hitting me harder than I anticipated.
I want to be here for Kayla, but I’m itching to leave.
When I glance up to gauge how much longer she’ll need, I notice a trio approaching from the other side of the graveyard. They’re all dressed in black.
One large woman moves briskly in front of the other two. Her gait is uneven, like her short, squatty legs can barely carry the rest of her.
A black bandana covers her straight hair, cut just below her ears. With her hair back, I can see every wrinkle pulling and stretching to form the deep frown marring her melting face.
Must be a scorned woman here to see her ex-husband.
Or maybe a shaman here to enact a curse.
Whatever or whoever she is, I’m glad I’m not on the other end of that glare.
I expect the woman to march right past us—I’m already dipping my head in morose camaraderie, but she stops right in front of Andrew Williams’ grave.
The air crackles with tension.
Stifling silence makes every little sound crystal clear.
Like Kayla’s sharp gasp.
The rustle of black fabric.
A groan.
A snarl.
And then a smack.
I whip my head up, but by then, it’s too late.
Kayla’s palm is on her cheek, her entire body bent to the left.
The other woman’s hand juts high in the air, sharp and steady as if daring even the molecules to move past her flesh.
My eyes narrow.
I lean forward, ready to step between them.
Until Kayla stops me with a look over her shoulder.
A desperate, unspoken plea.
A flash of her eyes. Brendon, don’t.
Twenty-Five
Kayla
The slap stings. But the embarrassment of getting struck in front of Brendon hurts more.
A lot more.
I should have known better than to bring him today, but I was naively hoping that Glenda wouldn’t visit this year. Or that we’d miss each other. Or that she’d get hit by a bus.
No.
Scratch that last one.
I don’t wish for Glenda’s demise.
Only that we’d skip this ridiculous tradition of glares and hurled insults.
It’s the first time she’s slapped me though.
My face is burning like each of her fingers carried a tiny flame.
“How dare you show up in front of my son,” Glenda hisses. Dark eyes fling daggers. Her ample chest heaves with so much force the extravagant black bow tied at her neck flaps in the wind, aching to be free from her double chin. “How dare you?”
I see something moving behind me.
Brendon.
He’s wearing a fitted black shirt and jeans.
The black does something to his eyes. Makes it glow brighter. Like molten silver.
Like diamonds.
But they’re not glowing with lust or gentleness or the mischievous gleam he gets when he’s about to tease me.
They’re on fire.
Battle-ready.
His lips are firm.
Fingers fisted at his sides.
He’s about to interfere. Avenge. Whatever.
I shake my head. Beg him to stay put.
If Glenda finds out I’ve been seeing someone…
It’ll only make things worse.
Footsteps get louder.
Fey and Erin.
Drew’s sisters.
Fey stares me down with the same blistering I wish you’d died instead of him look that her mother is leveling.
Erin’s eyes flick up and then back down to her shoes.
Unlike her mother and older sister, she doesn’t hold the same acidic hatred for me. But she doesn’t say anything when her mother goes off.
We both know controlling Glenda Williams is a lost cause.
Still, I pull on my big-girl panties and try.
Straightening slowly, I nod. “Glenda. Hi. How have you—?”
The world goes blurry as Glenda’s arms hurl toward me again.
Her hand is flat and powerful.
Like a baseball bat.
I brace myself, but the slap never comes.
I glance up.
This time, Brendon’s there.
In front of me.
Strong, pale fingers wrap around Glenda’s wrist.
He stares her down, his lips curled menacingly.
Glenda trembles. Her eyes are wide. “Let go!” She struggles. He digs in harder. “You’re hurting me.”
Brendon tosses her hand away.
She stumbles.
Without a word, he turns and tucks his fingers gently around my elbow. Settles me into his chest.
His subtle, earthy scent wafts over me.
Even in this wretched situation, his touch feels so good.
Like coming home.
Like warmth and refuge and ocean waves and sandy beaches.
I have to beat back the desire to climb up into his arms, wrap my legs around his waist and just hold on.
Be his baby.
Just for a minute.
I’m going insane.
I’m about to melt here from Glenda’s incendiary death glare.<
br />
I’m standing in front of Drew’s grave.
