by S. L. Scott
My vision is spotty, a solid thought elusive. I struggle to stay alert, darkness wanting to overwhelm as my body is dragged into the bathroom.
Fight.
I try to kick my feet, but my socked foot slips because I can’t find traction on the floor. The water is turned on in the tub, and I’m dragged closer, my whole body controlled by one of his hands. “Cole!” I scream, tears streaking down my face, my heart racing. The pain in my scalp becoming too vivid to handle. “Please.”
“Please what? You ruined everything. Everything was for you.”
“Please stop.” He steps into the tub, pulling my body over the edge with him. As he slides down the tile, he cradles me against him, my back to his chest, his hand squeezing my neck, cutting off my ability to breathe.
Fight.
I tug at his arms, though I find comfort in the cool water as it creeps up the sides of my body. Every flail sends water flying over the edge as I fight for my life. Pushing off the other end with my feet, my body is slammed harder against him, the air punched from his lungs.
Black spots color my vision, the bright light of the bathroom beginning to dim under the pressure of death. Trying to recount how long it’s been since Jason ran out the door, I realize that time evades me under the struggle, and he may not be able to save me.
I always thought death would follow a filtering of flashing memories, the ones that made you happy through the years one lived, feel alive, and loved. I was lied to. Every regret I’ve had in life is given a front-row seat to my breaking heart, the memories forefront in my mind, the ones I would change . . .
I should be grateful for the time Jason and I had together. I’m not, though, because I’m in love with him. From a distance, my heart shatters to the ground as I watch him be the hero of the game. When he’s a few feet in front of me, he stops, reading my inner emotions. He’s always seen me too clearly.
I’m not ready to hear the words. I’m not ready to wake up tomorrow and know he’s not mine anymore. Is Cole right? I can’t hold him back, and if I don’t go, he’ll stay. I don’t want him to give up his dreams for me. His focus needs to be on football, not on a small-town girl from back home. “Hi,” he says, catching up to me. “I got the transfer.”
“Yeah, I know.” I try to sound disinterested to cover the sobs that ache to be set free.
“Hey!” I look back to find he stopped a few feet back. “What’s wrong?”
I choose to stare at the ripped-open envelope instead of the golden-brown eyes that will weaken my knees and my resolve. Stick to what’s best for him. Cole warned me,“Don’t become a hindrance he’ll regret one day. He’ll get rid of you as soon as he transfers anyway.” Think of Jason. Protect my heart.
Water covers my head, drowning the memories with the remainder of my life. The only way to express the immense love I’ll carry with me comes between coughing his name, “Jason.”
I push one more time, putting all the strength I can muster behind the effort. As water falls over the edge of the tub, it hits me. Cole’s muscles have softened, his hold on me released. As air enters my lungs, I cough even harder but scramble to escape. When I fall over the side, my shoulder hits the ceramic base of the toilet and my back the cold tile.
He mutters, “I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry,” through sobs that fade into the sound of the water draining from the faucet. Cole reaches for a gun on top of the toilet just as Jason kicks the door in. The gun goes flying across the small room and spins on the tile.
Quick to grab it, Jason takes me under my arms, pulling me free from the room. His face is fuzzy, his voice muted. “Say something, Delilah.”
Despite almost drowning, my throat is dry, and I roll to the side to cough. “You came for me.”
As my vision begins to clear, I watch as he kneels to lift me. I’ve never gripped him so tight, so desperately clinging to him. Setting me on the bed, he has the gun aimed at the door while whispering rapidly, “Go to Paul’s and wait for me. Tell him what’s happening.”
My boot is tossed next to me, and as I put it back on, I reply, “We’ll go together.”
“No. I’ll handle this. Go!”
I take off running. The front door now wide open, I push against the front screen door, then run down the steps and across the lawn. I don’t stop until I reach the field just beyond where the porch light reaches and hidden behind dead vines, I stop to catch my breath.
