by Zoey Parker
“I’m full of them.”
“What else you got?”
“Let’s get this dress off you and we can find out together.”
She frowns. Reaching up, she puts her hands against my chest and pushes me. I let her separate a few inches, but she’s not getting away just yet. “You really shouldn’t be saying things like that. Not here.”
“Where, then?”
“I don’t know. Not here.”
“Come with me.”
“I told you. I can’t.” I notice that she isn’t pushing anymore. Her hands are resting lightly on the muscles of my chest.
“I don’t see why not.”
“I’m engaged, for starters.” She raises a hand to show me the diamond ring glittering there. It’s lost just a touch of its sheen, like it has been a long time since she got it.
“To Grady.” It’s not a question.
“Yes, to Grady.”
I glare at the ring, then look back up to her. I take a moment to watch the light sparkling behind her eyes. It’s way more interesting than any shiny rock. “Do you love him?”
“We’re engaged, aren’t we?”
“You’re not answering the question.”
Her hesitation says everything there is to say. Of course she doesn’t love him. No one could love a pig like Grady. Especially not a beautiful, intelligent girl like this one. It’s a miracle she isn’t crumbling in my arms. She’s the most delicate thing I’ve ever held. She deserves better than the egotistical asshole milking my club for hush money. She deserves better than being slapped in the face.
She deserves me.
“Come home with me,” I say again before she can decide what to say to my first question. “Right now. No turning back.”
Her eyes narrow. “You know I can’t do that.”
“No such thing as impossible. I break rules for a living.” I give her a wink.
She’s wavering. I can see it, printed in her pupils like skywriting. There’s something here, and it’s more than just the horny pulse of two people who know they’d have one hell of a time fucking each other. There’s a lot more to it—layers, depth, oceans of possibility that deserve a careful and thorough exploration. I let my hands on her hips do the talking. Come with me, they’re saying. You know you want to.
“The fuck is this bullshit?” an ugly voice thunders. I cringe and look over Kendra’s shoulder to spot the last person on this planet I wanted to see.
I twirl Kendra and push her against the wall next to me, raising my arm across her chest as if to protect her.
“Grady,” I growl by way of introduction.
“Mortar Matthews, you outlaw piece of shit, get the fuck away from my girl.” He is a red-faced snarl, all twisted nose and splotchy cheeks. I’m close enough to count the blood vessels in his nose that are busted and bleary from years of hard drinking. He’s big in every direction, but I’ve yet to meet a motherfucker in this life who scares me. He comes to a halt in front of us. His nostrils flare like a bull’s.
“And you,” he bellows, turning to Kendra, “you fucking whore, what the hell do you think you’re doing?”
She starts to answer, “I wasn’t doing—” but Grady cuts her off by pressing a hand across her mouth. His fingertips dig into her cheeks with force as he yanks her face close to his. Spit flies from his mouth while he talks.
“If I ever catch you near this scumbag again, I’ll gut you like a fucking fish,” he hisses.
“Asshole,” I interrupt, “don’t lay a fucking hand on her.”
“Do you know who the fuck I am?” Grady tosses Kendra aside and extends to his full height, cracking his knuckles together. “I’m a cop, motherfucker, and you’re a law-breaking shitbag. I can do whatever the fuck I want, and you don’t get to say a goddamn word about it, understand me?”
There aren’t words in this world to describe all the things I want to do to this son of a bitch. My pulse is pounding a harsh beat against my temple. I know without looking that the vein there is standing up like bridge cables. I’m open, wide, flowing with electricity, ready to rock this motherfucker across the face the second I see a window.
I open my mouth to respond, but a hand claps down on my shoulder. I look left to see Croak. He is unsteady on his feet, but his eyes are icy. “Come with me, Mortar.” His hands are a vise on the back of my neck. I give Kendra one last look before submitting to Croak and following him to a secluded couch in the far corner of the patio.
The adrenaline sighs from my bloodstream, frustrated and pent-up. It wants release. Hell, I do, too; I want to release my fist into Grady Freeman’s ugly mug.
I can’t believe I’m leaving Kendra with that fucking asshole. I’d slay to get her away from there. But for now, I don’t have a choice. I just have to trust that she can take care of herself.
Croak sits me down and settles in across from me. He hitches up his jeans, laces a boot, brushes some imaginary dust off of his knee. I can’t stand when he does this shit. He knows I hate waiting, hate sitting here brewing silently while he just lets the pressure cooker I call a skull heat up and up.
Finally, he leans back with a sigh and crosses his arms. “I was sorry to hear about your brother, Mortar,” he says.
“It’s nothing,” I growl. I’m squeezing my fists, but the fight is starting to slip from me. There’s nothing to be done right now. I need to calm down, let it go, and wait until a new angle presents itself. For tonight, Grady Freeman gets to keep on keepin’ on. Lucky punk. I refocus my attention on Croak. Like always, he surprises me with his ability to pull himself together, in spite of the toxic cocktail of cocaine, alcohol, and God knows what else that I’m sure is coursing through his system. The motherfucker just doesn’t get fazed.
