by Finn, Emilia
“Do you ever play the what if game, Cap?”
“Only all the time,” I laugh. It holds no humor, but it still feels better than weeping.
“I’ve been playing that game all day. Like, what if your wife and kid didn’t die? Would I still have met you? What if you and your wife decided to divorce but remain friends? Then we would have met, and maybe I’d have a stepsister my exact age.” He makes a shot so casually, it makes me jump. I’m caught in my own head imagining this alternate reality. “I wouldn’t even be mean to her. I’d let her sit at our table, eat my mom’s pot roast, let her have the last of the pie. I’d probably even take her to the gym to learn how to fight. She’d fit right in, because I know she’d be cool. She’s half you, and your wife decided to remain friends, which means she’s cool too. So I’d take Callie to the gym, teach her how to throw a mean hook, then I’d make a big deal about how none of the guys can look at her.”
“You’re crazy.” I turn away and rub my cheek on my shoulder. “Callie was crazy too.”
He flashes a handsome grin. “See, I knew she’d fit in. I know the past is the past, and I know if you could bring them back, you would. So my what ifs probably annoy the shit out of you. But this is new information for me, so I’m still in the thick of processing.”
“You don’t annoy me. It’s nice she gets to live her life in your mind.”
“Right.” He grins and makes his next shot. Six down, two to go. “I get it’ll never come true, but maybe she’s up there watching you, and if she is, maybe she can see into my head. I can teach her how to fight that way. She’d be cute as a button, but not taller than me, because that would be weird.”
“Her mom was five-seven.”
He nods as though this information is vital – and approved. “So she would be average height, and I’m already that tall, with a bunch of growing left to do. That works for me. She’d be pretty, but not the kind of pretty I wanna sneak a look at. You don’t look at sisters, not even steps.”
I simultaneously laugh and want to smack him for putting that in my head. “No, you don’t look. Not even steps.”
“But if she’s beautiful, someone is gonna look. That’s where I come in.” He makes a shot so the bullet passes through the forehead of his target. “And I don’t miss.”
“You’re definitely crazy.”
He laughs and continues forward for his final shot. “Anyway, Mom had a bit of a moment last night, spilled her guts about what you told her, then she smacked me when I reminded her she hadn’t yet admitted to dating you. She got mad I caught her out.”
“She doesn’t like being caught out on shit.”
He snickers. “Don’t I know it. She gets so mad sometimes. But she needed to purge, and by doing so, she woke up a little happier this morning. Not happy happy, but I guess she was a little lighter. Then we ate breakfast, and I got another smack when I mentioned that Callie was probably hot, and I’d have to go Ben on everyone.”
I’m tempted to smack him too, but he’s holding a loaded gun, and I don’t fancy getting shot today. “Stop talking about my daughter now. You’re making it weird.”
“But if we stop talking about them, they become forgotten.” His smile turns nostalgic in a way, despite the fact he’s never met my daughter. “In some cultures, they make an ofrenda, an offer, on the Day of the Dead. They light a candle and believe it helps guide your loved one back to you.”
I swear, this kid blushes when I look at him.
“I heard Ben’s new stepdad talking about it one night. It’s big in Spanish culture, I think. But anyway, they do it so your loved ones are always remembered. Have you ever lit a candle for your wife and baby?”
“Well…” I hesitate. “No, and now you make me feel like a straight up bastard for not doing it.”
He snorts. “You don’t have to. It’s doesn’t make you a bastard for not doing it. But maybe you should consider it. They might see the candle you light for them, and even if they don’t, the worst thing that can happen is you’ve saved a few bucks on electricity.” I step away when we stop by the final target. Mac turns sideways, favors his bad leg, aims his gun. Then he looks to me. “If nothing else, you have a candlelit room you might wanna ask my mom to visit. After you’ve cooked a fancy meal and practiced your speech about how sorry you are for running away like a little bitch.”
He turns back to the target and shoots… and misses. “Fuck.”
“Arrogance, young padawan.” I clap his shoulder and take the now spent gun from his hands. “Arrogance will fuck you over every time. Now go train for your fight.”
