by Beth Flynn
After my shower, I headed for the kitchen where I found him sitting at the table, thumbing through a magazine that highlighted businesses in the surrounding area. He was wearing glasses and I marveled at how sexy he looked in them. I avoided his gaze as he watched me discard the empty container of Mallomars which I'd hastily shoved down my throat before my shower.
"You must've been starving," he observed.
"I was," I answered a little too brusquely. Turning to face him I leaned back against the kitchen island. Trying to avoid direct eye contact, I watched as he removed what obviously were reading glasses and laid them on the table. I stared at the dark frames, wracking my brain for a memory of Christian wearing glasses. Nothing surfaced.
I heard the scrape of his chair and my eyes cut to his. Slapping the magazine on the table he stated, "Looks like there's a bar and grill about an hour outside of Pumpkin Rest."
I nodded.
"I know you're probably not hungry now, but I was thinking if you'd like to go there maybe we could hit up a store on the way. I saw something on the news about a freak snowstorm that might blow in. I didn't bring a heavy jacket and wasn’t sure if you had anything warm to wear just in case."
"I have some warm things in the laundry basket. And freak snowstorms aren't uncommon here. I've heard people talk about a blizzard that hit close to spring in the early nineties.”
We decided to take my car since the back of his truck was still loaded down with the homeowner’s recreational toys. I watched as he went to the spot where he'd hidden the keys he'd swiped from me that first day and got in the driver's side of my SUV.
We hadn’t gone far when he gruffly announced, "Doesn't look like there's much of a choice for radio stations."
"I have some CDs I compiled." I pressed play on the car stereo. I saw a half smile when “The Weight” by The Band came on.
"We have the same taste in music," he said matter-of-factly.
"Yeah, I guess we grew up listening to the same songs as our parents," I told his profile, taking notice of his smooth dark skin and strong jaw. My eyes wandered lower to his right arm and the name I could see so prominently displayed across his muscular bicep thanks to the sleeveless tee he wore.
"You said it's about an hour to the restaurant?" I questioned.
"Yeah, looks like it."
"Maybe we could pass the time by trying to get reacquainted." The purpose behind my suggestion wasn't as noble as it sounded. I was being nosy. I wanted to know the reason behind those prison tattoos and the one in particular.
"Okay, how do you wanna do this?"
"I'll tell you something about me. And you tell me something about you that might relate to it. We could pretend it's a sort of game."
His eyes shifted to mine and he answered roughly, "You're trying to see what, if anything, we have in common."
"Maybe, yeah. It can't hurt to establish some commonalities. There's no denying we don't know each other anymore." I thought I saw his jaw tighten, but ignored it and pressed on. "We already know we like the same kind of music. What could it hurt?" His face softened as he watched the road.
"I'll go first." Without waiting I stated, "I'm a history major, but might go back to study archaeology after I get my degree. I recently discovered I have a fascination with artifacts and I'm particularly interested in digging up and studying old bones." I looked at him expectantly. He didn't say anything so I added, "Do you have any interest in history or archaeology?"
"Yeah. I guess so."
I sat up straight and turned my body to face his, the seat belt straining against my chest. "Really?" I prompted, my voice sounding hopeful. "What part?”
"The bones part," he said.
"You've dug up other people's bones? You have some experience with this?"
"Not digging up bones," he replied. "Breaking people's bones."
"You are not funny!" I barked through gritted teeth as I returned to my original position, crossing my arms over my chest.
"I'm not trying to be funny," he informed me without any hint of remorse. "It's your game. I'm doing what you said. Trying to find something related to what you told me about yourself."
I looked out the window so he wouldn't see me smile. He was right. Snapping my head around I said to him, "Maybe it's a stupid game."
He gave me a quick glance and offered, "There are other ways to get to know each other again."
I blinked, trying to ignore the warmth that was spreading through my chest and wondering what he meant. I didn't have to wait long.
"Maybe we could just talk. This time, I'll start. You told me you recognized my ink. And when I asked you how you would know about prison ink you told me I would be surprised. So tell me. How did you recognize that my tattoos were done in prison?”
A shiver of panic made its way down my back. How much could I say without telling him about Grizz? As far as Christian knew, I'd never met my biological father.
"My stepfather, James, did some time in prison. It's one of the reasons he and my mother wanted to make a clean break from Florida."
"He must've been one badass accountant," he said, his brows narrowed skeptically as he gazed out over the steering wheel.
"I guess he was," I replied, rubbing the side of my nose absentmindedly. Without letting him speak I blurted, "Your turn. What did you do to end up in prison?"
"Aggravated battery," he said, his voice even. "They tried to get me on attempted murder, but as much as I wanted to kill the guy, having him live with a constant reminder of his crime was my primary goal."
"Aggravated battery of who?" I asked, my eyes wide as saucers. "And what had he done?"
I noticed his knuckles were turning white as he grasped the steering wheel. I had a fleeting thought about whether or not I'd ever heard of anyone breaking a steering wheel with their bare hands.
"Who, Christian?" I probed.
Christian shot me a dark look, his eyes blazing with something primitive and wild.