Tires grind against the gravel of the dirt driveway, and I peek over to see a car I don’t recognize. The windows are too dark to make out who’s inside, but when a door opens, a large man dressed in a short-sleeve dress shirt gets out and looks around. I drop to my knees, keeping my head lowered until I feel it’s safe to take another peek. Who is he?
I overhear him on the phone say, “I’ll take care of him.” Nothing about him is familiar, so I know he’s not from around here. He lingers on the porch, nodding, as he holds the phone to his ear. “Consider it done.”
My gaze darts back to the door where the love of my life is about to be ambushed inside. Jason needs to get out, so I have to warn him. But how? Paul and Lorraine. I need to call Whaley and get Paul’s help.
Taking his time, the man opens the door and goes inside. I start running away from the house, but don’t make it halfway through the field before I hear a gunshot explode inside the house, stopping me in my tracks. My breath stops in my chest. Jason.
My thoughts volley between the two houses. What do I do? I can’t lose Jason, so I turn around and back toward the house. Just when I reach the edge of where the floodlight shines, another shot causes me to duck and press myself to the side of the siding. My breath comes hard, and I try to regulate it so I’m quieter, keeping the sobs stifled inside.
The silence inside has me clamping my eyes closed, willing the tears to stay at bay. I have to fight. I have to fight for Jason and the future he promised me.
He’s my forever, and I’m his.
I refuse to lose him. Not today. Not ever again.
27
Jason
“Holy shit.” I’m pressed against the wall of the bathroom. With the gun cocked and ready, Cole cowers at the end of the barrel. I’m not sure if who’s in the house or who to be aiming my gun at. Someone’s not shy about making an entrance, and it sounds like something made of glass took the brunt of it.
Cole weeps with his knees tucked to his chest. “I don’t know what I’m doing, Jason.”
“Keep your voice down.” He’s a fucking mess. “Do you know who’s out there?”
“I wanted to die. I wanted to die with her.”
I have a good mind to put him out of his misery. The fucker shouldn’t live. He caused all of this. Lost years. Her pain. And then he tries to kill her. Drown her. I want to take him out so badly, but the two warning shots fired in the living room tell me he’s not the one I need to worry about.
The door to the bedroom is still open, but I managed to hit the lights before ducking back in here. I have Cole’s gun. One bullet in the chamber. Fucker. I’m guessing he intended to play a game of Russian roulette. My gun is in the truck out front, but that means getting out of here undetected to retrieve it. That might not be possible with this sack of shit still shivering in the tub. “Cutler,” I whisper between my teeth.
He’s useless as he dips lower, not even making an effort to save his own ass. My body stills when I hear the floors creaking through the house, my mind ticking through the escape routes of this house.
Front door through the living room.
Window to the roof up the stairs.
The back door in the kitchen.
I’ve become complacent. My mind rushing to the obvious instead of what I can actually get to undetected.
Two windows in either corner.
One larger one at the end of the hall.
Small horizontal window in the shower.
Fuck.
The windows in here are my only chance to get out. I just hope there’s not a
surprise waiting for me outside. When I hear another set of footsteps, I run. Needing all my strength, I set the gun on the bed, unlock the latch, and try to pull up.
Fuck!
The window is stuck. Yanking again, it doesn’t budge. I run my finger along the seam, and that’s when I see it’s been painted closed. Who the hell would do that? Glancing over to the other window, I see the same thing.
Fuck.
Fuck.
Fuck.
I grab the gun and head to the door. Backing up to the wall, the gun is against my chest, my finger loose on the trigger.
One bullet.
One.
Images of Delilah carefree swimming in the lake, as if there was nothing that could stop her from loving life, are tattered dreams of seeing her that free again. She deserves sunshine and happiness. A long life filled to the brim with it.
She’s who I’m living for, so I hope she’s long gone. Please to fuck, let her have listened to me this one time. If she made it, Paul will keep her safe.
