by Nicole Snow
There's only one thing that's right, I know it's my only choice because it hurts so fucking bad.
I'm going to clean up loose ends, and then I'm going to disappear.
It only takes a day to talk to some asshole judge, and the badges running this facility. Actually, my boys from the club do most of the talking, and one of them just happens to have some powerful family ties in the local police force.
Thank fuck money doesn't mean much in this world. Yeah, you can buy your way to freedom or lock somebody up with enough dollars in the hopper, but an old police chief or two can buy even more on street cred.
Dad's gonna rage himself blind when he finds out how easy it was for me to walk outta here free, and I don't give a shit. I want to finish what I started in our old house, slamming my fists into his demon face, but it won't solve a thing. Driving home, busting down the gate, and wringing his scrawny neck won't do shit to help my woman.
As far as I'm concerned, my family's dead and buried. All I've got left is her, and not for long. Not after what I'm about to do.
I'm out in a heartbeat, dumping the tight neon prison clothes wrapped around my skin. Ed, Mike, and Tommy pick me up. It doesn't take long to ask them for a big favor, and every one of them is game.
We're gonna pay the too-stupid-to-live fuck responsible for those pretty tabloid pictures a visit.
We stop by a gas station on the way to fill up our ride, plus a few canisters. Then I'm outside the asshole's building, a nice swanky condo Daddy probably bought. The trees aren't the only thing that's green in the big environmental lobby.
My guts churn, thinking how easily I could've been beholden to the same shit, falling in line to run Spree like my bastard father always wanted, dragging anybody I damned well please through the mud.
Not anymore. Not ever again.
Dan the Boss Man comes home late. His jaw's still hanging a little crooked from our last encounter. Fuck if I don't wanna tear it right off.
I pull my hoodie up and wait about a minute after he's gone in inside. A shy, leggy blonde runs up the stairs, and I'm right behind her. She jumps when she sees me, and I don't say a word, just take the door she's nervously holding for me and my crew.
We're in. And we've gotta move fast in case the girl decides to squeal on four big dudes climbing up the stairs with several big plastic shopping bags. She'll really flip if she sees the red canisters inside.
I let Mike go first when we're outside the fucker's door. He gives me a nod and works the lock, exercising all the skill I expect as my newest and last ever security appointee at Club Zing.
The latch pops open and we all file in. Dan's several feet away, standing at the kitchen counter, fixing himself a shot of some amber colored booze.
“What the fuck!” he screams, dropping the glass.
It's a helluva commotion, but it's too fucking late. I grab the asshole before he can make a run for the balcony. My hand pinches his jaw shut, and I give his teeth a rattle through his cheeks that lets him know I'll pop the sonsofbitches out if he does anything stupid.
Oh, except, I guess he already did.
My free hand tugs back my hoodie. I've got him in the living room, next to a big black recliner, and my guys all grin behind their matching hoods. Dan the Man starts squirming, trying to scream into my hand. I knee him in the guts and knock the wind right outta him, realizing I've got no patience for this horseshit.
“Shut the fuck up, kid. You know why I'm here. You just couldn't let it fucking go, could you? You had to snap our pics when our heads were turned and leak it to the paparazzi!”
Slowly, I draw my hand away, and tears start foaming at his eyes. “It wasn't me, Sterner! I promise, I swear – I vow to Christ!”
“Yeah?” I blink, barely even amused. “Who the fuck, then? You're telling me it was the tooth fairy?”
“My dad found out what happened. He wouldn't go down without a fight, he wanted to destroy you, wreck Spree's reputation.” Dan clenches his teeth, as if he's afraid to let out the rest. “I begged him not to put a PI on your tail, but he wouldn't listen. He hired some photographer from Hollywood, some guy who's damned good at getting celebs in compromising positions. I begged him not to, Sterner, I fucking begged. Please don't do this...please, please, please.”
He closes his eyes softly. I let out a long sigh.