"Nick Rosman. The piece of shit who tried to rape you seven years ago."
The only sound in the car was my loud gasp.
Chapter 21
Fort Lauderdale, Florida 2003
Four Years Earlier
"Maybe you should think about selling the business and retiring," Christy told Anthony as she put towels away that she'd folded.
Anthony stepped out of the shower and reached for the towel his wife held out to him. Drying himself off he answered, "We've talked about this, Christy. What would I do with myself? Until Daisy graduates from high school, which won't be for several more years, we're tied down here. And I'm happy. I like working. I always have."
"I know," she replied. "Lately you just seem to come home more aggravated than not."
"That's because I've lost a lot of men recently and can only seem to find morons to replace them."
She gave him a hopeful glance, her bright blue eyes almost pleading.
"Don't even think about Christian taking over the business, Owani. Landscaping isn't his thing. I think we both know that."
"Is riding with Grizz's old gang his thing, Anthony?" It was difficult to keep the frustration out of her voice.
"That's his choice." He threw his wet towel in the hamper and reached for his clothes.
"You sent him there, Anthony!" she cried.
"They'll teach him what I apparently couldn't," he countered.
"To be a criminal?"
"To be responsible for his actions. Christian is a hothead. He'll either buck the hierarchy and someone will put him in the hospital, or..."
"Prison," Christy finished.
"We both know Christian is heading for prison, Owani. Maybe he'll learn enough discipline with Grizz's old gang to avoid it."
Christy walked into Anthony's massive arms. Hugging him tightly, she let out a sigh against his chest. "Well, at least I'm doing everything I can to make sure he doesn't end up in prison. And I'm pretty sure we've managed to divert the Mimi thing. I think she's finally
given up trying to reach him."
"You're a good mother." He kissed the top of her head. "And you were right to throw her letters away, Christy," Anthony said while stroking her soft hair.
She looked up and gave a slight nod. "I know. But I can't help but wonder if Mimi would've been good for Christian."
"Not at the risk of Christian finding out Grizz didn't die on death row. He's eighteen but still not mature enough to be trusted, honey."
Christy pulled away and took his hand. "C'mon, dinner will be ready in ten minutes and Autumn will be bringing Daisy home soon."
"Is Autumn still trying to get her hooks into Christian?" Anthony asked as he followed Christy through their bedroom.
Stopping at the foot of their bed, Christy turned to face Anthony. "I know Autumn thinks she's in love with him and does whatever she can to get his attention. It doesn't help that he still lives here, at least part-time. God only knows where he crashes when he's not home."
Anthony was going to reply, but looked at their bed instead. "How long do we have until Daisy gets home?" he asked, giving Christy a mischievous grin.
Dropping to her knees and unbuckling his belt, Christy told him, "Long enough.”
* * *
"Dinner was good, Owani," Anthony remarked as he walked behind her toward their family room. "Daisy scarfed it down."
"I think she scarfed it down so she could watch her favorite show. Besides, it's not too hard to mess up a four-ingredient Crock-Pot recipe, although I have ruined some of those in the past." Christy laughed.
As was their nightly habit, Anthony and Christy cleaned up the dinner dishes before retiring to the family room to enjoy a cup of coffee and watch the evening news.
"Daisy, you can finish watching that in your room. Daddy and I are gonna have our coffee and watch some TV," Christy directed Daisy as she set both cups on the table.
Daisy jumped up from her spot on the floor, and after giving each parent a quick hug, happily bounded off to her bedroom.
"I don't think I've ever encountered a sweeter or more agreeable child," Christy said as she took a seat in one of the leather recliners and reached for the remote and her mug.
"I agree," Anthony replied. "I sometimes wonder how she could be ours. Slade was a good kid, but even he had his moments."
After craning her neck to make sure Daisy had gone to her room, Christy said, "I don't know if I told you that I heard from Carter."
"Is everything okay?" He gave her a sideways glance.
"I'm sure it is. It amazes me that we never got to know Carter and Bill that well, especially with how close they were to Ginny." She paused and drank her coffee. "You remember we had lunch about eight months ago, right?"
"How could I forget?" Anthony asked. "I was shocked that Ginny called her, and that Carter told you about it."
"Ginny had a good reason to call Carter. Grizz killed that man, Anthony. Ginny had been holding it all in and was getting paranoid. I think she needed to talk to someone who knew about Grizz's history. And since Carter's husband is responsible for scouring the internet and burying anything remotely connected to Grizz and their family, I think she was nervous about possible rumors surfacing." Christy picked at an imaginary piece of lint on her pants. "I don't blame her."
Anthony gave her a sympathetic nod and added, "If Carter has anything interesting to share, I'd like to know."
"Of course, babe."
They settled on their favorite news station and commented to each other on the weather, the latest business report and a feature on tourists who were being targeted by local thugs.
“We're coming to you live from Davie where three boys happened upon a gruesome discovery while fishing at this remote canal.”
The reporter gestured to the area behind her.