I suck in a slow and steady breath that fills my chest, and then round the corner, running to the window at the end of the hall. I’m glad I’m not wearing boots because the rubber of my sneakers dampens the sound of my feet as I run. The fucking wood still creaks, giving away my precise location if you know the house as well as I do. The latch is released with one hand, and I reach down, pulling it open and dive out. I hit the grass and roll before maneuvering to the side and pressing my back against the chipped paint of the house.
My breathing is too loud. My body too slow to remember how to move when under fire. I’ve let myself go, trusting I was safe. Will I ever be? Have I brought danger here? Are they here to take me out? Or worse, Delilah?
I eye the large trunk of an oak tree. It will give me a better vantage point of the house and get closer to my truck.
Three.
Two.
One.
Running with all my strength behind me, I grab the tree and bring myself to a stop. The farmhouse has been quiet since they called out, “Come out. Come out,” and fired the two shots. I can’t see any movement through the open curtains of the living room, but I stay still anyway, needing time to think. Scanning the location of the truck, I have a good forty feet to cover just to reach it. Why’d I have to park in the wide open with nowhere to hide?
Fuck.
I keep to the shadowy parts of the lawn but am swift. If someone wants me dead, this is prime time. Skidding to a stop behind the tailgate, I duck down behind it, listening for any commotion outside or action inside. What the hell are they waiting for? If it’s Cutler they’re after, surely, they can hear him sniveling in the bathroom. The guy’s a blubbering mess in that bathtub, for God’s sake.
But if this is my penance for the sins I’ve committed, it’s going to be hard to escape. If I manage it tonight, when will the next attack take place? How did I ever believe I could find peace? Instead, I’ve put my heart at risk. Even my mom. Fuck.
I should have never come back to Solace Pointe. I led these monsters right to the only place I’ve tried to protect. I can’t get caught up in this loop. I need to clear my head and concentrate.
I hurry to the front of the truck, thankful I’ve disabled the internal light and that damn buzzing that comes on each time I open the door. I click open the driver’s door and grab my gun from inside a blanket shoved in the corner behind the passenger’s seat. Dropping to the back near the tailgate with both guns in hand, I focus on my breathing and set my mind in the right state. With long draws in and slower exhales, my heart rate finally steadies as well.
In the distance, across the field, I see the shining beacon of Paul and Lorraine’s front porch. With her safe, I take a gun in each hand ready for the battle ahead. One bullet in Cole’s. Six in mine. I’m definitely not as prepared as I like to be, but I’ll work with what I have.
There are seven opportunities to take down this intruder. Adrenaline pumps through my veins as I make mental notes on the vehicle from its color, make, and model to the license plate. Ready to take this guy out, I position myself so I can’t be seen from the house and peer through the truck windshield at the brightly lit front porch.
What. The. Hell?
As if I’m seeing my nightmare come true, Delilah runs onto the porch. Shit. I run to the front of the truck both guns ready to fire. “Delilah!” I whisper-yell.
But she’s too determined and makes it through the front door before she hears me. I run faster, not waiting for a perfect moment to take these fuckers down if her life is on the line. My heart is beating a mile a minute as I hear shots fired, but thank fuck no scream follows. What is this guy after because he just entered the wrong fucking house?
I take the front porch steps by three and have the screen door swinging open by the count of four. The lights go out when I hit the floor and slide between the couch and the coffee table. Crouched down, I listen for sounds in the house besides the door screeching with a loud bang when it closes.
A tap on my ass causes me to jump and turn around, aiming both guns right into the blue eyes of my girl. “You scared the shit out of me, Delilah,” I whisper, lowering my guns. “What are you doing?”
“I was coming in to help you. Thank goodness with you scaring so easily.”
I roll my eyes. “Funny. I told you to go to Paul’s and wait for me.”
“I was on my way, but then I heard gunshots and came back.” Her eyes are glassy, and she takes a shuddering breath. “I thought they were going to hurt you.”
