by SM West
“Ry.” I wasn’t prepared to have this conversation and didn’t know if I ever would be. “I’ve missed you too.”
“When are you coming back?”
“I don’t know.”
My chest constricted, the impulse to hang up fierce. I was so out of my depth. I could barely dress myself, let alone talk to the love of my life.
“How are you?” he tried again.
“Fine.”
“I have news. I’d rather tell you in person. Since that’s not possible, and I don’t want you to hear this any other way…” His tone had shifted. He’d picked up on my reluctance and was now professional. Distant. “Bobby’s dead. There’d been an attempt on his life about a month ago and he’d been placed in solitary confinement for his own protection. They screwed up and released him after thirty days. First day back in gen pop and he was stabbed to death. We’re thinking retaliation for your father’s death.”
The news didn’t faze me. Numb, not even relief. At least, the pending divorce was now moot. Of course, like the bloodsucking asshole that he was, Bobby had contested the divorce. Now, it didn’t matter.
Ry’s mention of retaliation peaked my curiosity. An inkling of a notion, like I knew something but I wasn’t sure what, nagged at me. Unable to shake the feeling, I pressed for details.
“Why do you say that?”
“It looks like your father’s organization believes Bobby killed Warren.”
“Is that true?”
“Look, Tate, I can’t share any more details with you. It’s an ongoing investigation,” he stated matter-of-factly.
“Of course, you never trusted me to begin with, so why start now,” I clipped, regretting the instant the words left my mouth.
“Tate, trust has nothing to do with this and you know it,” he said exasperated.
“Look, I have to go.”
“Sure,” he said in disbelief. “Tate, don’t be a stranger. This is my personal number, call me anytime.”
“Thanks for calling,” I said, hurriedly, ending the call.
My breathing was ragged, my heart raced and I was flushed. A restlessness was taking hold, twisting and coiling around my insides, tightening with each breath. I was coming alive or at the very least, it was a temporary awakening. Filled with this sudden edginess, I jumped out of bed, forcing myself to take a shower.
Max found me seated on the couch, staring blankly. My jolt of energy had quickly died. My beasts of burden were dead, yet I was numb. Why didn’t it matter to me?
Max was ecstatic to learn of Bobby’s death. I wished I felt his joy, but it never came. My reaction puzzled him. He dragged me out of the house. By the time I realized his plan, it was too late. He’d taken me to a therapist.
Dr. Garfield Farnham was in his late fifties with round wire spectacles and long white hair tied back in a ponytail. My first hour-long visit was brutal. Most of it spent in silence. He sat patiently, writing notes. I crumbled in the last fifteen minutes, telling him Max had it all wrong, I didn’t need a therapist.
“Why does your brother think you need to talk to someone?” he innocently matched my statement with his question.
Like a waterfall, I spilled about my inability to get out of bed and the excruciating pain. Dr. Farnham was good, one sly devil. So good, I kept going back for daily, hour-long sessions for three weeks straight. Our sessions prevented my deep, dark depression.
He helped me work through all the abuse. Something I’d thought I handled until we started talking about it. My anger and pain were still alive and well. I battled those demons again. This time in my heart and head.
Obliterating the emotional bonds of my captivity and abuse, I finally found true freedom. A deluge of tears sprung forth as I talked about the deaths of my father and Bobby.
I mourned the black pall over my childhood. The devastating loss of a father I’d adored, only to be replaced with a manipulative, oppressive man. The bondage and brutalization of my body and mind at Bobby’s hands. The cruel theft of my youth and the ruthless violation of my heart and soul.
My uncontrollable sobbing for so much loss and the realization they were dead, forever gone, never able to hurt me, control me or defile me again, slowly eroded the darkness.
He also helped me come to terms with Griffin’s death. I’d been grieving him for many years. Stuck in this no man’s land. Losing him ripped me open and filled me with guilt, regret and anger. In many ways, it also kept me alive. Doctor Farnham helped me get unstuck. He helped me through the final stages of my grief. I realized having Griffin in my life, even briefly, was a gift. Without ever having known him, I’d have never loved him and that would have been the greatest loss.
