What Lies Beneath The Flowerbed

by D. M. Thornton

  Blah.

  And there it is...the truth, something I don’t easily give up, which means that Jett has officially been bumped up on my friend’s ladder. He’s the closest to the top than anyone has ever been, and if we stop talking about this right now, I’m sure I can let this go and we can continue on with our friendly game of Pop Goes the Cherry.

  Nope, no such luck. Jett’s face drops as he looks at me with pity.

  “Fuck, Gray. I’m—”

  I press my lips to his to shut him up. The last thing I want to hear is how sorry he is for me. “It’s all water under the bridge, my friend. So, you see, there’s nothing anyone can give me that will help,” I whisper between kisses. “Don’t let my past discourage you. You have a gift, Jett, and I’m am most obliged to be on the receiving end, even if I don’t get the big surprise.” I roll on all fours and proceed to give him the most heartfelt kiss I can give, then push myself up. “If you will excuse me, I have to visit the potty.”

  As I breech the hallway, Jett calls out, “You hungry?”

  I glance over my shoulder with a smile. “Famished.”

  To be honest, I’m a bit overcome with emotion at the moment. The bathroom seems to be the perfect hiding place to pull myself together. I wash my hands and dab the cool water on my cheeks and down my neck, then pat my skin dry with the freshly laundered, divine-smelling hand towel before neatly folding it back up. I don’t think I’ll ever be able to shake the look Jett’s face molded into after I told him about my past. Which is the exact reason why I don’t share that part of me—well, one of the reasons anyway. Fudgsicle, he was sincerely upset by what I told him...rightfully so. I mean, any sane person would be. But in all seriousness, I have found what helps me cope with my scars, so it’s all good. Granted, my way of coping is not the norm and is frowned upon by, oh I dunno, everybody...but I think it’s a double win. Not only can I patch the holes within me, but I get to fill up the holes in my garden with assholes who shouldn’t be able to breathe the same air as you and me.

  I’m tellin’ you, you’ll thank me one of these days.

  I stand in the hallway for a brief moment and listen to the sounds of Jett clanking his pots and pans in the kitchen, taking in a deep whiff of the lovely smell of pasta sauce warming on the stove. It’s clear to me what I should be doing, and it’s not peeking my head around the corner to see if Jett will catch me as I dash down the hall to the bedrooms at the far end.

  Okay, I’d like to think that I’m not the nosey type, but who are we kidding? The last time I was here, I snooped through his bathroom. But, hey, can you blame me for being curious?

  I turn the knob to the bedroom at the end of the hall and quietly push it open, closing it behind me. I don’t dare turn the light on. The last thing I need is to draw attention to my digging around like a creeper, so I wander around the room in the dim light of the moon through the open blinds. From what I can tell, this must be Jett’s room. A neatly made king-sized bed sits centered on the main wall with a dresser on the opposing wall. The room is simple and immaculate with not one ounce of clutter. There’s a small stack of books on one corner of the dresser, but other than that, there’s nothing else to look at. I drag my fingertips along the books and lean closer to read the names that are printed on the bindings, but it’s too dark to see all but one.

  Profiling: The Psychology of Catching Killers by David Owen.

  Hm, interesting read.

  I opt to not bother looking at the bathroom. If it’s anything like the other one and this room, it’s surely to be marvelously clean and tidy. So, I tiptoe out of the room and take the step to the door next to the master. There’s still a bunch of noises coming from the kitchen, so thinking that I still have time to investigate, I push through the door.

  Now, I’m expecting to see a teenager’s room filled with rotting sports equipment, and I’m anticipating being assaulted with the smell of sweaty gym clothes, but much to my surprise, the room is home to a desk that’s sitting under a window. And on that desk is a computer. There’s no bed, no messy piles of dirty clothes thrown on the floor, and definitely no sign that a teenage boy lives here.

  My brain is spiraling with random thoughts, and my heart is pounding as the room begins to slowly spin around me.

  Oh my God. Was I right this whole time?