His tombstone is condemning me even now.
Mounting Brendon like a coconut tree is the last thought that should be in my head.
The place goes quiet.
I can hear every bird chirping in the trees. Every croak of frogs. Every wheel turning on the freeway a couple miles out. Horns honking. People moving along with their lives. Most free from the kind of burdening guilt I’m wrestling with.
A sigh builds in my chest.
I’m so freakin’ tired.
“Who the hell are you?” Glenda draws back. She’s giving him the full inspection, complete with pudgy hands against thick hips. There’s a wariness in her gaze and something close to respect.
“Aw, hell no!” Fey screams dramatically. Thrusts a finger in Brendon’s direction. “You brought some joker white cracker to my brother’s place?”
Her brother’s place?
It’s a cemetery, not private property.
And Drew’s the one who insisted I pay my respects every year.
Made me promise.
A chain yanking me back whenever I feel like I’m moving on.
A murderous sheen takes over Glenda’s eyes. The devil on her shoulder’s no doubt whispering she should take a swing at me again.
Brendon lifts his chin. A warning. You touch her all bets are off.
Everyone understands the threat.
“You screwing?” Glenda asks from a distance.
Like it’s any of her business.
I say nothing.
Brendon doesn’t either, but there’s a tick pulsing in his jaw.
“How long have you two been together?” Glenda insists.
I brush Brendon’s hand away. Stand on my own. “Don’t worry. We were just about to leave.” I nudge my chin at the street.
Brendon nods. I’m right here.
We turn.
I take a step.
“Wait one minute.” Glenda grabs my arm. Flings me around. “I asked you a question.”
“Hey!” I try to free my hand.
Glenda’s got a death-like grip. She shakes me. “Do you really think you deserve to lay in someone’s bed after what you did?”
“Let. Her. Go,” Brendon speaks in a low, commanding voice that I haven’t heard from him. Ever.
It crackles with danger.
Leaves no room for doubt.
About his intentions.
About the consequences that will follow if those demands aren’t met.
The Humes—the billion-dollar prince—just jumped out of him.
And we’re all kind of wincing from it.
Glenda’s mouth falls open.
Her grip slackens.
I shake it off. Reach for Brendon. Tug him along. “Let’s go.”
“Is this why you weren’t there that night?” Glenda yells behind me. “You were too busy getting off with Preppy Boy?”
I stop.
Her words tear the skin straight off my flesh.
“Freaking tramp.” The sound of Glenda spitting and cursing echoes in the quiet. “Nasty b—”
“Don’t you dare”—I whirl back around—“accuse me when you know nothing.”
Surprise flashes in her gaze.
Even Fey looks taken aback.
No one expected me to speak up.
I never have.
The past four years I’ve been making this trek, I took all the blame without a word, accepting that this is my punishment.
But something inside snaps.
I can’t take one more minute.
Glenda flutters her eyelashes. “Did you just…” She coughs out a bitter laugh. “What did you say?”
“Even after I broke up with him, I still answered his texts and his calls. I tried to be there as a friend, but that wasn’t enough.” I pull my fingers together. “I’m sorry this happened. So sorry. But I did my best for Drew.”
“Shut your damn mouth!” Glenda screams. “He’s dead because of you! My baby is lying there in that hell hole of a grave because you’re a selfish piece of scum who couldn’t answer one damn text.”
Tears flush in my eyes.
Glenda punches her chest so hard her tits shake. “He asked you to show up. He said he’d…” She chokes on a sob. “He said he’d end it if he didn’t hear from you in two hours. No matter what you were doing, it couldn’t be more important than a life.”
A tear rolls down my cheek.
It’s like someone dug my chest out of my ribs and is stomping all over it.
“I was with a client. I saw it too late. I—”
“Screw you!” Glenda rushes forward as if she’ll push me, but she stops and takes a look at Brendon’s stony expression. Her arm drops and she trembles. “You don’t deserve to live. You don’t deserve to love. You don’t deserve to breathe.” She weeps loudly. Sinks to her knees. Her tears fall into the dirt. Mix mud on the hem of her dress. “I hate you.”
“Mama!” Fey and Erin flutter around their mother, helping her up.