I finally decided to go back to the US. As much as I adored Max, he had his own life and needed to focus on his studies. My first step was deciding where to go. I wasn’t ready for New York or Ry.
Then my destination just came to me. It wasn’t a conscious choice, more like a calling. At the time, I didn’t understand the strong need to go there. Later I would realize why. Again, I reached out to the one person motivated to keep me away from Ry. And again, Gia came through, getting me approval to go to California. She even told me where to find Coop. At this point, the FBI were still ensuring my safety as they wound down the case. Watching me was more formality than necessity.
Once my destination was determined, Dr. Farnham helped me find a therapist so I could continue my sessions. Dr. Jane Elliott is a warm and kind person who never fails to get me to face myself and my demons without judgment. In fact, in this morning’s session, she suggested switching from daily to weekly sessions. Her way of telling me she thought I was ready, but not pushing me until I felt I was.
Looking out at Patrick and Coop throwing the football, chatting and laughing, I’m glad I came. At the time, it was the right decision. Now, I’m restless again.
I have a life here. Uncomplicated, and some might say boring, but it’s mine and mine alone. I bought a house on Mullholland drive, and am working from here. I’ve immersed myself in L.A.’s gallery scene and even befriended several artists and gallery owners.
“Hey Tate, steak or shrimp?” Coop’s voice cuts through my thought. He’s manning the grill.
“Shrimp.”
Being here has been good for me. I miss Ry immensely. We haven’t spoken since his call when I was in London. And after that, he texted several times, but I never responded and he eventually stopped. I don’t know what he’s doing or if he’s with someone.
I sometimes ask Coop or Patrick, even then, I don’t push because I don’t want to get into it with them. All the things I have to say should be said to Ry. I need to talk to him. Soon.
“So, we leave in a month,” Patrick states, as we sit down to dinner. It’s just the three of us. Something we often do.
“Then what?” I ask.
“I’m going back to New York,” Coop chimes in. “I’m counting the days till Leanne.”
“How is she?” I ask. Coop hasn’t seen her in months and it’s obvious he’s going stir crazy. This life can be hard on relationships. Coop loves his job although sometimes I catch a glimpse of his loneliness, his longing.
“She’s good. She’s in Philly right now visiting her mother and sister.”
“What about you, Patrick?” I ask.
“Not sure yet. I guess another case. I’ll head home to New York first.”
“What about you, TT?” Coop asks. “You staying out here or heading back to the city?”
“That’s a good question,” I answer wistfully. “Most likely, although Freddie wants us to open a gallery here. Julia likes the idea so I might stay and get it off the ground. Hire and set things up.” Freddie’s a friend and gallery owner.
“Will you work with Ry, again?” I ask without thinking. Coop cocks his eyebrow in his knowing way.
“Don’t ever tell Ry this, but I miss him,” Coop admits.
“Hey fucker, what about me?” Patrick fake pouts.
“Aww, Patty Cakes, I love you man, but Ry’s got my heart.” We chuckle. Both Coop and Patrick have no qualms admitting they’d die for Rylan Wolfe. They have a special bond with him. I know exactly what that feels like.
“What about you? You going back to see my man?” Coop pushes.
“I don’t know.”
“TT, I’ve said this before and I’ll say it again. I’ve heard the way my man talks about you.” He tips his beer bottle towards me. “You’d be a fool to walk away from that. Talk to him, girl.”
“I don’t know,” I repeat. “I’ve got all these intense feelings and I don’t know how he feels.” Coop gives me this don’t bullshit a bullshitter look.
“Oh, girl, you’ve got it bad for my boy,” Coop quips. Patrick clasps my hand and squeezes.
“Don’t bail on him before you’ve even gotten started,” Patrick says.
“ARE YOU GOING TO DRINK that Guinness or cry in it?”
Lifting my head, I glance at her twinkling aquamarine eyes. Carys smirks in her knowing, taunting, way. One hand wiping the bar, the other cocked on her hip. She’s such a brat. But she’s my brat.
“You’re one to talk,” Ma chimes from the other end of the bar. “You two are a bunch of sad sacks moping around. I’ve had enough of this.”
