Deadline to Damnation: Sons of Templar #7

by Malcom, Anne

  But the more I saw, the less I wanted to blame him and the more I just wanted him.

  So I was glad that we couldn’t talk. So he couldn’t tangle me any more in this web than I already was.

  Or was I tangling myself?

  * * *

  I parked my rental car in an empty spot in the town’s small hospital.

  Liam didn’t drive me to the hospital.

  For obvious reasons.

  It wouldn’t have been surprising if his parents were at the hospital, visiting. They had stayed close with our family like one of those weird, tragedy anomalies. Because I didn’t care what anyone else said, tragedy didn’t bring people together, make them appreciate what they did have. It only pushed them farther apart. Look what happened to me. It pushed me across oceans, into hot zones, battlefields, and mass graves.

  Anywhere but this town.

  This beautiful, picturesque, classic American small town. Without a Starbucks, with a grocery store owned by the same family for years, exorbitant prices and little variety.

  The town that had turned into a prison after we got the news. I’d been home for the summer, seeking solace in a place that gave me comfort, safety, and memories of Liam around every corner.

  And then, after the funeral, after all of that countless, horrible death stuff, I went straight back to school. I didn’t come back, even for holidays. I’d make up excuses. Take extra classes, anything to keep me away.

  Then I got a job as an intern in New York. Worked two other jobs, lived in a studio with three other people, was constantly hungry, worried about money and had no free time. It was the closest to happy I’d ever been.

  Because I didn’t have time to think about how fucking unhappy I was.

  That’s when I met Emily. She was also an intern at a PR firm, using the word fuck as much as she could, sleeping with anything with tits—including her trying me until I told her I was straight and we decided to become best friends instead. She accepted all of my fucked-up things. Like the fact I never talked about my family, my past, never dated and was never standing still long enough to...feel.

  And then we both started moving up, stopped having to work in shitty bars and coffee shops. I got a job at The New York Times. Writing shitty copy but enough. And then, they had a shitty assignment that was dangerous, with crap pay and no guarantees of safe return.

  I took it without hesitation.

  I’d watched war coverage with a different kind of morbid fascination than the masses. I couldn’t tear myself away from the faces of the soldiers. I looked for his face in every one. Even though I knew he was dead. But the only way I’d really known was to go over there and see it all for myself. Make sure it was real.

  So I accepted. Readied myself as much as anyone could ready themselves for such a thing. I wasn’t scared. What left did I have left to be afraid of?

  I discovered I did have things left to be afraid of when I went home to inform my family—the people I’d tried to make strangers and they didn’t let that happen—of what I was doing, where I was going.

  They’d took it as well as a family who had already had war take precious things from them could.

  Not well.

  Until it became apparent I wasn’t changing my mind.

  “The flowers are going to do well this year,” Mom said with a forced cheerfulness that is somehow more penetrating than the naked sadness I know is below it.

  I looked at the petals she was gesturing to. They had seemed surely dead only a couple of months ago. They were coming back to life, as they did every season.

  I hated flowers for that simple reason. Because for them, death was never final.

  “They will. You’ll beat Agnes Wolf by a mile,” I replied with that same forced cheer I was learning to despise.

  It had become constant as my flight approached. As had benign conversations about roses, cakes, and neighbors who didn’t take care of their yards. Any subject was safe, as long as it wasn’t about Afghanistan.

  We were taking one last walk through our sprawling garden, that was, apart from us kids, my mother’s pride and joy.

  She gave up her job as soon as she had my brother. And though the feminist in me bristled slightly at her having to give up her career to have her children, it was clear where her joy lay.

  Raising us.

  Teaching us good Southern manners.

  Making us fresh bread that was still warm when we arrived home from school. Jam too.

  Making every single sports game, every parent-teacher conference, being the head of the PTA, and most of all, making our home beautiful, warm and welcoming.

  Despite her title as a ‘stay at home mom,’ she was never idle, as our ever-changing home décor and immaculate garden communicated.

  Now that her children were grown, with jobs, finances, and wars to keep them busy, she volunteered as well as did the baking for ‘Cups and Cakes’ the café on Main Street which won a serious bidding war for her services.

  Her cookie recipe was sought after in town.

  The secret ingredient? Cayenne pepper.

  You didn’t hear it from me.

  Mom stopped immediately in front of a bunch of hydrangeas.

  My favorite.

  She clicked her tongue, regarding them for a long moment before springing forward to pluck out ones with the browning petals.

  That always made me sad.

  I identified with those browning and withering petals most of all.

  “Why are you doing this?” she whispered as they fluttered to the ground without ceremony.

  Her voice was broken.

  Not surprising, since it was the first she’d spoken of it since I’d told her and the rest of my family where I was going and when.

  I didn’t have an answer for her.

  At least not a real one.

  I didn’t even have an answer for myself.

  There was no reason why I was doing this.