“I hate you!” Glenda screams.
I stare at her in fear and shock, unable to move.
To blink.
My chest squeezes.
It’s agony.
If only I’d answered that stupid text.
“My son is dead because of you!”
I close my eyes and I can see it.
Right there behind my eyelids.
Block letters.
In white.
Drew’s last message.
I love you, Kayla. The world doesn’t make sense without you.
I know I’m not perfect. I know it’s a lot being with me, but I can’t accept us not being together. If you’re not with me, I don’t want to be in this world anymore.
Brendon curves his fingers around my shoulder. Turns me around. I sink into him. My legs aren’t even capable of moving. They kind of slink along, snagging on the dirt and grass.
“Die!” Glenda throws her shoe at me.
It sails past my leg.
Your love is the only thing that keeps me going.
If you’re not here by ten o’clock tonight…
“He’s dead! My son! My son!”
It’ll be too late.
“Kayla,” Brendon’s deep voice rolls into my ears.
He’s shaking me.
If your answer is no, at least visit my grave once a year and remember how much I love you.
“Kayla, look at me!” Brendon’s palm is on my face. He’s slapping me. Not as hard as Glenda did, but with the same urgency.
His eyes are so beautiful, even when they’re filled with panic.
The sun shines over his black hair.
Casts a golden sheen on his pale face.
He’s an angel.
So beautiful.
“Kayla!”
I want to trust him.
I’m tired of feeling guilty.
I want…
“Kayla!”
It’s the last thing I hear before the world goes black.
Twenty-Six
Kayla
There are arms around me.
Pale hands.
Lean muscles.
Brendon’s black arm-length sleeves.
His movements are jerky.
I’m bouncing against his chest as he moves through a crowded space.
The room is loud and white, except for the sign above the door that says ‘EMERGENCY’.
I’m in his embrace.
I’m in the hospital.
My head hurts like hell.
Brendon glances down and catches me blinking.
His fingers graze my temple as he frowns. “You’re awake?”
I nod, but it hurts.
Feels like my head is crammed with old teddy bear stuffings.
His eyelids press together. Then open.
He’s looking down at me like he’s about to launch a full-on war if I say the word.
My heart thuds.
I can’t…
This feeling…
Whether it’s the emotional intensity of the day or something else, I have this incredible impulse to kiss him.
Over and over again.
Deeply.
In front of everyone in the ER.
Slide my hands under his shirt.
Grab his waist.
Press myself against him.
Bury deep under his skin.
Feel his heat against my heat.
But before I can do any of those crazy, will-probably-get-us-sent-to-jail things, Brendon grabs the attention of a nurse. “Excuse me, my girlfriend just passed out. She needs to see a doctor—”
“Fill out that form and wait over there,” the obviously over-worked, over-stressed woman tries to walk away.
“Is a doctor available?” Brendon asks in that I get what I want tone that I hear Ariya using a lot.
I tug on his sleeve. “Brendon, it’s okay.”
“It won’t take long.”
“We’ve got a lot of patients—”
Brendon’s scowl is dark enough to pull shadows into the room.
I gesture for the nurse’s attention. “Where are the forms?”
“Over there.” She slants me a tight-lipped girl thanks smile and fast-walks away.
“I’m fine,” I whisper to Brendon when he huffs in anger. “I didn’t eat this morning and the stress got to me.”
He stares at my face.
This close, I can see right into his eyes.
Wish I had a microscope so I could inspect how absolutely stunning that silver is mixed with all the black flecks in his irises.
But while I’m busy admiring him, Brendon’s looking me over like he’s scanning for injuries.
He’s still worried.
Without a word, he sets me down in a chair and says sternly, “Wait here.”
It’s not a request.
I’m feeling much better, but I’m not going anywhere.
Brendon turns and strides out of the waiting room, his smart phone plastered to his ear.
I fill out my form.
I’m on question number five—do you have any allergies?—when Brendon returns.
His demeanor is calmer now.
No barely restrained fury here.
He tenderly slips his hand under my knees and lifts me into his arms.
Everyone in the ER stares.
I understand.
We look like we’re wierdos filming some kind of melo-drama.
Which we’re not.
Filming, I mean.