“The children alerted police to what they believed was a dead body, but turned out was only an arm that had been cleanly severed at the elbow. We can't show you a picture of the detached limb, but we can describe it in the hopes that someone will recognize the tattoo descriptions. Police tell us the forearm has what appears to be a religious cross with flowers intertwined around it. On the other side, and what may be the best clue to the victim's identity, is a heart with the name Edith inside it. If you think you may know someone who has tattoos like these, you are urged to contact law enforcement at the number at the bottom of the screen. Right now, police aren't sure if they're looking for a murder victim or the victim of a horrible accident—”
"What a horrible thing to find," Christy remarked. "I can't imagine what kinds of nightmares those poor boys will have after finding an arm."
"The police will probably find the rest of the body soon," Anthony interjected. "If it was an accident it would most likely be ripped and torn, not a clean cut. The clean cut tells me it was deliberate."
"You would know," Christy huffed, giving him a knowing look.
They both heard the sound of Christian's motorcycle. Christy got up and nodded toward Anthony's mug. "Want a little more to warm your cup?"
She was standing at the counter giving them both a refill when the door that connected the kitchen to the garage swung open. She turned around to greet her son when both mugs she'd been holding crashed to the ground, splattering hot coffee across the floor and on the cabinets.
Anthony raced to the kitchen in time to see Christy patting Christian down. "Where is it? Where are you hurt?" she screamed in obvious terror.
"What happened?" Anthony barked.
"It's obvious he's hurt!" Christy cried. Christian was covered in blood.
"It's not my blood," Christian replied.
Christy stood back, her eyes wide.
"Whose blood is this, Christian?"
"Nick Rosman’s," he said curtly.
It took Christy a moment to place the name, but when recognition dawned, she barely whispered, "Did you kill him?"
"No. I maimed him for life," Christian said, without a hint of remorse.
"The arm," was all Christy managed to say.
Christian nodded, but didn't ask how she'd known about the arm. He addressed his father. "I guess you'll tell me I'm an idiot for going after him."
"Not for going after him," came Anthony's stern reply. "You're an idiot for leaving evidence. I wouldn't have left an arm for somebody to find."
"Yeah, what would you have done?" Christian challenged.
"I would've put him in the ground. All of him."
Chapter 22
Pumpkin Rest, South Carolina 2007
I sat with my back against the car door, my jaw slack, staring at Christian. Not even the hopeful pinging of our cell phones as we drove closer into range could take my attention away from the shock I felt at what he’d revealed.
"You cut off Nick Rosman's arm?" My voice came out raspy, a frog lodged in my throat.
He leveled a look at me. "Yeah."
"Why?" I could feel my heart thudding as it threatened to beat out of my chest.
"I did it to get back at him for what he planned to do to you. He's lucky he didn't see you naked, because I would've gouged out his eyes. Or that he didn't actually rape you, because I would've cut off his—"
"I get it!" I cried, holding up both hands. "Slade told you what happened to me?"
I listened, stunned, as Christian revealed the story behind the night of my attempted rape by a guy I'd been dating. He explained in detail about overhearing a conversation weeks earlier between my father, Tommy, and Axel at Axel's garage. He told me how he infiltrated Nick Rosman's small gang of punks. And how, after learning the time and place for the sinister plan, he'd rushed to rescue me himself, but ended up getting pulled over by the police and hauled off to jail for smarting off to the officer. He went on to explain how he'd used his one jailhouse call to contact Slade and insisted he race to the location to stop the rape.
By the end of his story, my lungs burned from taking short, unsatisfying breaths. I had to calm myself and focus on deep breathing.
"Why
his arm?" I asked. "And why years after what he tried to do to me?" My voice didn't sound like my own.
"I heard that he used the tattoo to trick you into thinking he was a nice guy. It probably gave you a false sense of security about him. It was a religious tattoo, right?"
I could only nod. He looked over at me and words wouldn't come so I nodded again.
"And as far as why it took a couple years, I can't say for sure." He shrugged his shoulders. "I just know that the few punches to the face that Slade gave him never seemed like enough retaliation. It gnawed at my gut for a long time."
"You went to prison for it." It was a statement, not a question.
"Yeah. I got five years for aggravated battery and got out in three."
"How long have you been out?" I asked.
"A couple months."
I shook my head. "But you said this happened in 2003 and this is 2007. That's four years."
"It took over a year to go to trial."
"How come they didn't charge you with attempted murder?" My mind wasn't only reeling that he'd mutilated Nick on my account and went to prison for it, but concern that my name might've come up in trial. As if reading my mind, Christian provided more details.
"It wasn't attempted murder because I wasn't trying to murder him. I used a tourniquet and drove him to the hospital after I hacked off his arm."
I cringed but didn't interrupt him, clearing my throat.
"When I got him there, I told the people at the E.R. that we were messing around with machetes and it was an accident. They rushed him into surgery and I waited until I was told he would make it. Then I headed home. By then, kids found the arm and it was all over the news. By the time the E.R. doctors got in touch with the police, they'd already been looking for who the arm belonged to. I didn't try to hide the crime."
"What did Nick tell the police?" I asked hoarsely. The frog had returned to establish residence.