  Clearly, there’s another bedroom in this house that I’m missing because where else would Thomas sleep? But I don’t remember seeing another door. I mentally go through the layout of the house, checking off everything as I go. There’s a door off the kitchen that leads to the garage and from the kitchen is the living room. From the living room, there’s a hallway that has one bathroom to the right and two bedrooms on the left, but after that, there’s nothing else. It’s not a very big house. So where the fuck does Thomas sleep?

  Goosebumps spread across my skin, making me itch. Something’s not right here, but I don’t have the time to stand here to figure it out. If I don’t get out to the kitchen soon, Jett will come looking for me, and the last thing I need is for him to catch me roaming around his house without permission.

  I go to turn to close the door, but the light that’s cascading in the room from the full moon outside hits something small that’s sitting on the desk. All the blood in my veins whoosh through my ears, and for a brief moment, I think I’m going to heave up tequila shots from hours ago. I take a step toward the desk, then another, breathing in gulps of air. But when I stop in front of the desk and see my bracelet with the elephant charm, my breath hitches in my throat.

  Fuck me. Fuck me. Fuck me.

  I can’t breathe.

  I snatch the bracelet from the desk and stare, gravely, at it sitting in the palm of my hand. The confirmation of my paranoia has me gasping, choking, and spinning. My hands fly out to my sides, grasping for anything that can catch me from falling over, but there’s nothing to brace myself on, and as I spin around to flee from the room, I trip and land hard on my knees.

  Holy shitballs, I was right. I’ve said this all along, haven’t I? Didn’t I say that Thomas wasn’t Jett’s son, but a ploy to get close to me? I did. I said that.

  The bracelet slips from my hold and bounces off the floor, breaking upon impact, sending the beads scattering across the floor in the dark. “Shit,” I whisper to myself.

  Motherfucker.

  I fumble around on my hands and knees, trying to scoop up any beads that I can feel in the dark, but when Jett calls my name, I have no choice but to leave them where they lay and run out the door.

  Trying to compose myself is nearly impossible, but I have to try. It’s either that or I run out the door screaming like I’m being chased by Michael Meyers. So, I take a few deep breaths and walk into the kitchen like I have not just found the one piece of incriminating evidence that could potentially lock me away for life. But then again, if Jett’s had it for this long, why hasn’t he arrested me?

  The table is set with two plates full of pasta, a couple glasses of red wine, and a bowl of bread. Jett has one of the chairs pulled out for me, motioning for me to have a seat with a crook of his finger. With a weak smile, I sit down in the chair and place the napkin in my lap.

  Well, if ever there was a time that I needed to have impeccable acting skills, it’s right now.

  Please, Lord, do not fail me now. Just get me through this meal.

  “Wow, this looks delicious,” I say, waiting for Jett to take his seat.

  Before he sits, he cups my chin and leans in, kissing me fervently. “Now that was delicious.” He sits in the chair next to me and picks up his fork. “Bon appétit.”

  It takes me a long minute to gather my senses, but when Jett moans with his first bite, I quickly pick up my fork and stab at my pasta, stuffing it in my mouth with a vigorous groan. “So good,” I mumble around a mouthful of food.

  Jett laughs. “I like a girl with an appetite, but damn, sweetheart, don’t choke on it.”

  Wow, I’m a Neanderthal. I’m seriously going t
o fail the simple task of acting as if my life isn’t ready to implode at the hands of the man that makes a really mean spaghetti. Damn, this is good.

  Shitballs, I’m fucked.

  Jett wipes his mouth with his napkin then clears his throat.

  Oh boy, here it comes.

  “You can tell me to fuck off if you’d like, but how is it you came out normal, but your brother fell right into the life of mayhem?”

  Ugh, if he only knew how unnormaI am. Well, wait one minute, he probably already does.

  Yep, this is what I get for opening my big mouth. The questions are going to start rolling off his tongue like a Fruit by the Foot Fruit Roll Up, and I’ll have no choice but to answer them. I should have snuck out of the house when he wasn’t looking and ran for the hills screaming like my hair was on fire.

