Waking the Lion

by Lacee Hightower

  Of course, I automatically hand her the keys, and she takes off, skipping toward the Mercedes as I look down at my dinging phone.

  I only looked for goddamned seconds.

  Never saw a thing.

  Didn’t hear anything out of the ordinary.

  Until her scream.

  “Rhett!”

  Before I raise my head up, a gunshot hits me in the shoulder, dropping me to the hard pavement. Seconds later, I manage to stand and make my way across the street, dialing 911 and barking out our location.

  “Lindy,” I yell, fear cracking in the tone of my weighted voice.

  Two white males only feet away aren’t in a panic. Aren’t running. Aren’t reacting at all as I hold my hand over the wound in my wife’s neck as she bleeds out, my own injury irrelevant.

  “Here! Take the cash! Take the fucking car!” I shout, tossing them the keys that lay on the ground, the cash from my wallet. I place heavier pressure against Lindy’s injury that I know from her glazed stare is way more serious than I want to realize. I press even harder because I don’t know what else to fucking do.

  This can’t be happening.

  The day started off beautiful. Cold as fuck, but perfect. Less than five hours ago, everything was great.

  And now … she’s struggling. Fighting for her fucking life. I hear the sound of her emptied purse hitting the ground and see a quick flash of gold as two car doors slam. I don’t look up again. Don’t focus on anything except comforting my wife in the only way I know how until help arrives.

  “Hang on, baby. Help’s on the way. You’re going to be absolutely fine.”

  Sirens blare in the distance, yet solace isn’t something I allow myself. The sound of help quickly dissipates. My shoulder is aching, but the pain and blood are irrelevant. Just a little longer and the paramedics will be here. They’ll fix her up. They have to.

  But it’s not just a little longer. It’s over twenty minutes before I hear the sound of another siren.

  The two men are gone. My wife is bleeding. I’m bleeding but feel no pain. This is the moment flashes of gold come out of nowhere, and a sick sense of portentous dread powers through me when realization of what’s happening feels like a blade slicing through my chest.

  Seconds later, I’m watching an IV being inserted into Lindy as the paramedics work frantically while I try not listening to the comment about possibly needing blood. When I’m told I’m hurt and the second medic attempts to work on me, I brush him away. “I’m fine. Take care of my wife.”

  I jump into the ambulance before they tell me it’s okay, because it motherfucking is okay. She’s my wife. She needs me. I goddamn need her.

  “Hold on, angel. Hang on, Lindy. I love you so much. Please…”

  I’m begging.

  Pleading.

  Willing to do anything to make her okay.

  I feel like dying. There’s nothing I can do. I lean over and brush her hair. Her pulse is slow, while mine soars. “I’m right here, baby. You’re going to be fine.” I struggle, swallowing. “Just fine, baby.”

  “Rhett,” she says in nothing but the faintest of whispers. Her eyes flicker open. They’re glassy and faraway.

  “I’m right here, sweetheart. You’re going to be just fine,” I repeat because I don’t know what else to say. I can’t think.

  “To the moon,” she whispers, her lashes blinking up at me. “Never look back.” She tries smiling, her body going lax.

  Not religious, I find myself praying. Pleading not to take the woman I love. Begging to let this be a terrible nightmare instead of the fate that I know lies ahead.

  Was it something I said?

  Something I did?

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Rhett

  I’d give up everything to change that one moment.

  The Cowboys game is a fucking massacre. Behind twenty-one points, it’s over. I flip off the television and stare out onto the patio, catching sight of the immortal hydrangea plant still blooming like a motherfucker and the pool that needs cleaning again. Ready to just say fuck everything, maybe I should change my perception and market piss and puke. Throw in a little saliva on the side. Call it organic fertilizer and rake in millions. And get the hell out of this town.

  It’s not actual soil from the ground, babe. It’s made from composted bark, peat moss, and various ingredients not including earthen soil.