Shaking his head, he walks forward and slams his fist against the dummy’s face like it’s his fault he missed. Like the dummy purposely jumped out of the way to make him look stupid. “Will you come?”
“Hmm?”
He turns back and meets my eyes. “To my fight. It’s this Saturday, so I figured maybe you wanna come.”
“Mac…”
“You don’t have to talk to my mom if you’re too scared, though I reckon it might be a good idea. She’ll be in public, so she’ll be on her best behavior. She’ll be watching me fight, so she’ll be vulnerable and twitchy. I bet if you turned up at the exact right moment, she might throw herself into your arms if you promised to stop my fight.” He pauses. “I’d throw in the towel and make it look like it was your doing. Bada-bing, you’re the hero, more candlelit dinners, less crying at night.”
“I don’t cry every single night.”
He looks to me and smirks. “Shut up. I’m just saying, she’s not actually on the man hater train anymore. She’s proud, but she likes you. You’ve just gotta make up for the fact you ran. She craves stability, and you fucked with that. Now you gotta fix it.”
“Hey, Cap?” Soph stands by the door we exited through and grins. Making our way back in that direction, I study her with a frown because Soph rarely grins like that. Then to Mac, who totally checks out her tight jeans. I slam my elbow into his ribs, taking satisfaction in the way he chokes and shoots a fiery glare in my direction.
“Stop looking. You get caught, you have Bishop and Soph herself coming after you with the hellfire. You don’t want those eyes on your back.”
“She’s just a cute ballerina,” he murmurs. “She’s not a threat to me.”
“Mmhm.” We stop by the cute ballerina. “What’s up?”
“Ya know that problem we had, with those people we don’t like?” Her eyes flicker to Mac, then back to mine. “You know that project you had me working on…”
When I say nothing, she nods toward Mac. “I’m trying to be discreet.”
When I still say nothing, she throws her hands up. “Fine! Ireland and Aristov! Jesus. Why do you make me spell shit out? I’m trying to save the kid from the details.”
“I’m okay with details.” Mac’s arrogance slides over his features. He broadens his chest, bunches his fists, and lets his dimples flash when she studies him with her dark eyes. “I know shit. I don’t need to be shielded.”
“Really?” The cute ballerina lifts a brow. “Really, toddler? You’re okay with all the details?”
He scoffs. “Details of what? Your next ballet recital? I think I can handle it.”
“Oh, sure. Okay.” She pushes his face back when he tries to lean in and catch sight of the screen in her hand. “Aristov thought today was a good day to visit the prison gym. An unnamed inmate was in there at the same time. Aristov was bludgeoned to death with a free weight. The left side of his face is missing; his left eyeball was collected and placed in a jar by forensic investigators, and only eight of his fingers were recovered on scene.” This time, Soph grabs the back of Mac’s neck, but she pushes him down to a crouch and his head between his knees. “Ireland committed suicide in the hours since. I guess he was devastated about the news of his buddy’s gruesome death.”
Screw Mac and his pale face. I’m almost tempted to drop to my ass, too. “Aristov is… bludgeoned? And Ireland… Really?”<
br />
She smirks and holds Mac down. He no doubt hears the buzzing in his ears. Just like I do. The tunnel vision. Just like me. The dry mouth. Just like me. “The official report says suicide. Though facts skew a little to the left, if you ask me. I think maybe someone else set that noose and helped him step into it, but what do I know? I’m just a dumb ballerina with a recital to get to.”
“You took care of it?” I stumble forward and drop the gun on the silver table by the wall. “Jesus, you took care of it. This is real?”
“Mmhm.” Soph spreads her feet apart when Mac hurls onto the dirt and gravel in front of his head. He sways in place, and if it wasn’t for Soph’s hand, he’d be sprawled out on the ground. “He’s gone; they’re gone, and you will never receive a phone call from them again.”
“Just like that?” I turn back and meet her eyes. “Just like that, you end them? There would be no Checkmate meeting to discuss?”
“There was a meeting,” she answers arrogantly. “Aristov mentioned Jess. You know Kane wasn’t letting that go. We met; he passed down his order; I agreed with it; now it’s done.”