It's a cute story, and the asshole's a mighty fine actor. Only problem is, my boys tell me Martin Jacobsen's been laid up for more than a month after a golfing accident. Slipped disk or something, the kinda pain that makes you too paralyzed to get pissed enough to fuck with someone else, much less hire some jackass to follow Claire and me down the coast.
“Sterner? Tyler?” His voice is so soft. “You believe me, don't you?”
“Sure, bud. I read you loud and clear.” I tighten my grip on his mouth, covering it as he starts to squirm. Then I look at my three guys and nod. “Burn this fucking place to the ground.”
My guys rip the gas cans outta their bags and pop the caps. Half a minute later, the living room reeks like a fuel tanker, and they're spreading out across the condo, pouring gasoline on everything.
The asshole in my hands completely flips his shit. He's shaking, biting, clawing at me like a rat in a trap. I just hold him down and make him watch. Tommy stops above what's probably his favorite chair and empties the rest of his canister on it.
When all three boys are finally standing next to me again, I pull my hand off his mouth. “Have you lost your fucking mind!?”
“You wanna find out?” I growl. “Everybody in here's gonna throw their fucking matches if you don't shut the fuck up. We'll pull the alarm in the hall as a courtesy to your neighbors, and let you roast. You'll have this building all to yourself while it goes up in flames.”
Blood drains from his face. “Jesus. God. I'm sorry I lied. You were right. I'm sorry I sent those cameras, Sterner, I'm so goddamned sorry.”
“Sorry? We're past apologies, fuckface. The only thing that's gonna save your ass from burning is making sure you never, ever do it again.”
He starts shaking his head. “Oh, no. I promise I won't. I'll swear on anything you want, on my own fucking life!”
Sighing, I grab him by the hair, lift his head up, and smash his forehead sharply on the floor. He sits up, dazed and confused, trembling as he takes the scene in. I'm not listening to anything 'til he gives me the look that says he knows we're mad dogs ready to bite.
I count to ten. Finally, it's there, clear and tiny as the pinpricks in his eyes.
“I'll level with you, Dan. I'm about to move a long ways away and I won't be here to fuck you up personally anymore.” Grabbing his head in both hands, I crane it 'til he's looking at my guys. “That's why I brought these boys along as a reminder. They're local. They'll be watching and waiting for you to fuck me, to fuck over Claire, and if you do...well, the matches come out next time. Maybe we turn your home to cinders, or just your old man's offices. Or maybe they just take you out to some pristine, isolated section of Cascades wilderness and blow your fucking brains out.”
He's shaking bad. Good. I can't fuck up again, threatening this asshole. I need him to believe every last thing I'm saying, make him fear for his life. Scaring his sorry ass straight's the only way to keep my girl safe for good.
And honestly, that's my only damned problem. Nothing else is. Not Bellingham, not my old man, not even Club Zing. Whatever happens to this stupid, sneaky little fuck isn't neither. I don't give a shit if he's traumatized and starts pissing his bed every night – that's for the shrinks to sort out.
“You can't do this, Sterner...you can't kill me...”
“I fucking can, asshole, and my boys will if you fuck up again. If you just simmer down and let go of my girl, live your life nice and quiet, I don't give a damn what you do. Bury my old man's company goddamned deep if he's really fucked up the environment like you claim he has. I don't care. This begins and ends with Claire. That's all this is about. And I hope for you
r sake you're smart enough to realize this is your last chance.”
“Oh my God, I am, Sterner. Thank you for this chance. I won't disappoint you, I won't screw up again. I won't –“
I knee him in the guts so he can't talk, then push him into a thick puddle of gas dripping off his soaked recliner. “Just shut the fuck up and get somebody in here to clean this shit up. Let's go, boys.”
We're gone. If I were a betting man, I'd say he'll never so much as think the name Claire Frost or Ty Sterner without smelling petrol.
The easy part's over. Now for the one that rips my fucking heart out.
