by Hazel Grace
“I promised, didn’t I?” He exhales, remembering what that means—everything. “It’s always been us. Me and you, together. You’ve always had my back, now let me have yours.”
“You don’t know the full extent of what I’m capable of.” He begins traipsing back and forth again. “The things I’ve done to...guard you.” I pivot on my heels and grab my purse off the table-desk to find a box of cigarettes I keep handy for when I just need to take the edge off.
Taking out two, I hand him over one, and he gapes at me. “We’re in a hotel room.”
“And there is a balcony.” He walks over with me before we light our cancer sticks and take our first hit. The kids whose mom has cancer—Marty and I never seem to learn anything but the hard way.
“Promise me one more time,” Marty ventures, blowing out a cloud of smoke.
“Promise. A million times over, I swear.”
He takes another inhale of his cigarette, and on his exhale, he states, “We’re not related.” I choke—hard on my release, and Marty quickly comes over to me, patting my back gently. “And I killed your father.”
There is no mistaking what he just said, and my body immediately flees from his touch.
My back hits the black metal railing, and I gape at him—wide-eyed and shocked. Regret is written all over his face, and then it dawns on me what Mama told me.
He left us.
He didn’t want to deal with children and being a father.
I never asked any questions, even at a young age, because Mama and Marty were always enough. But this...no, I’m not doing this.
“I came to America at ten years old from a small country called Tolnova near Russia. My father was a peacemaker but was portrayed as a terrorist because he wanted to liberate us from Russian power. I remember him reading the Bible to me every night. How he would braid my little sisters’ hair and make them dolls.” He pulls his gaze from me and overlooks the wooded area behind our hotel. “A bombing was ordered over our town, it was late. I was out after my curfew with one of my friends. We’d do it often to go hunt or swim in a small pond nearby.
“I remember the planes, how loud they were, then all the explosions and screams that followed after it. Everything was on fire, smoke climbed over the treetops, and I knew it hit some of the village. I just didn’t expect it to be the whole village.”
I don’t speak, letting him take another puff of his cigarette before he speaks again.
“My family was killed that night. I never found their bodies. A day later, I was picked up by a group, they called themselves the Samaritans. They fed me, clothed me, taught me how to be a man. Told me of the man who killed my parents and sisters.” Marty turns to face me head-on. “Your father.”
My brows furrow at his accusation. The cavity of my gut sprains into a knot as I examine my brother.
I don’t recognize him.
I see him, appearing exactly the same, but everything he’s saying—they aren’t his words. They are someone else’s.
“They taught me revenge and how to obtain it,” he elaborates. “Pumped me with it for two years. All I knew was anger and madness, it fueled my veins. It gave me a reason to keep going. I finally saved up enough money for a round trip to take out the American who destroyed my whole family so I could come back home and heal. Then I saw you.
“You were wearing a pink dress with white lace at the bottom, eating a vanilla ice cream cone—with him. My mission was to kill your father and his whole family, but I couldn’t touch you. I fell in love with you the moment I laid eyes on you. You reminded me of my sisters, so innocent and sweet, but your father...I couldn’t...I couldn’t let it go.
“So when you went back to the playscape to go down the slide again, I shot him in the back of the head. You heard it, came running up with ice cream dripping down your hand and peered up at me with colored eyes that I’ve never seen before. You told me that I was going to get in trouble and that you were going to tell your mom.”
Marty scoffs and shakes his head. “You snatched my hand up and dragged me to your house, so I followed. I didn’t know what else to do because you were so adamant about getting me in trouble that I actually believed that I should’ve been. I remember meeting Mama; she listened to me admit everything I had done, and she asked me where I was from. It was history after that. She adopted me, had to shake and beat the hatred out of me, but I—”
“Mama would never beat you,” I snap.
My brother’s brows lift. “Wanna bet? I almost killed the neighbor’s cat because it scratched me. I beat the shit out of a kid because he called me dirty—dirty, Tsarina, a stupid-ass insult. I would kill anyone or anything if I felt like they would try to hurt me or make me feel a certain way. Everyone but you and Mama.”
“I don’t believe you,” I deadpan.
“You don’t believe me because you don’t remember. And you don’t remember because Mama took you to some head shrink and had the memories hypnotized out of you or some shit. You screamed at night, I laid on the floor to make sure that no one would come in and hurt you. I knew Mama wouldn’t but...I didn’t trust the new surroundings I was in and...I didn’t want to leave you because I was the reason you had nightmares.”
I take another drag of my fag and soak in everything he just said. It’s not computing, wrangled words that sound like a fucked-up plot of a movie.
“It’s...a lot.”
“Your father…” I center myself on the hotel across the street. “Was he really a bad man?”
Marty shakes his head out of my peripheral. “No.”
“How do I know that? What about my father?”
“He was the commander in chief to the president. He wasn’t super loved by the people, but he wasn’t hated either. He ordered three airstrikes on countries that were not approved by the president serving at that time.”
My jaw clenches. “How? How do you do something like that?” I flick my cigarette. “I don’t believe you.”
“I’m not sure, I didn’t stop to ask him. And it’s the truth.”