  I swallow the lump in my throat along with my food, and wash it down with an overzealous sip of wine. With a forced grin, I answer, “I’m not sure how I managed to stay clean of drugs. I suppose seeing the detriments of my mother’s actions made it blatantly clear that that was not a road I wanted to take. And I have never tried any...not even prescription. Besides, I was never sure when I was going to be attacked, so I needed to be in tip-top shape at all times...always on my toes. Blue, on the other hand, well, he was a hider...a masker. As far as I know, he was never molested. My mother despised anything related to being homosexual, so she would never have pimped him out. But that doesn’t mean he wasn’t traumatized by the whole thing. He was as easily as affected by it as I was. My mother sometimes would make him be in the room while it was happening and if he wouldn’t watch, her pimp would hold his head and inflict pain so he’d open his eyes and watch. I think he felt helpless, not being able to stop it from happening to me, which then resulted in him shooting up in order to escape...” I pause.

  Damn, I miss him.

  The thought of Blue makes my eyes burn with tears, but I won’t let them fall, so I clear my throat and add, “Anyway, Jaz was my escape. When my mother wouldn’t feed me, Jaz was there with food that she stole from her parents’ pantry, risking her own hide to help mine. When Blue OD’d, which was a lot, she was by my side, helping mend up the pieces. She’s been the one constant pillar in my life, the one person that I count on for anything.”

  Jett takes my hand. “I’m so sorry.”

  “It’s fine, really.” My lips press in a thin line. “But, thank you.”

  “So, where does Andi fit in all this? Has she been around as long as Jaz?”

  I shake my head. “No. She came into the picture by chance some years back. She was in an abusive relationship that I helped her get out of. I guess you can say it came full circle...being able to help someone after always being the someone who needed the help. We clicked immediately, and the three of us have been connected at the hip ever since.”

  Jesus Christ, someone stick a sock in my mouth and cover it with duct tape so I shut up already!

  In hopes of switching gears and ditching the spotlight, I say, “Enough about me. What’s your story, Jett?” I take a bite of pasta and wait.

  Jett swallows what’s in his mouth before answering. “Don’t really have one. I was born to David and Leila, am an only child, and graduated from college summa cum laude. Joined the academy and worked my way up to homicide. Pretty boring, if you ask me.”

  Funny, I’d take boring any day of the week.

  “And your wife?” I ask. “How’d she die?”

  There’s a long pause. “Murdered.” His face droops as if he’s remembering the details of her death. His face resembles my own when I think about Blue, but what he says next surprises even me. “I wanted to catch that motherfucker and kill him myself, but he vanished into thin air. Poof,” he says, using his hands as two pretend puffs of smoke.

  Good Lordy, he said he wanted to kill the guy himself. Could we really have that in common?

  It’s my turn to apologize. “I’m so sorry.”

  “Thank you.”

  “How long ago did she pass?” I ask.

  “A few years ago. I begged and pleaded my lieutenant for the case, but they said because I was the victim’s...” he pauses to compose his emotions before saying, “Because I was her husband, I couldn’t investigate. So, when they weren’t looking, I did my own little investigation. It took me awhile to find him, too long actually. By the time I got my ducks in a row and was able to convince whoever would listen to me, the guy was gone. Never to be seen again.”

  “What was his name?”

  Oh, I’ve got a bad feeling about this. Why ask then? Well, because I’m a sick fuck who wants to confirm that I’m batshit crazy.

  His face is stoic when he states the name of his wife’s killer. “Lloyd Dawson.”

  My skin crawls with goosebumps as the name saturates my ears. I remember him well, he was a fun one to kill, but I can’t say that, now can I? I suppose I did Jett a favor, but again, I can’t share that little tidbit of information with him. He might have said he wanted to kill the fucker with his own hands, but that doesn’t mean he would understand what I do. Most likely he’d still haul my ass off to jail.

  “Well, maybe he’ll turn up, and you’ll be able to get your revenge.”