“Fuck.” Mac turns his head and looks at me through glassy eyes. “You people are straight up fuckin’ crazy.”
“Told you I was trying to spare you the details, toddler. Now you know you’re not playing with posers. What do you think of that kid Benny? He steal your girl? Because his bad attitude annoys me, and maybe I could help us both out.”
“Go fish.” He plops to his butt away from the spew, but his shoes end up sitting in the chunks. “Fuck.”
29
Katrina
I walk my diner, serve my tables, bus the dirty dishes, and slap my son’s hand when he should be doing his homework but plays on his phone instead. He’s a little quieter the last day or so, and though I have plans to corner him later if he doesn’t perk up and talk, my plans come screeching to a standstill when the front door opens and the jingling bell announces his arrival.
His arrival.
Electricity has always crackled in the air when he’s in here, but his absence makes it more potent. It makes his power more concentrated. It makes it so I find it hard to breathe, but then Mac tosses his phone down with an exhale. “Finally.”
“Finally?” I look from my son to the man I so desperately want to forgive. “Finally what? Finally what, Macallistar?”
“Katrina?” Eric’s voice is gravelly and rough. Quiet, but powerful. His eyes skim my body, over my hips, my waist, my chest. He undresses me with his eyes and reminds me of the power he possesses when he literally does nothing more than look.
“Umm…” Two months, and this man has not stepped foot through that door until now. Two months of wondering why I’m so unlovable, so repulsive, so forgettable. Only to find out that I was none of those things – small mercies, I guess – but that someone came before me. Two someones, and now they’re both gone.
“Can I have five minutes of your time?” He speaks from across the room, so everyone in the diner stops and watches us. It’s the story of my life since the night he decided to step between me and Zeke. For more than a decade, I’ve worked here and caused no trouble at all, but then you mix an ex, a new, and a teenager, and I’m in the middle of every scene this diner knows. “Just five minutes, please. If you wanted to come for a walk.” He nervously points into the snowy street. “I know it’s cold. You could wear my coat.” He yanks the army green jacket off, then his furry hat, and extends both. “I’m begging you for five minutes. Then I’ll leave you alone.”
I narrow my eyes to cover the ache I feel in my chest. “Really?” I clear the croak from my voice. “Five minutes, and then you’re gone?”
His lips twitch. “Well… until tomorrow, probably. I’ve found I can’t go much longer than that before I slip up.”
“Go, Mom.” Mac slides out of his booth and accepts the coat Stefan offers him. He feeds my arms through the sleeves without my conscious permission as I continue to stare, to catalogue, to take my hit of this mystery drug I so desperately wish I didn’t have to quit. “Give him a minute to talk.
“Please come with me?” Eric reaches out for my hand after he shrugs his coat back on. “I’m begging you to come with me. I don’t want to drag you out kicking and screaming. That’s something a Bishop would do, but if it’s what needs to happen so I can get you to hear me, I’ll do it.”
“Threats won’t win you any favors, DeWhit.” I smack my son’s hand away again when he zips me up and lifts my collar to keep my neck warm. “Whatever you’ve gotta say is probably going to hurt me, and if I’m being real honest, I don’t think I can take anymore.”
“I don’t want to hurt you. I just want to be in the same space as you for five minutes, with your attention focused on me, and if I’m extra lucky, a smile, rather than the tears I see in your eyes or the way your lips quiver.”
“I’m not crying because you upset me. They’re not real tears. It’s because I angry cry, and I really, really hate that about myself.”
“I love it,” he whispers. Stepping forward, he takes my hand and glances toward the frozen windows. “Walk with me for five minutes. I’ll keep you safe. Then I’ll bring you right back to the warmth.”
It’s almost like stepping up to the edge of a cliff and preparing to jump. You know a parachute will catch you. You know it’s not actually, truly dangerous, but you close your eyes and squeal anyway. Because stepping off the ledge is terrifying, even when someone swears up and down that you’re safe.
Even if that someone is broad and strong, and once upon a time, you could have sworn they would never mess up.
