Pricked

by Winter Renshaw

  She takes the paper with reluctance. “He said you changed your name when you were eighteen.”

  “I didn’t want to be a Kramer anymore.” I shrug. “I didn’t want anything to do with my father after what he did. As soon as I became an adult, I changed my last name to Ransom—which was actually my middle name before. Named for someone on my mom’s side of the family or something. I don’t know, I just liked that it had a little edge to it.”

  She laughs through her nose, and finally, I feel like I’m getting through to her.

  The tension between us is still there, but at least now it’s lifting.

  “There’s something else I need to tell you though.” I clear my throat. “I don’t know how to tell you this …”

  “What? What is it?”

  “According to my dad, your father paid him to …” my words taper off as her hazel eyes begin to water. “He, uh, paid him to kill your grandparents. A quarter million or something like that. And when my dad got caught, he took the fall for it. That way, your dad would still pay up and his family would have something because either way, he was going to prison.”

  She’s quiet.

  I have no idea if she believes me, and I wouldn’t blame her if she didn’t.

  This entire situation is fucked seven ways from Sunday.

  I give her a minute, let her process what I’ve just shared, and then she breaks her silence with a resigned sigh.

  “Do you believe him?” she asks. “Your dad?”

  “I do … at first I wasn’t sure, and then I figured what good would it do him to lie about it now? Twelve years later? And he told me this without knowing that I knew you. He volunteered the information.”

  “Is there proof?” she asks before burying her face in her hands and massaging her temples.

  “Proof that your father is corrupt?”

  “I know my father’s far from perfect, but to say he’d hire someone to murder my grandparents is just …” she stops for a second. “It’s beyond anything he’s capable of.”

  “Maybe you don’t know what he’s capable of,” I suggest. “You want proof that he’s a liar though? Run that background check on me. You’ll see firsthand that whatever he told you about me before was fabricated.”

  She stares at the slip of paper between her fingers.

  “You said you lost the baby?” I ask, tempering my voice.

  She nods.

  “The day my father told me about all of this, I went straight to your father’s office to confront him. But before I could get a word in, he let me know that I’d gotten you pregnant. And then he told me that you were taking care of it.”

  “He told you I was getting an abortion?” Her pretty face is laced with disgust. “Why would he say that?”

  “Because, Brighton,” I say, “your father is a liar. He doesn’t care what he does or who he hurts as long as he gets what he wants in the end.”

  I take her hand.

  “The day after I left here is when I realized I was late,” she says, staring ahead at a blank TV screen. “I drove here that night. I was going to tell you in person. But when I got here, you were with someone.”

  “Who?”

  She shrugs. “A woman. Dark hair. Red lips.”

  Shit.

  It comes back to me now. That was the night Veronica showed up unannounced, the night I swore I saw Brighton’s car speeding down the street before convincing myself it was wishful thinking.

  “She was all over you,” Brighton says.

  “I’m guessing you didn’t stick around long enough to see me kick her out and threaten to call the police on her.”

  “I wanted to get out of there as soon as possible,” she says. “I was already so upset about the fight we’d had the night before and then finding out I was pregnant. I wasn’t thinking clearly.”

  “I’m sorry,” I say.

  “It’s not your fault.”

  “No, I mean. I’m sorry you had to go through that alone. I should’ve been there with you.”

  She lifts a single shoulder to her ear, a small, wistful smile claiming her lips. “It was ectopic, by the way. In case you’re wondering. It wasn’t growing in the right place. They had to surgically remove it.” She brushes a blonde tendril from her face, tucking it behind her ear. “God, I really hate calling it an ‘it.’”

  “I know.” I put my arm around her, pulling her close. “When your dad told me you were pregnant … I felt some kind of way I’d never felt before. And I knew … I knew then …”

  Her body relaxes against mine, and then her arms lift over my shoulders and she buries her face into my neck. I feel her breathe me in. I’m not an emotional man by any means, but holding her right now feels so good I cry.

  But a moment later, I realize she’s crying.

  The faintest sniffs fill my ear and I pull away, cupping the underside of her chin and examining her beautiful, tear-streaked face. I wish I could take away the pain I’ve caused her. I wish we could go back and do it all over again, the right way.

  Guiding her mouth to mine, I claim her lips as mine for the first time in forever, and cupping her face, I kiss away her tears.

  “I need to show you something,” I say when she’s calmed down.

  Sitting back, I tug my shirt over my head, take her hand, and place it over the butterfly net inked on my ribcage.

  “What is this …?” She traces her fingertips along the picture permanently etched into my skin for all eternity. “Madden … you didn’t have to do this. Not for me.”

  “Of course I did,” I say.

  I place her palm over my warm skin.

  She blinks quickly, small tears sliding down her pink cheeks. I’d always thought about what this would mean to me, never fully comprehending how much something like this might mean to her.

  “This … this is big.” Her mouth dances into a smile as she talks. And then she kisses me. Slow. Hard then soft.

  “God, I’ve missed this.” My lips graze hers, then my fingers slip into her silky hair.

  “I’ve missed you,” she says, breathless. “So much.”