Tossing her hands in the air, she joins Carys, standing side by side behind the bar. They could be sisters with their lustrous, raven locks, pale, smooth skin, full red lips and stunning eyes. Carys is the spitting image of Ma, except for their eyes. Where Carys’ are a captivating blue-green like the ocean, Ma’s are a cornflower blue.
My mother’s one fine looking woman. At fifty-five, she easily looks a decade younger, and throw in her fit form, witty comebacks and classy demeanor and you’ve got one hell of a woman. And when she smiles, that blinding exuberance, you don’t stand a chance.
I can’t help but be buoyed by her spirit. No matter what life’s thrown her way, she always rises above it. It’s no surprise men flock to her. On numerous occasions, I’ve had to get of rid potential suitors, young and old, trying to pick her up. While flattered, she’s never taken anyone up on it. Thank goodness. I shudder to think what I’d do if she did.
Ma gives both of us the look. As young as I can remember, I’ve feared her look. Her no-nonsense, listen to me or else, look. We straighten, keenly watching and listening.
“I’ve had enough of this. Rylan Adam, I’ve got no clue what’s going on with you. All I know is that I’m tired of your constant scowl and nasty mood.” Carys looks at me with her childish, it’s you not me snigger when Ma turns on her. “And you, young lady, it’s time to stop the frowns and one-word answers. Evan will…”
“Ma, I told you not to say that name,” Carys wails.
Van’s been missing nearly a year now. Carys is heartbroken. We’re worried and when my sister isn’t within earshot, we speculate about the situation. Ma, forever the optimist, is hopeful for his return with some explanation that will make it all better.
Having Ma in your corner makes you invincible. She’d never turned her back on her kids. Van is just as much hers as we are. If only he knew that he had her support. Perhaps that would change things? Bring him back?
I wish he’d contact me. I’ve endlessly looked for him. I’ve covered a lot of ground, but nothing. It’s like he’s vanished off the face of the earth.
“Listen.” Ma raises her finger, pointing at Carys. “Evan will come back. I’m sure it’ll all work out. In the meantime, for the love of the almighty, would the two of you just get out of my bar. You’re bad for business.”
“Alright, Ma.” Leaning over, I kiss her cheek and pull her in for a hug. It’s best to placate her when she gets like this. “I’ll call you tomorrow.”
Tagging Carys around the neck, her body hits my chest, “Want to come over and hang out?”
She’s been living like a hermit, and while I don’t feel much like company, I make an exception for her. Her eyes hold mine for a few beats, her gratitude evident, so is her need to be alone. Shaking her head, she hugs tighter.
“Night, Twinkie,” I tease, kissing her cheek.
She lightly slaps me on the back, hanging on for longer than usual. She’s lost weight and she didn’t have any to lose. Like me, she’s in a low place right now, struggling to figure shit out. I’d like nothing better than to help her.
***
THE OUTSIDE AIR IS CRISP, not too cold. I welcome the night walk and solitude. Night’s always the worst. When the ache in my chest is unavoidable. Alone with my thoughts of Tate Conrad. She may be thousands of miles away, but she’s never too far from my thoughts. My heart hurts.
I’ve tried to tell myself the pain is indigestion. I know better. She’s ruined me. We haven’t seen each other in seven months. I should be moving on. Letting go. Try as I might, I’ve been grossly unsuccessful. Glancing at my watch, it’s just after midnight, still early on the west coast. It’s then I decide to call Coop.
It’s a weird kind of torture but something I can’t deny. Coop tells me about her, how well she’s doing. My absence in her life hasn’t deterred her from thriving. It’s bittersweet. Fuck, Ma’s right, since when did I become this douchebag?
“Hey Coop, what’s up?”
“Ry, I’ve got good news. I’ll be back in the city in a month,” he says.
“Fuck, it’s about time.”
“Ain’t that the truth. So, what’s up?” he asks, like me, not one to beat around the bush.
“How is she?”