“Now they’ll hurt you instead. Not a good trade-off. There’s no sense wasting time arguing over something we can’t change. I have to get you out of here.”
Footsteps draw our attention, so we still our bodies to listen. Glancing back at her, she points upstairs. I mouth, “You sure?”
She nods.
Leaning in, I kiss her cheek and then keep my voice low against her ear. “I’m getting up. You go to Paul’s and do not stop for anything. Do you understand?”
“Stay alive.” Kissing me, she whispers, “For me. I love you.”
“I’ll do my damnedest. I love you. Now go.”
As soon as she’s moving, I’m up, covering her as she runs back out the door, catching it with my foot before it clangs against the frame again. Then I hit the wall that leads upstairs, my guns ready to fire. Studying the staircase, I’m out of options. If they hear me going up there, I’ll be dead before I hit the landing. My other choice is to wait them out. I choose the second option as it seems to support me living longer.
Now I need to find the closest exit. The living room has no coverage, so I head for the kitchen. As soon as I do, I turn, staring right into the cylinder of a silencer. Fuck.
“Drop the guns,” he says.
I don’t recognize this asshole, so I don’t know what he’s capable of. I set the guns down because unfortunately, escaping isn’t an option when you’re staring into the eyes of the Grim Reaper. “Who are you and what the fuck do you want?”
“First off, save your questions. I’ll give you all the information you need, and in return, you’ll give me what you owe my boss.”
“Which is?”
He looks annoyed by my follow-up, but replies, “$57,850.”
“You must have come to the wrong farm because I don’t owe your boss, or anyone else, jack shit.”
He laughs under his breath. “Likely story. Look, don’t make this difficult. I’m just here to do my job.”
“Which is?” I repeat the earlier question, thinking I might be able to tangle this guy’s mind enough to distract him.
“Collect the money or serve a death sentence, Cutler. So pay up or say goodbye.”
“Cutler?” I can’t even find relief because leave it to Cutler to endanger all of our lives. “You have the wrong guy. He doesn’t live here.”
“If we had a dollar for every time we heard that—”
“If you’re going to hold me accountable for him, I want to
know why he owes you money?” Figures that fucker is responsible for this shitstorm.
Prodding the gun to my chest, he says, “This is his address, so if you’re not him, damn, sucks for you because I can’t exactly let you walk away.” Tilting his head to the side, he leans in enough for me to memorize every rotten feature of his ugly face. “So tell me. Who are you?”
I’ve learned how to play this game. They like dirt and to feel like you’re akin to them, one of them, not above. Their egos are too fragile for that. Keeping calm under pressure, I say, “I’m the guy fucking his wife.” The bitter aftertaste of those words lingers on my tongue. “Ex-wife.”
“Ex?” He sighs but doesn’t lower the gun. In fact, he nudges my nose with it. Asshole.
“Too bad. It seems you’re in the wrong place at the wrong fucking time.”
I hear the cock of the gun and hope to God Delilah is safely across that field. If I’m going down, it’s not something I want her to bear witness to.
A floorboard creaks, drawing his attention. Maybe Cutler will come in handy. Using the distraction, I jack my knee into his groin as hard as I can, causing him to fall just as he pulls the trigger. The bullet narrowly missing my ear when I drop to retrieve my guns. Both of us wrestle until I win, pinning him and standing over him with both guns aimed down—one at his head and one at his dick.
I kick his gun across the floor and then toe him in the shoulder. “Why does Cutler owe you money?”
“Shit card players shouldn’t enter backroom poker tournaments.”
“Stand. Slowly. Keep your hands up and visible.” I could shoot this guy in the head right now, but what do I do with Cutler? I’m going to have to deal with him differently despite my desire to end him.
“Look, buddy. I get that you’re not Cutler. It’s a simple mistake. No harm, no foul. I’ll just get out of your way so you can get back to fucking his ex.”