“I was out of town, so unfortunately I couldn’t be at the funeral.”
“It’s nothing.”
“It’s not nothing. He’s your brother. That’s family. Family is important.”
He’s right, of course. It’s not nothing. I don’t even know why I’m saying that. Every time I think of Colin, there’s a cold stab in my chest. Shit still hurts. He shouldn’t have gone down like that. “Thanks,” I manage to grit through the clouds of emotion brooding in my chest.
“I liked Colin. He was always one of my favorites. He didn’t deserve what happened to him. We’ll get back at the Mexicans in due time.”
“I know,” I say. And I do know. This game is about having a long memory and a steady hand at the wheel. As much as I wanted to skin every last bastard who had anything to do with Colin’s death, I was still the guy telling everyone to keep calm, to bide our time. Wait until they drop their guard.
“In the meantime, we tend to our crops, so to speak.” He waves a hand at the raucous night around us. Cheers rise up from the huddled crowds every time the cars come flying past. Every table in the club is jammed with people drinking, laughing, and dancing. It doesn’t take much of a seasoned eye to know that we’re earning a fortune tonight. Croak’s done a good job making this gig flourish. I hope he tightens up his act. We can’t afford to get sloppy now.
Croak fixes an eye on me. “You understand all that that implies, yes?”
I nod without saying a word.
“It means understand why we are allowed to make all of this happen, Mortar.” He’s leaning forward on his elbows, staring at me intensely. I’m not an idiot. I know exactly what Croak means. The jerk of his head towards where Grady and Kendra are embroiled in yet another argument is unnecessary. I can feel the bile rise in the back of my throat.
“I get it.”
“Do you, though? You can’t go flying off the handle over some chick, brother.”
“He hit her, Croak. Slapped her right in the fucking face, in broad daylight. Like she’s some street-level hooker.”
“That’s not your business. You know that.”
“I’m getting tired of being told what is and isn’t my business, Croak.”
“You know we need him. We
can’t afford to piss him off. He just got promoted to major.”
“That’s appropriate. He’s a major asshole.”
“Funny, as always. But take what I’m saying to heart. You can’t do a thing to touch Grady Freeman. I’m telling you right now: stay away from him. Stay away from his girl. Don’t upset the balance.”
Croak leans back, clearly letting me know that this conversation is over. The anger in my chest has cooled into something black and solid. It’s not going anywhere, though. “Croak,” I start to say, but he waves me off.
“Enough. There’s nothing more to discuss.” He grabs a bottle of vodka and two glasses from the table next to us and pours a pair of shots. “Have a drink with me.” He hands one to me and raises his in the air. “To tranquility.”
Our rims clink in the air.
Croak stands up, clapping his hands together. I can see the party face settle back down over his features. The calm, cool, and collected Croak is gone, replaced by a debaucherous idiot I barely recognize. “It’s a party, Mortar. Have a good time.” Then he stumbles away, leaving me alone on the couch with a half-finished shot in my hand.
I take another look around me. He’s right about one thing: it is a party. Everyone I lay eyes on is in the throes of a drunken rager. Music vibes through the air. Sometimes, when I’m in a good mood, it feels like the bass is working my heart for me. Thump, thump, pump, pump. Tonight, though, it’s more like a jackhammer in the eardrum.
There are girls everywhere. It wouldn’t be the first time I’ve taken someone home just to fuck out my bad temper. But I just don’t have it in me right now.
I look down at the shot. It reflects the purple gleam of the black lights purring from the ceiling. I toss it back. The burn down my throat feels good. It feels like fire. That’s what I want right now—flame.
I set the glass down on the table, then steal one last glance at Kendra. She’s facing away from Grady, who is laughing as he palms the thigh of the girl on his other side. Her face is dark and brooding. She deserves someone who makes sure she never frowns again.
I’m that guy.
I come to a decision. Cop or no cop, with or without Croak’s permission, I’m going to claim Kendra.
I’m going to make her mine.
Chapter 2
Kendra
“I hate it.”
“What about this one?”
“I’m sorry, but that one isn’t great, either.”
The wedding planner sighs and closes the binder full of floral display photographs. I can tell she’s disappointed, but honestly, it doesn’t really matter. It’s not like this wedding is ever actually going to happen. Grady and I have been engaged for going on five years, and the idea of going through with the marriage itself seems to be a distant afterthought for him. The engagement is good enough—keeps me locked into him. There’s no escaping the giant rock on my finger letting everyone within a thirty-yard radius know that I’m property of Grady Freeman.
He was supposed to come with me today to the wedding planner’s office to go through floral displays and then cake tasting for the thousandth time since we first got engaged. But he isn’t here.