I let him lead me through the door and into a freezing cold breeze. It’s not super windy out, but cold enough to make my ears ache and my toes curl in my sneakers. My teeth chatter within a minute, but my heart gives a stupid little splat when he drops his hat onto my head and squishes it down so my ears are covered.
“What do you want, Eric?” I try to pull my hand away, but he squeezes it in his, then pulls my arm into his so we walk hip to hip. “It’s freezing out here, and my kid just saw us leave together. It violates that rule I had about not letting him think something is going on when it’s not true.”
“Do you see us now, Katrina?” His voice is almost whimsical, pleasant, and soft. “We’re walking in public; I’m holding you near, and I decided it was time to not be scared anymore.”
I hate, hate, hate that my angry tears betray me and turn to something else completely. Tears of grief, of pain, of sadness. “I can’t go around and around with you if it’s always going to end with me crying. I’m not strong enough.”
“But you are.” He reaches his arm around and pulls me in so my chest rests against his ribs. I’m so cold, and more predominantly, so desperate for him, I wrap my arms around his hips and go with it.
“You’re the strongest woman I know, and I know some straight up crazies. I’m sorry for hurting you.” He brushes the hair back out of my eyes and tucks it behind my ear. Then he seals my fate and drops a gentle kiss on my brow. “It hurt me too, I promise. I’m miserable without you, but I swear I was only trying to do the right thing. I was trying to keep you safe.”
“You didn’t give me a choice,” I argue back. “You took my choices away when you thought you knew what was best for me, even after we talked, we danced, we said we love each other.” I loathe how my voice cracks. “You took my choices away, and instead left me all alone with no answers. You broke my fucking heart, Eric. For two months! And then I found out about Gemma and Callie.”
I try to pull away, but again, he stops me by squishing me close. “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you everything straight away. That was horribly unfair.”
“And I’m so sorry about your family!” Tears fall over my cheeks, over my bottom lip, and leave a trail of cold behind. “If we’re going to talk unfair, I think maybe you get that title. I can’t even tell you how sorry I am. I get why you’re protective. I get what you were trying to
protect me from. I’m so truly sorry they did that to you.” I press my left hand to my chest. “But you hurt me, Eric. You abandoned me for two fucking months without a word, and I’m not built to take hit after hit like that. You could have just told me, and then I wouldn’t have been blindsided. You could have shared the load in one of the billion times you asked for the specials. I would have sat with you and listened. But now I’m barely holding on, you hurt me so much, but even with that, I can still only focus on you. I desperately want to know if you’re okay. If you’re coping. If you’re seeing someone to help you through your grief, because there’s no way in hell I could survive what you have. I can’t…” I shake my head. “I literally wouldn’t survive losing my son.”
“I’m doing… okay. It’s been a long time, so I’ve learned to deal with it.”
“Deal with it,” I scoff. “I thought I wasn’t built to survive you, but something happening to my baby…” I shake my head. “It’s unimaginable. It’s… I couldn’t– I can’t– I wouldn’t–”
“You won’t have to.” He presses his lips to my forehead and shushes my pending panic. We step off the curb and into the street, and when there are no cars coming, we cross over. “Whether you want to love me again or not, I’ll still watch over you guys. I’ll keep you safe whether you like it or not, so you don’t have to worry about that.”
“And you?” I look up into his eyes. They’re as light as I remember. But I wondered, for some strange reason, if they’d be darker to match the villain I’d turned him into in my dreams. “How are you coping? How did you cope?”
“I was ordered to a shrink as soon as my cover was blown. Kane and some other guys I knew were sent in to finish that club and shut it down. But I was sent to see Doctor Greene because, no matter how much I wanted to, I couldn’t quite find it in my heart to get out of bed each day without wanting to kill myself.” He smiles and looks down at me, but it’s not a real smile. It’s sympathy more than anything. Somehow, it’s him comforting me, when he was the one who has to live with such massive loss. “I found myself in a hole, metaphorically. It was pitch black and unending, and no matter how often my friends stood on the outside and shouted my name, I couldn’t find my way out.”