  Jett’s eyes bore into mine, hot and smoldering. “I’d love nothing more, but I highly doubt it.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “Because I’m pretty sure he’s buried in the dirt by now.”

  My core ignites, and I’m certain that if Jett were to touch me right now, I’d burst into flames. I’m not sure why the idea of him knowing that that asshole’s buried in the dirt turns me on, but it does. Especially because I know he’s beneath my dirt...under my flowerbed. If I didn’t think it would raise a warning flag, I’d straddle his lap, right here at his dinner table, and take him for a ride. And I bet I’d be able to get off.

  But that’s taking things a bit too far, so I can’t. And I won’t. Instead, that’s my cue to leave because if this conversation gets into any deeper waters, I’m going to be up the creek without a mother-fucking paddle.

  I neatly fold my napkin and place it on the table as I push my chair back. “I hate to eat and run, Jett, but I have to get going.”

  He takes my hand and kisses my palm. “Why don’t you stay? Stay with me tonight.”

  A smile tugs at my lips. I pull my hand from his and cup his face with both of my palms. “I can’t tonight. I’m sorry.” I kiss him, slipping my tongue into his mouth and swirling it around his before letting go with a smack. “Maybe next time,” I whisper.

  If there is a next time.

  Chapter 38

  Gray

  Mother-effer, I am not a happy camper at the moment. The last thing I want to do is go to Jack’s to meet up with the faculty from school. Don’t get me wrong, I’m sure they’re swell and all, but I have no desire to shoot the shit while tossing ‘em back with people I could give two licks about. But I gave Mr. Baker my word, and I’m not one to go back on it. So, I’m going to pull up my big girl panties and go, and drink myself into a stupor so it makes my time with these people go faster. Ah, but I can’t. That’s not the type of person I portray on a daily basis, which means I cannot drink myself into a stupor, but instead need to be a polite, well-respected lady.

  Boo.

  It’s eight o’clock on the dot when I pull into the parking lot of Jack’s bar, and when I walk inside, the only person I see is Mr. Baker. He waves me over with a beaming smile, and I instantly want to vomit in my mouth. He stands as I approach the table and pulls a chair out for me. “Thank you,” I say, sitting down.

  “You’re welcome,” he chimes.

  I feel one side of my lip curling up into a snarl, so I bite the inside of my lip trying to keep it at bay. “Where is everyone?” I ask, scanning the bar. There’s no other faculty member here. Not a one...besides ol’ beady eyes himself, and I’m beginning to wonder if this was all a ploy to get me here...alone.

  Mr. Baker’s grin is apol
ogetic in the sorry-not-sorry kinda way. “Unfortunately, the others had to bail out at the last minute. So, it looks like it’s just you and me.”

  Well isn’t that just fucking convenient.

  “Oh, okay. If this isn’t a good time, Mr. Baker, I’d be more than happy to do a raincheck.”

  “Please, call me Jefferson. And we’re already here, so we might as well make the best of it. I hope you don’t mind, but I ordered us a glass of whiskey.”

  Jefferson? That’s the gayest name I think I’ve ever heard. Jefferson Baker. And not just Jeff, mind you, but Jefferson. Oh, good God. And have I ever given you a description of our boy Jefferson Baker? No, I don’t think I have. Well, he’s tall—in the abnormally twiggy kinda way. I swear his arms hang down to his knees, and his hair...well, let’s just say he gives Donald Trump a run for his billions. His face is framed with wire-rimmed glasses that are too big for his face and his teeth need, easily, thousands of dollars’ worth of work. Yep, this mo-fo is a troll.

  I take the glass from Jefferson’s hand and slam it back before he can come up with some lame ass cheers speech as to why we’re here, wincing and wrinkling my face as the warmth of the alcohol burns the back of my throat on its way down. When he sees that my glass is already empty, he makes a funny, irritating noise in the back of his throat like he’s surprised that I cleared my glass in one swift chug. Hey, bitches, I don’t sip on anything clear or amber-colored that sits barely an inch at the bottom of an oversized shot glass. Besides, I hate whiskey, so the only way to drink it is in one gulp.