“How do you know it wasn’t ordered by the president himself?”
“I don’t.”
“Marty,” I choke, gripping the metal railing. “He could’ve been doing his job.”
“He wasn’t a good man, Tsarina. I have reports and documents showing that he overused his power. I knew that one day...I would have to tell you. That I’d have to come clean and risk the fact that you might hate me. It wasn’t hard to find—”
“Mama forgave you for this?!” A surge of anger courses through me, and I’m not upset anymore, I’m livid.
“Mama knew what kind of man he was. That’s why he was only allowed limited visitation with you.”
“I guess I wouldn’t know,” I sneer. “I can’t remember him.” I pivot to the inside of the room, but I don’t make it two steps before Marty has my arm and swings me around, promptly releasing it.
“You can’t leave here.” His green eyes drill into me, changing his whole calm and submissive behavior that he just exhibited.
“Yes, I fucking can.”
“No, you fucking can’t. Those Russians are still looking for me, and they know you and Mama might exist still.”
“What?!”
“When I showed up to your apartment in New York, remember, I was all bloody and shit?” I nod. “I got my ass kicked by a few of their henchmen and barely made it out. I probably have two broken ribs right now, but I’m not limping around because you’d never let that go. I set someone up in your apartment and Mama’s house to make my story stick. No one knows you two are alive. I lied, when I got captured before I came and—”
“Captured where?”
“Vegas.”
“Explain.”
“My buddy, Bishop—the Hulk, stop calling him that, by the way. We were hiding out and scoping out these Russian targets we were assigned to. Thought they could be here in the States for reasons they shouldn’t be. They...did some shit, and I denied
your existence. So I took you and Mama to Yellowstone and put other females in your place.”
“So we’re still in danger?”
“Until my team finds them, yeah. So you’re stuck with me, Tsarina, I’m sorry.” He rounds me, making his way to the door. “Lock this behind me.”
“I want to see Wade,” I blurt. My brother’s step halts, but he doesn’t turn to face me. I already know he’s leaning off the edge of no, but he’s in no place to tell me anything right now.
“I’ll text Emmy,” he finally says after a second. His hand reaches the door, but I stop him again.
“Marty.” He peers over his shoulder, sadness written all over his features. I stride for him, stopping when I’m about a foot away. “I want to see those documents and...I still love you.”
“But you’re leaving me.” My jaw hurts from keeping myself from breaking out into a sob or displaying that I’m a wreck right now.
“Not yet,” I reply. “But I would still like to see those papers so I can learn for myself.”
He bows his head. “Whenever you’d like, I have them on a USB.”
“Okay.” His finger brushes the side of my face in one soft swoop, and my father’s murderer leaves me along to let every single one of his truths seep into my brain.
The moment my hotel room door swings open, I’m off my bed and into Wade’s arms. He picks me up, my legs wrapping around his waist as he squeezes me to him.
“What’s wrong?”
“Everything,” I mutter into the crook of his neck. He smells like fucking peace and quiet, the same soothing cologne that he always wears.
“Tell me,” he states. “I can’t be here long, Sox. The press and—” My head pulls from my safe spot and around to his face. I don’t respond with anything but latching my lips to his.
Immediately, I’m coaxing his mouth open and realize in that moment how selfish and manipulative I am for calling an SOS for him to come to me because I need someone, all while he’s fake mourning his dead wife. He’s dealing with God knows what, and I’m throwing a fit over my brother never telling me that he, in fact, wasn’t my blood and Mama knew all along.
That he assassinated my father.
The people I loved the most—they all lied to me. Even the man in my arms is a fucking liar, and for some fucked-up reason, I can’t let any of them go.
The realization that I’m not strong at all nips at my brain as Wade follows me with a lust-filled kiss and his hands squeezing my ass.
I’m no different than anyone else.
“What’s wrong, Sox?” Wade asks me again, pressing his forehead to mine. “What can I do to help—”
“Just kiss me,” I deadpan before taking his lips again. I can feel the heavy exhales of his breaths through his nose hit my upper lip. The way his hard chest seizes every few seconds.
I still love you. I always will.
Wade breaks our kiss, letting me slide down his body as he places me down on the floor while his blue eyes study me.
“What did your brother do?”
“There is so much to explain, I—” My words are abducted from my mouth, and an overwhelming feeling penetrates through my whole body. Wade’s arms wrap around me, my cheek hitting his chest as he strokes my hair.
“You love that idiot,” he voices over me. “Things can be forgiven.”
“They are too big. Him and Mama...they made me forget things from my past.” I pull from him. “God, Wade...how are you?”
He nods, emotionless. “Fine.”
Bullshit.
“Do you need me for—”
“I need you to stay with your brother,” he replies. “Just...stay safe with him for me until I’m done with all of this.”
“Then what?”
His brows descend a tad. “You can’t be with me, if that’s what you’re implying.”
I pry myself out of his hold to fully meet his words and the shit I really don’t want to listen to right now. “You’re wanting to keep me at arm’s length now?”
“I have to.”
“That’s my decision to make.”
“And it’s mine to make sure you don’t get hurt again.”