  “There’s something else I have to tell you.” My heart hammers with enough force it feels like it’s about to jump out of my chest at any moment.

  Her golden gaze widens and she sucks in a breath, harboring it as her eyes search mine. She’s probably thinking she can’t handle another revelation. Another bombshell. But little does she know, I saved the best for last.

  “I love you, Brighton,” I say those words for the first time, lips numb, hands shaking, vulnerability coursing through my veins followed by a shot of adrenaline. “And I’ll love you forever.”

  Climbing into my lap, she buries her head against my chest and wraps her arms around me. “I love you, too, Madden. I never stopped.”

  55

  Brighton

  I splay my suitcase across my bed and shove in as many things as I can fit before fighting with the zipper.

  “Brighton, what are you doing?” I turn to find my mother standing in my doorway. “Are you going somewhere? I just came up to get you … Laurel and Eben are about ready to start opening gifts downstairs.”

  The house is filled with company, leftover wedding guests who’ve stopped over to eat brunch and watch the newlyweds open gifts.

  “I’m leaving,” I say.

  “And where is it you think you’re going?”

  “With Madden.”

  She chuffs. “You will not embarrass me in front of a house full of guests the day after your brother’s wedding. Leave the bag. Come downstairs.”

  I stay planted where I am.

  “I raised you to be smarter than this.” Her mouth curls. “Surely you learned your lesson the last time around? That boy is a menace. He left you at your worst and he dropped you the second you were no longer worth his trouble.”

  “I’m sorry you feel the need to judge him after meeting him all of two times,” I say. “But he’s nothing like you think he is
.”

  “He’s a criminal,” she yells, though it’s more of a whisper. God forbid anyone downstairs hears our family drama.

  “Actually, he’s not.” I stride toward my desk and grab a folded sheet of paper from my purse, handing it over.

  “What’s this?”

  “His real background check,” I say.

  Her eyes scan the paper before she flips it over. “There’s nothing here. Just his name and birthdate.”

  “Exactly.”

  “I don’t understand.” She looks it over again.

  “That background check Dad shared with us was a fake,” I say.

  Her lips fall at the sides. “Your father is a good and decent man. He would never do such a thing. How dare you make such an accusation.”

  “Did you know he told Madden I had an abortion?” I ask.

  My mother shakes her head. “He would never.”

  “He did,” I say. “The day we found out about the ectopic pregnancy and the surgery was scheduled, Madden went to his office to talk to him about something else, and Dad told him that I was pregnant with Madden’s baby but I was ‘having it taken care of.’”

  She’s quiet for a moment. “How do you know what was said? You weren’t there. For all you know, Madden’s lying about the entire thing. And maybe Madden’s background check is fake, not your father’s?”

  “I ran this myself.” I take the paper back, sitting it on my dresser. I’ll leave it here, in case my father needs to see it with his own eyes. “He happily gave me his Social Security number and I took it from there.”

  Hoisting my suitcase off the bed, I wheel it toward the doorway, which my mother is still blocking.

  “Excuse me,” I say.

  She doesn’t budge.

  “I’m sorry. Mom. But I’m leaving. Whether you want me to or not.” My eyes rest on hers, and for the first time in my life, I don’t see elegance, refinement, or confidence. I see a broken woman whose entire world is crumbling before her very eyes. “And I didn’t want to tell you this ... here … now … but it’s only fair that you should know.”

  “What is it?”

  “Dad hired Madden’s father to kill Grandma and Grandpa,” I say. “He paid him a quarter of a million dollars, and when Madden’s father was caught, he took the fall for the whole thing because he wanted his family to have that money.”

  She gasps. “He would never …”

  “He did.”

  “I refuse to believe it.” Her hand rests over her heart now.

  “Of course you do.” I squeeze past her, pulling my suitcase to the top of the stairs before bending to grab the handle.

  “Get back here right this instant, Brighton,” she yell-whispers. “We’re not done with this conversation.”

  “Oh, but we are.” I carry the bag down the curved staircase, my gaze fixed on the front door where my knight in shining armor sits in an idling GTO.

  “Brighton. Temple. What’s going on?” My father appears from the hall, a ceramic mug in his hand.

  “I’m leaving, that’s what’s going on.” Before I forget, I dig into my purse, retrieving my keys, my bank card, and my cell phone. “I refuse to spend another night under the same roof as a calculating, manipulative, cold-blooded killer.”

  The color drains from my father’s face, but I don’t stay and wait for his response. Bag and suitcase in hand, I dash out the front door and skip down the steps to the circle drive where Madden stands, leaning against the passenger door, arms folded.

  Releasing my things, I jump into his arms, wrapping my legs around his sides and kissing him harder than I’ve ever kissed anyone in my life.

  “You ready?” he asks.

  I let him go and he places my things in his trunk before we climb in.

  Taking one final glance at the Iron Castle, I see my parents standing in the doorway, dumbfounded, silent. When my father attempts to put his arm around my mother to comfort her, she jerks away, heading inside and out of sight.

  “I love you,” I say.

  Madden turns onto the street and takes my hand. “I love you more.”