Last time we spoke, he mentioned she’d been on some dates. I almost stopped breathing, quickly tossing the phone before smashing it to smithereens. This new side of me, this jealous man I’ve become, seriously pisses me off. I don’t want to hear more about her dates.
“She’s good. Still not sure about staying or going. I think she’ll leave. She gets this look in her eyes when we talk about leaving.”
“So, you’re a mind reader, now? You just look in her eyes and know what she’s thinking,” I reply sarcastically.
I want nothing more than to believe him. The last time I spoke to Tate, it had been strange and painful. While separated by the Atlantic Ocean, our conversation seemed worlds apart. The vast body of water was a drop in the bucket, so small and possible compared to the reality we were faced with.
“Easy man,” Coop’s tone is firm yet understanding. “Shit, you got it bad.” No shit, Sherlock.
“Fuck, sorry. Where is she now?”
“She’s out with Patrick.”
“What the fuck? She’s out with Tripp, again? Shit, every time I call, they’re out.” My jaw tightens with the overwhelming need to destroy something.
“They’re close. Friends. They share a loss and have memories to share. If I didn’t know any better, I’d think you’re jealous,” he chuckles.
“Fuck you, asshole,” I sneer. That’s what I’m worried about. They share an enormous loss and while I want them to heal, I don’t want them to lean on each other if it means they end up together. I’m a selfish bastard. “Sorry man, I shouldn’t have called.” This conversation is not going how I planned. “I’m in a lousy mood. Later.”
My sleep’s restless. No matter what I try, it doesn’t come. Fuck, this is the first night of a two-week vacation. I’d been forced to take the time. The higher-ups insisted before I start another assignment. Seems my shitty mood didn’t go unnoticed at work either.
During the painfully slow hours of the night, I realize that Tate’s my first. First relationship. First heartbreak. First love. The power of love, soul mates and all that shit was never for me, but there’s no denying, nothing about us is casual or fleeting.
She’s not an experience for me to grow and learn from for my future relationships. She’s not some rose-colored memory for me to pull out and look back on fondly and lament my youth.
She is it for me.
My first love.
My last love.
My only passion.
Lying in bed, the shadows lengthen and fade as the sun rises. With the dawn of a new day, I know what I need to do. Perhaps it’s rash. I’m tired of waiting. I’m a man of action. I’ve been acting like a pussy for months. No more.
Bleary eyed and grumpy, I spend the day tying up loose ends, packing and telling my family about my plans. I’m on the red-eye to California that night.
I sleep for most of the flight, energized upon arrival. Coop’s tall, fit frame is easy to see by the baggage claim. He’s all Californian in khaki shorts, a black tee, shades and his pearly whites beaming at me. Shit, it’s been over a year. I’ve missed him. We do a quick bro hug, slapping each other on the back, both of us grinning.
“Damn, I almost forgot what your ugly mug looks like,” he quips, grabbing my bag.
“Right back at you, man,” I volley, taking my bag back. We’re always quick to out macho, out maneuver or out do the other. It’s just our thing.
“Suit yourself,” he mutters, leading the way to his ride. A whistle of appreciation passes my lips at the sight of his beauty, a cherry-red Corvette.
“Now this is a sweet ride.” Coop’s smile says it all.
We drop my things at his place and grab breakfast before heading out for the day. He’s living in a three-bedroom ranch style house on the beach. It’s beautiful, spacious and the view is stunning.
One of the very few perks of being undercover can be the part you have to play. If you’re a low-life scum, you’re surrounded by only dark, dingy and dangerous. It sucks. On the other hand, if you’re meant to be filthy rich or well off, you’re showered with the finer things in life. Coop’s certainly living with the best that life has to offer.
Staring out at the water, I battle my will. I desperately want her, but I haven’t asked yet. She’s the unspoken reason why I’m here. And no surprise, Coop’s not going to make this easy. He’s waiting for me to ask, to tell him what it is I want.
It’s early evening by the time we get back to his place. We spent the day touring LA and now, we’re ending it with two huge steaks on the grill and beer in hand. I’ve showered after a day in the sun and a quick dip in the pool. Still no sign of Tate or Tripp. It’s time to man up and ask.