“I didn’t ask you to come over here to just give me a hug and tell me everything is going to be okay.”
“Then what did you want me to do, Miss Shelton, fuck your sadness away for the night?”
My eyes narrow. “You know what...this was a mistake, Mr. President. I’m sorry you had to come here.”
“Don’t get all pissy with me,” he chides, taking a step in my direction. “Because you were right before. I should’ve never brought you into my life. You would’ve been so much better off. And vice versa.”
“Then why did you come? If this was always going to end in goodbye, you should’ve told me to fuck off.”
“Because I love you. And you’re a weakness. But with that comes liabilities, I won’t keep doing this with you in the mix. If people discover you, how I feel about you, a target will always reside on your back.”
“It’s worth it,” I retort. “It’s all—”
“Your death will not be worth it to me.” He shakes his head. “I can’t do this. I won’t do it. If you want to talk, speak, but I can’t keep running back to you. This has to be the last time.”
My face twists in disbelief. “You can’t mean—”
“Oh, I mean every word,” he vouches before straightening his spine. “Every single word, Sox. We’re the love story that never sees the happy ending. You’ll get one—someday. I want to keep you as my last.”
“Your last? You want me to move on while you get to hold on to us? You’re either a fucking idiot or selfish as hell.”
“Both, Sox...I’m both.” He steps forward, towering over my frame that’s on the brink of collapsing.
He’s leaving me for good.
His life is too vital to have to keep worrying about mine. I’m being selfish by wanting him to push that aside.
His lips find my forehead before he cups my face and tilts it to his.
“I love you, always have, always will. This is the best thing I could ever do for you. And, who knows, maybe one day you’ll name a kid after me.”
I scoff, and he meets my mouth with a gentle kiss.
“Goodbye, Shelton.”
One more brush to my face with his knuckles and he’s gone, taking everything I need to live with him.
♫ 99 Problems — Hugo ♫
Demi is buried.
Half of the country is mourning while the other half is all over the internet calling it karma for cheating on me with the enemy. Then you have the small ballsy amount that is already asking if I’m looking for someone, to call them when I’m ready for someone faithful, or they’d suck my dick for free—the generation Z kids.
Emmy has been keeping me on track with my day-to-day shit. I’ve been in more meetings and phone calls than I can count waiting for the Russian president to try and call my ass out for killing his plan. Technically, I didn’t do it, but everything that happens in this country is my responsibility, and I’ll wear that scarlet letter on my chest proudly. Demi should’ve just left when I told her to, but she thought she had her Big Girl panties pulled all the way up and could tackle espionage apparently.
I’ve been stuck talking to Marty over the course of two weeks while he keeps me up to date on these two men that beat his ass and are still roaming around somewhere. I don’t ask about Reagan—I can’t. I know he has his sister handled, and I’m not going to keep stepping into her life.
I’ve done enough.
She needs to heal, let it soak in, and be able to move on. I have to do the same. There’s nothing to hold on to but my memories and how I keep them with me at night. It’s safer that way. I love her too much to throw her into all of this, somewhere she never wanted to be in the first place.
“You’re officially free,” Emmy beams as she approaches me in the hallway. “All meetings are done, completed, and out of here.”
I nod. “Good. I’m going to go read.” Em perks a brow. The only thing I read is the newspaper, stocks, and the sports section.
“Okay. I have dinner ready for you.” She gives me a once-over. “You’re getting too skinny.”
“Calling the kettle black, Em.”
She shrugs, hugging her black leather binder to her chest. “Buy me Chinese and I’ll eat.”
“Dinner date tomorrow then?”
“Deal.” She pivots on her heels. “See you tomorrow, Mr. President.” I wave her off, not that she can see me, and make my way to my private corridors. Not only are they completely mine but the moment Demi was announced dead, Emmy had all her things removed. I swear to God that woman—I should just hand her over my job and wish her good luck.
Inside, everything is pristinely clean, my seating room is the first thing I walk into. Brown walls with gold etching and abstract pictures from some interior designer that comes in here from time to time to change shit up. Honestly, I don’t care what she does as long as she stays out of my way.
Taking off my coat, I toss it on one of the leather recliners, pop off a tumbler of whiskey, and pour myself a drink. My bed, that’s exactly where I’m going to spend the rest of the evening. Not the TV where my name is plastered everywhere a week after Demi’s death or the newspaper because I’m a topic somewhere—just my sheets and me.
I inhale my liquor as I stride to the back where my bedroom is, going through the private eloquent dining room perfectly set, but something stands out immediately.
“Hey, Yank.” Attired in a pin-striped button-up shirt of red and white with the God-forsaken Boston Red Sox logo on it, Reagan leans against the antique table, showing off her legs in denim shorts and a matching red Boston hat.
“Hey.” She doesn’t move, taking me in like I’m something she’s thinking about purchasing or eating. I’d do both to her, but I won’t. “How did you get in here?”
She nods behind her. “Through the window.” She smiles when my eyes narrow then retorts, “Emmy let me in.”
“Why?” It flies from my mouth before I can clamp the question down. It doesn’t deter her from propping her ass on the table, spreading the back of her knees along the edge and dangling her feet back and forth.