One Year Later
Has it really been a whole goddamned year? Every last one of my boys had tears in their eyes when they dropped me at the harbor where the Alaska ferry docks. They hugged me like brothers, and I embraced them just the same, told them to take good care of my club, because it's theirs now.
A little legal wrangling helps make sure my old man will never get the place back in his name, and he'll never siphon much money away from it either.
Despite the warm sendoff by my crew, it's not them I'm thinking about when the ship pulls away from Washington's shores. It's not like it gets better when I land in Anchorage and start to settle in.
Their faces don't haunt me at night when I'm tossing and turning, or come to me during the day when I'm in the choppy Pacific, screaming at my new guys to reel in a catch before the old fucking net snaps.
I've tried to forget about Claire every way I know how. And it's all a miserable failure.
Every. Fucking. Way.
There are so many times when I just wanna pick up the phone and call her, assuming her old number still works. But fuck, she's gotta be heartbroken when she realizes I'm not locked up, and then shattered again when she finds out I'm gone. Weeks ago by without any contact, and soon that turns into months.
I never reach out. I fucking can't. And it guts me.
I can't be responsible for hurting her again. I'll kill myself before it happens.
Some nights, when I'm watching the snow fall down for what seems like forever, I get down on my hands and knees, praying her ma will just shake some fucking sense into her, help her scrub every waking memory of me outta her brain.
But I've read the headlines, and I've got a feeling the Congresswoman's got bigger worries, now that she'll have to work three times as hard to ever find a way into Washington again. Her politicking is just as fucked as Spree's profits.
My first winter here's the worst. It blows in lightning fast, not long after I find a place in the city to hunker into while I plan the rest of my life. I'm cooped up in a little place in Anchorage, drinking myself half-blind every night, working up the energy to drive and hit the slopes when Jack Frost stops trying to turn everybody's digits black.
Snowboarding helps me get used to the Alaska cold. Useful for handling the weather, yeah, but it doesn't do shit to help me forget.
Neither does bar hopping. A few times, I try to approach some chicks, and God knows it wouldn't take much work to haul 'em into bed.
I'm still Prince Charming. When you're built like I am and you know how to melt panties, you're set picking babes for life.
Alaska has tough guys aplenty, but the women have never seen a specimen like me. I can practically hear their panties splashing into a puddle at their feet as soon as I say “hello.”
It doesn't matter how drunk I am or how hot the girl seems. They all end up looking like ash by the time they're ready to pucker up and grab a ride to my place. I make up some bullshit about eating bad fish every fucking time, and I bail with my tail between my legs.
Maybe it's partly true. My poor guts are twisted up so bad I think my stomach's trying to hang itself. I'm sick – completely fucking ill – suffering withdrawals from losing Claire way worse than any junkie misses smack.
I can't get a handle on my guts 'til spring comes, and I'm able to get outside. There's work to throw myself into, and I work like a fucking dog with my first fishing crew, learning everything I can from the grizzled vets I've brought onto my ship.
We're out there for weeks, making hay while the precious summer sun shines across the cold Pacific. I get hooks in my hands and swept overboard a couple times. I've finally found something that makes my muscles beg for rest, and it makes me fucking stronger
Except it's not strong enough to burn away the memories of how we loved and fucked last summer.
I fight not to drown in this crazy new business, pitting men against nature's worst. And I muster everything I've got not to fucking die in my own lonely anguish, killed by my own black heart curdling my blood on those long, dark nights when we're sailing through the rain, exiled from everything I ever cared about.
I'm lost. Out there with backbreaking runs and constantly shifting waves, I start to question whether or not she was even real, or if it was some shit I just imagined so I wouldn't go insane leaving behind my billion dollar family fortune.
But there's no doubt about the last thing I've brought from my old life. The ring was in my pocket the morning we got our savage wake up call. It followed me to jail, and then to Alaska, haunting me like a goddamned vulture because it's everywhere except on my woman's hand where it belongs.
Fuck. Fuck.