In fact, I haven’t seen him since last night. The last image I have of him is his screaming face shoved against the door of the taxi after he tossed me inside and sent me home. As if I’m some misbehaving kid getting sent to her room. I didn’t fall asleep until near dawn, but he never came in.
It isn’t the first time he’s stayed out all night. There are always rumors floating around about all the “house visits” that Officer Freeman loves to pay to rich, single women around town. It doesn’t take a genius to figure out he is cheating on me, frequently and carelessly. But I stopped caring a long time ago.
Besides, as he so often reminds me, the entire situation is my fault. If he actually has a consistent set of standards in mind, I still have yet to figure them out, because as far as I can tell, they change constantly. I am too skinny one day and too thick the next. Too dark, then too light-skinned. Too submissive, then too loud. There’s never any pleasing him, which in turn means that this is an utterly pleasure-free relationship, because I certainly never find any pleasure in having his sweaty mass heaving above me while he shoves his limp prick inside of me.
His voice has become a part of my own thoughts. Every time I look in the mirror, I can practically hear him shaking his head and dismissing me. “Ugly,” I hear, “fat, mulatto whore.” I have to admit, he has a gift for finding the one thing that you hate about yourself and digging into it ruthlessly. He never misses, never overlooks.
On another level, though, this really is all my fault. I let myself fall into this situation. He was a hero at first, or so I thought. A regular Superman, swooping in to save the day with that badge gleaming on his chest. It had been too easy to just say yes without thinking about what my consent would mean down the road. Now, looking back on the five years since Grady had first entered my life, I want to laugh at how stupid I’d been. The signs were there from the beginning: the irrational anger, the outbursts. It started with a fist smashing into the wall by my head, not quite hitting me, just scaring me. And when I’d cried afterwards, he’d merely looked down at me sobbing on the floor and told me to get up. “I didn’t even hit you.”
The fist got closer, until it wasn’t hitting wall anymore. It started hitting my thighs, my stomach—places that wouldn’t be seen in public. He was a cop and he was clever. He knew how to hurt someone without drawing attention. Before long, though, even that pretense went out the window. The slap at the races last night was only the latest in a long line of bruises and split lips. Every time it happened, I told myself, “That was it. That was the last one.” But then he’d dangle that threat over my head.
That’s what it came down to, in the end: the money. The money, the money, the fucking money. That’s where it started and that’s what keeps it from ending. If only I hadn’t said yes to his loan. “I just want to help you,” he’d cooed, and silly me, I believed him. I hardly believed my ears the first time he used it as a warning. Now it is as rote as the slaps and the insults. Just one more quiver in the daily arsenal of Grady M. Freeman, my fiancé.
“Mrs. Freeman? Are you okay?” asks the lady on the other side of the desk.
My eyes snap up to hers. “I’m not Mrs. Freeman.”
“My apologies,” she stammers. “Of course, you’re right.”
“I’m Kendra. Just call me by my first name.”
“Yes, dear. I will.” She rests her elbows on the desk. “Shall we move on to cake tastings?”
I nod, still lost in the fog of my own thoughts. The wedding planner rings a buzzer and her assistant bustles through the door with three trays of cake bites. I barely listen as she rattles off the ingredients and benefits of each one. My face is numb and blank, surveying the soggy crumbs.
I pick chocolate. Grady hates chocolate.
* * *
I strip off my jacket and pull my hair back into a ponytail as I push through the front door. It creaks open, swinging wildly on one hinge, and it takes a hard hip bump to convince it to shut behind me.
I hit the light switch with an elbow and watch as the fluorescent bulbs flicker to life. They’re dim and in need of replacing, but they work for now. I survey the space in front of me.
Canvases are stacked in careening piles along the back wall. On every available surface, brushes sit in cups of dried paint next to crusty easels and sculptures I couldn’t afford to take to the kiln to get fired. The chemical smell of paint is overwhelming.
I weave my way between the debris on the floor and throw open the windows. Galveston greets me from outside with a salty kiss. The street below is mostly quiet, save for the occasional bicyclist or dog walker who comes past. I can see a sliver of the beach a few blocks over, just enough to keep me sane.
Tossing my jacket over the back of a chair, I turn back to the room. I can’t help the smile that breaks across my face. This is my tem
ple, my happy place—my art studio. The smell alone is enough to get my blood pumping excitedly. I pull on an apron and stride over to a canvas stretched across an easel. The vague penciled outline of a new piece has been worked carefully from edge to edge. Brush in hand, I dip it into the paint and lose myself in the work.
Sometimes it surprises me how easily I fall back in love with art every time I return to the studio. Every artist starts out similarly enough—just a kid with a sketch pad and some crayons, doodling stick figures and happy homes. For some people, like me, it just clicks in a way that makes more sense than anything else around them.
The real world always veers off course in ways that are disappointing or painful. No painting ever did that to me, though. There’s a sense of satisfaction I get when I look at something I’ve created. It’s complete and perfect in its completeness. People are never like that. Outside the walls of my studio, life never stays in the lines.