  Just like there was no reason for me not to. Not even a mother that adored me, that grew hydrangeas because she knew they were my favorite, or a dad that sneaked a joint with me every now and then because he knew oblivion was required when life got too loud. Or even for a sister that slept holding my hand for a month after we got the news. Or a brother that didn’t do anything specific, but did everything with his presence and borderline sexist jokes.

  No, my loving and concerned family was not a reason to stay.

  If anything, they were reasons to leave.

  Not that I was going to tell my doting, cookie baking mother this.

  I grabbed her hand, it was warm, soft and I knew smelled like lemongrass, a hand cream she’d used since forever.

  “I’m going because I need to,” I told her. “Because other people need me to. Because I couldn’t live with myself if I didn’t go.”

  She eyed me with irises that mirrored my own and a penetrating gaze I couldn’t escape from. “No, you can’t live with yourself without him, that’s why you’re going.”

  I flinched, because up until now, my family had been treating me with kid gloves, like I was a cracked piece of antique glass, ready to shatter if handled incorrectly.

  Which was ridiculous of course.

  I was already shattered.

  No longer fragile.

  “You loved him, I know that,” Mom said. “Everyone knows it. Everyone saw it. Felt it. What you had was special. And it’s a tragedy of God that you lost it before you even got to live it. But that doesn’t mean you have to go around chasing more tragedy. It’s not gonna change it. It’s not gonna make it better.”

  I let go of her hand. “But it’s not gonna make it worse either. And that’s what’s most important.”

  Tears fell from my mother’s eyes. “You can’t let this take you away from us.”

  I didn’t feel those tears, I’d already switched off in a way that did me well for years after this. Funny I got my biggest and most important instrument in war from one of the safest places in
my history.

  “That’s what you don’t get, Mom, it already has.”

  Then I walked away.

  From my loving mom.

  Caring father.

  Nurturing sister.

  Protective brother.

  I walked into the hospital and they were all there.

  My loving mom.

  My caring father.

  Protective brother—with his second wife who may or may not be his last, I liked her, but you could never tell with him.

  And my nurturing sister.

  Lying in a bed in the middle of the room surrounded by my family. By warmth. Comfort.

  Her husband was slightly removed from the chaos, because that was him. He was the man who was wearing a neatly pressed shirt and slacks after the birth of his child. His hair was combed correctly, correctly to him was within an inch of its life. His strong, tanned jaw was clean shaven. All of this made you sure he’d be a pretentious asshole. Which he was. But he was also a good guy. He treated my sister well.

  And that was all that mattered.

  He saw me first, smiled and nodded his head.

  A greeting decidedly mundane compared to what followed.

  My mother, screaming, rushing over to me and snatching me into her arms.

  My father cursing about how skinny I looked. My mother letting me go to yell at my father for cursing in front of the baby. My father arguing with my mother that the baby still couldn’t hear yet so he would swear as much as he damn well pleased. And then my mother giving him a look that guaranteed he would not do what he damn well pleased.

  At this, my father grumbled and then yanked me out of my mom’s arms for his own embrace.

  He squeezed me tight.

  Kissed my head.

  My brother ruffled my hair.

  I punched his arm.

  His wife kissed my cheek.

  Questions shot at me.

  “How did you get here?” “Is the story over?” “Why does your hair look like that?” (Mom) “When are you gonna use that press pass to get me box seats to a Yankees game?” (Will) “Are you hungry?” (Mom).

  “Stop!” I all but screeched at my well-meaning family.

  They all stopped.

  I sighed. Smiled. “I would like to meet my nephew.”

  My mom smiled, big and light, a smile I’d never given her because, unlike my sister, I was not light and bright.

  They parted to reveal Kate, in her glory. Much like her husband, her hair was styled, she had on light makeup, a tasteful silk nightgown and pearls.

  I raised my brow at her. “Pearls, Kate?”

  She scowled at me.

  But her scowl didn’t stay for long because of the bundle in her arms.

  I made it to the bed and discovered she held the whole world in her arms.

  My hand was shaking when I brushed his tiny head. He had a scattering of inky black hair on his head.

  “He’s perfect,” I whispered.

  “I know,” Kate whispered back.

  She reached for my hand.

  I glanced to her.

  “I’m so glad you came, Linny,” she choked out.

  I swallowed the lump in my throat that came from that simple statement. “Me too,” I whispered.

  And I was.

  Despite what it might cost Liam. What it had cost us. What it would cost me. I was glad. Beyond belief.

  “Do you want to hold him?” she asked.

  I nodded, unable to speak.

  Carefully, she handed the bundle to me.

  Never had anything been so light and heavy at the same time.

  * * *

  He was sitting on the concrete outside our room in the shitty motel we were staying in. The shitty motel we had to stay in because if we stayed closer to town, where the motels were not shitty, but well-kept and not frequented by adultering husbands and drug dealers, we’d run the risk of encountering someone who would recognize Liam. We definitely couldn’t go to my apartment, with all the visitors that would likely come if they knew I was home. Visitors that included his parents.

  And we couldn’t stay separately because Liam was still technically my captor. Here to make sure I was only here for twenty-four hours before going back inside.