  Everything I’ve ever wanted, everything I’ll ever need, is right here, right now. And those lowest lows? The ones that caused tears and sleepless nights and pain so deep in my chest I couldn’t breathe? They were worth it. Because the bitter only serves to make the sweet sweeter.

  And this moment? It’s the sweetest.

  Epilogue

  Brighton

  Five Years Later

  “You’re a saint,” I stumble out of our bedroom, my hair a mess and my pajama top stained in DJ’s spit up.

  My husband rocks our six-week-old son, Dallas Junior, after Madden’s late twin brother. He arrived on Thanksgiving Day of all days, which seemed fitting as we couldn’t be more thankful for this little miracle.

  Through sleepy eyes, I watch as DJ sleeps peacefully in the muscled and tatted arms of his father. From this angle, he looks even smaller than he is, though he’s been growing like a weed. The kid eats like he’s starving, and he was already pushing nine pounds when he was born. I think he’s going to be tall, like Madden, broad-shouldered and strong.

  “Thought I’d let you sleep in,” he says.

  I’m still on maternity leave from my Research Director position at Hershman Medical Research, but it’s a Sunday and Madden has the next two days off, so I’m getting a bit of a reprieve … though this isn’t unusual. Madden’s the most hands-on father I’ve ever seen, which is funny because he spent the majority of our pregnancy worried about what kind of dad he was going to be and how long it was going to take to bond.

  I assured him everything would be perfect.

  And I’m proud to announce I was right.

  I watched him fall in love all over again in real-time the first moment he held our son in his arms. Tears welled in his inky brown eyes—the first time I’d ever seen him show that kind of vulnerability.

  DJ starts to fuss, squirming a little in his father’s arms.

  “I’ll grab a bottle,” I say, heading to the kitchen. I glance out the window above the sink, to the big backyard he’ll get to play in someday. If we’re lucky, we’ll add a couple more to our brood, but only time will tell.

  We bought this house two years ago, shortly after our wedding. It’s just an average-sized house on a third of an acre of land toward the outskirts of Olwine. White. Big front porch. Four bedrooms plus a finished basement. Not too big, not too small. Plenty of room to grow. And while I’ve taken a promotion at work and Madd Inkk has grown by leaps and bounds—catering to national and international clients and booking out six months to a year depending on the artist—I don’t see us leaving this place anytime soon.

  It’s home.

  Our home.

  I return a minute later with a warm bottle and fresh spit-up rag, and Madden positions the baby in his left arm, cradling his head against the bend of his elbow as he shushes his whimpers.

  “I love this side of you,” I say. “You have no idea.”

  He rolls his eyes, trying not to smile. He isn’t the softest person—at least not on the outside. Over the years, I’ve learned he’s all marshmallow fluff on the inside. He just protects it with his armored steel personality. I will say, though, that he’s opened up quite a bit over the years. And no longer does he deflect my questions or change the subject if we’re talking about something that once made him uncomfortable. It didn’t happen overnight and it took a lot of trust and faith on his part, but he’s practically an open book now, and all his flaws, his past tragedies, and less-than-perfect childhood only makes me love and understand him that much more.

  I take a seat on the sofa again, watching my two favorite people in the entire world. I could sit like this for hours, not moving.

  “Don’t forget Cara and Graeme are coming into town next weekend,” I say.

  We missed seeing them at Christmas, but this was their year to spend it with her side of the family on the East Coast.
But Laurel and Eben and their four-year-old twins were there, as was my mother.

  Mom seems to be doing okay on her own. She left my father shortly after it came out that he was, in fact, involved in the scheme to murder my grandparents. It took a bit of poking and prodding, but we were able to hire an investigator and get the local police to open a case. Turns out they were able to confirm that he’d made several withdrawals totaling a quarter of a million dollars, and archived security camera footage showed an exchange between him and Rodney Kramer involving a duffel bag.

  My father is currently serving a life sentence at the same penitentiary as Madden’s father. We haven’t seen nor heard from him since the day they took him away in handcuffs.

  “Devanie’s coming home around two today. Said she’d watch the baby for a couple hours if we wanted,” I remind him. She loves babysitting her nephew, and there’s nothing a teenager won’t do to earn a few bucks. “Thought maybe we could get away and see a movie or something?”

  Devanie moved in with us a couple years ago, when we convinced Tandace to finally relinquish custody. She’d gone through a bit of a rough patch, got involved with a less-than-wonderful group of friends. Madden pulled her out of her high school and enrolled her in a better one in the next town over. There were times I was afraid he was too controlling and too much of a micromanager—and I spoke to him from experience, having grown up with helicopter parents—but I trusted that he knew what was best for his sister.

  And in the end, he was right.

  She’s been thriving ever since. And just last night, I helped her fill out a college application to Illinois State.

  She wants to go into counseling, and we couldn’t be prouder.

  “Sounds good.” He sits the bottle down and positions DJ over his shoulder, gently patting his back until he burps.

  “I could never get sick of watching you with him,” I gush. “I feel like having ten more babies with you.”

  He smirks. “I’m down.”

  Sample – The Executive