Fishing season ends and we're about done counting our cash. It's no billion dollar empire income, but it might be seed money for a few new clubs in Anchorage, assuming I decide to go back to the night life and don't kill myself alone on those hellish waves.
I'm sitting on the dock late evening, holding the little black box in one hand. My grip's so damned tight I think it's gonna snap, assuming I don't flip my shit and hurl it out to sea first.
Not that it'll do me much good if I did. I know damned well I'll dive into the cool water and swim after it. I'll fucking suffocate beneath the Pacific before I surrender the last thing I've got that ties me to that woman, to the summer I'll never forget.
I can't believe how much time's passed, and how much it doesn't matter. It's one whole year since I left the lower forty-eight forever, and it's still slitting me wide open. I've fought like hell to forget her, and I can't anymore.
I do the only sane thing left.
I walk home and hit the website of the fanciest Alaskan airline I can find. I place my order, print out a ticket for a one week trip in her name, and then I'm at the post office, scrawling a quick note before I stuff everything in a big flat envelope.
My boys said she still lives with her ma near Tacoma, and I've got the address. Hoping their info's right is all I can do.
So is hoping she doesn't just tear the envelope open, see what I've sent her, and throw it in the nearest trashcan. I sure as fuck would if a big, stupid man left me high and dry for a whole year, without even a note by pigeon.
Actually, I know that's a load of bullshit. If she's been hurting a fraction as bad as I have, then I know she'll want to see me one more time, if only to slap me across my face.
And I'll fucking let her too. Anything's better than suffering in silence, living this dead, dull mystery I try to call my life. I'll turn the Alaska shores red with my blood, my rage, my explosive need to have her under me again before I give up.
I drop it in the mail and punch the old blue box once, telling myself it's only a fucking week. It might as well be another ten years.
I've given her my hand, and I hope to fuck she takes it. But if she doesn't, you'd better believe I've got another ticket with my name on it, straight to Tacoma, or wherever the fuck else I need to be.
I'll chase her to the ends of the earth, anything for closure, whether that means tasting her lips on mine again, or listening as they cut me to tatters.
XI: Reset (Claire)
One year.
One complete course of the sun across the zodiac, burning me alive, leaving me in darkness. The Taser hurt me so bad I'll never forget it, but losing Ty numbs my body a thousand times worse, and it lasts far longer than the sting of lightning coursin
g through my skin.
For an entire year, his loss, his silence, hurts. I can't let go until the next summer starts to fade, marking the onset of the chill that's bound to last a lifetime.
I'm so ready to let go. I'm all set to slowly, painfully forget him after hundred hour conversations with Dana during our phone calls and weekend getaways to Portland. Mom's gotten her crap together too, and the stuff she learns at her long meditation seminars flows to me, encouraging me to hold onto my sanity through the heartbreak.
She talks all about Zen this and Buddha that and yoga breathing exercises. It's refreshing not to hear a thing about politics, except when she apologizes and beats herself up over the stupid marriage to Gary, the one that was going to help send her all the way to the White House someday.
Mom feels guilty. She does everything she can to help, and I can't say I turn it down. We're into the holidays before I finally come out of my coma long enough to take work seriously.
I refuse to take another job with her connections. It blew up in my face last time with Cascades Now! and I don't need another disaster to make me think about Ty.
Of course, I can't stop thinking about him.
He reaches through my chest and tears my heart out every night. Every fucking day. I dream about the tropical warmth I found in his arms all winter, and sweat remembering our heart pounding sex when spring comes.
I've picked up some consulting work, mostly line editing documents and things like that. It's not much money, but I get to work from home, and I'm doing it on my own.
The clients like what I do, and I adore them because they keep my brain on channels that aren't set to constant heartbreak. I try to bury my nose in career books when I'm not proofing for cash. It usually keeps me going until dinner time, when I shut down to eat and cleanup for the day.
Then the memories come back to torture me. That's when I miss him, and wonder what the hell happened to make him give up on me for good.