  I didn’t want to go to my place. That was the strange thing. It wasn’t a home. And I didn’t like the thought of Liam alone at this seedy motel, fighting demons in the sunshine that our hometown offered.

  Most people, even people that had known Liam, would not recognize him now. There was no way to connect the scarred, inked biker with the all-American War Hero the town honored every year since his death.

  Almost everyone that knew him wouldn’t recognize him.

  But his parents would.

  My parents would.

  His sister.

  They’d see those eyes and instantly recognized the son, the brother, the friend they’d mourned. Then it would be over.

  It’d be over for Jagger.

  I wanted to expose him.

  Even after everything I’d learned, and I hadn’t even learned anything really.

  The reasons that maybe made a little sense, but a little sense meant less than nothing in the face of the pain he’d put everyone through.

  The journalist in me craved to expose him.

  But the human in me, the one that still harbored feelings for this man, whether it be Jagger or Liam, I wasn’t sure, the human in me could betray him like that. It wasn’t my choice to make. Especially if Liam never intended on coming back here. It was one thing to give a son back, to have Kent and Mary swallow the truth the same way I did, but it was quite another to give him back for a fleeting moment and then make them watch him ride away on a motorcycle to a dangerous and foreign life.

  As much as it physically pained me, the deception, the dirty secret he was forcing me to keep, I knew there was no other choice. Not for me at least

  It was up to Liam.

  Before, I would’ve been certain Liam would’ve made the honorable choice. To tell the truth, to free those he loved from suffering.

  But this man was not honorable.

  This man had a distorted view of suffering, higher than most.

  The honorable choice for an outlaw usually masqueraded as the dishonorable choice for most everyone else.

  He watched me approach, calm, collected. Outwardly at least.

  There was a storm in his eyes.

  I sat down beside him, thinking of everything I’d just left at the hospital. I stayed longer than everyone else, trying to soak up as much time with my nephew as I could. I’d lied to my family and said I was on a deadline for the story and needed to leave tomorrow.

  They weren’t pleased. But they understood. And they had false comfort in another lie about the story I was doing.

  Everything was coming too easy now. Deception. Lies.

  So I stayed holding the purist and most beautiful thing I might ever hold. I thought my chance at a family was shot to shit, even if I survived what was to come.

  But visiting hours stopped, my sister waned, and it was time for me to go.

  I cupped her cheek. “You did me proud, Katie.”

  She smiled lazily. “You did too, Linny. Just in case you didn’t know it, just in case we don’t say it enough. You’ve done us all so proud.”

  I rolled my eyes. “You’re proud now I made it home.”

  She reached for my hand and squeezed it. “No, not about your stories, well that too. But we’re most proud that you made it here. Made it through. We’re proud of the woman you’ve become even with everything you’ve lost. And I know that you have to be a little further away from us to get through, I hate it, but I get it. I might not get you, but I love you. I’m proud of you. And I’m proud that my son has an aunt like you.”

  Tears rolled down my cheeks.

  I squeezed my sister’s hand. Brushed the one errant hair that had moved out of place. Then I kissed her head.

  “Sleep,” I whispered.
“It’s probably the last time you’re gonna be able to do that for the next ten years.”

  I winked and walked out.

  I wanted to go home.

  So I found myself in a shitty hotel on the outskirts of town, sitting next to a slightly familiar stranger in a motorcycle cut.

  “We would’ve had it,” I whispered. “I can almost see it. Taste it. Touch it.” I sucked in a ragged breath, the cracked and stained concrete in front of me flickering until it was replaced by grass so green it could only exist in someone’s dreams. Freshly mowed, because that’s the kind of person Liam was. He didn’t hire anyone. He did it himself. Every morning. After coffee, after waking up and making love to me. There were two cars in the driveway. His truck and my Jeep. I always wanted a Jeep. And this was the life I always wanted, wasn’t it? My job was stable, our love was strong. Our grass was green. And it was nothing but a forgotten dream. A dream marred by the truth.

  I blinked myself back into reality.

  It was harsh, stark and so gray it was a color that couldn’t exist in a dream.

  “There was a life for us, somewhere.” My voice was rougher, throatier, hard so it could weather the harshness of the moment. “In the past.” I stood on shaky legs. I brushed off the back of my jeans. Gave myself a handful of seconds to gather my wits before I met his eyes.

  They weren’t hard. Or dull, lackluster in the reality that surrounded us.

  No, they were starker than that grass that was too green to be true, and brimming with the life we’d lost and whatever death had given him.

  I bit my tongue so hard that I tasted bitter coppery blood.

  “We don’t live in the past. Whatever’s between us, it was. It was buried in that empty coffin along with whoever you used to be.”

  Liam stood up too.

  He didn’t let me say anything else.

  Didn’t let me retreat.

  Didn’t let me breathe.

  He just snatched my face and yanked my mouth to his.

  I didn’t even try to fight him. I didn’t want to. So I kissed him back. Not like I was kissing the man he used to be. Not tender, playful. No, I kissed him like the man he was now. Hard. Passionate. Painful. Soul destroying.