  Our last two hockey games were both losses, and today’s practice turned out to be as comical as the two games. Nothing but a skating asshole on the ice, I’d wanted nothing more than to slam a fist through every last person that came close. Worse than losing double games is the fact that I’m playing like shit. Because I feel like shit. My life is a fucking mockery. Days like these make me want to crawl in a dark hole and stay there.

  “I’m sorry, Rhett. I’m not sure how healthy this thing is between us—for me at least. Good luck. I mean that.”

  She was right. There’s nothing healthy. And I had no positive answers for her. There were none. This thing was exactly that. Just … a thing. I sling back the last half of my water, hardly the strong drink I’m craving right now. I toss the empty bottle halfway across the room.

  Sonofabitch! Motherfucking hell!

  Two seconds from blowing a gasket, I suddenly need the fuck out of this house.

  An hour later, the parking lot is packed with cars as I make the block around Addison Hair Company for the third time. Kass’s red Camry is parked on the side of the building. She’s inside, making people beautiful. Doing what she does best with that amazing personality and glorious smile. Eyes bright and full of sparkling blue goodness. Heart so big and loving, no one could ever harbor ill feelings toward her.

  I’m hit by another surge of regret, so damn strong this time that I have to pull over and park for a few minutes to try to get my head straight. I’m full of grief and regret, and her face etched in sorrow won’t leave my thoughts. The idea of this being over feels like a hard blow to the chest.

  I’m not a liar. Not a fucking skirt-chaser. And I damn sure don’t have flings. I’m a man who lost a wife. A man who can’t remember the most important thing from that tragic night—faces. Yet, how the hell could Kass understand any of that when I can’t really grasp it myself? So really, I have two choices here. One, beg forgiveness for telling her I wasn’t ready for a relationship and admit how I feel about her, or simply stay away and let her go, which is the logical option.

  I never even considered loving again. Never wanted to.

  I’ve visited Lindy nearly every day. Cried a million angry tears.

  Wished like fuck she’d turn over and flash me her beautiful smile.

  Argue with me over the damn cat staying outside.

  And I’m still cussing the so-called “man upstairs” every day for taking her instead of me. Agonizing over signing the DNR, giving my permission not to resuscitate if her heart stopped. Not a day passes that I don’t wish I could change places with her.

  I’m more unsure about my future than I’ve ever been. I still have deep feelings for my wife, and think in some sense, I always will. Nothing will ever change that. But in all reality, she’s gone. She’s been gone.

  My fists pound at the steering wheel. Routine for me, another wave of angry tears stream down my face as I choke back my breath. My chest aches. I’m fucking hurt. Desperate. Broken. The sorrow and guilt that I carry with me every minute of the day feels like a heavy hand grabbing at my heart.

  Despite that, I can’t let Kass go. I care for this woman. We’re connected in some strange way that I don’t yet understand. That I want to understand. She makes my whole body come alive. She turns every part of me hard.

  There’s a trembling throughout my hand as I put my car in drive and exit the parking lot.

  I’m falling for Kassidy Johnson.

  Whether I want to admit it or not.

  ****

  The cat bowls are filled with clean water and fresh food, and my phone vibr
ates with a text in my pocket. From Tack, I shake my head at his choice of words.

  Let us in, Romeo. We come bearing beautiful gifts.

  Us means Tack and Spunk, so I open the door to Tack holding four pizza boxes, while Spunk wiggles a bottle of Svensk Ek whiskey, the last damn thing any of us need.

  “Fuck, man. It’s quieter than a mouse peeing on denim,” Spunk says.

  Before I can respond, since I’m still struggling to decipher exactly what Spunk just said, Tack counters with, “I believe the correct saying is ‘quieter than a mouse peeing on cotton’.”

  “All the fucking same,” Spunk mutters.

  “Dinner,” Tack announces with his famous shit-eating grin.

  “Dryck.” Spunk hands me the bottle of Swedish whiskey while I have no idea what he just said.

  “I’ll get the glasses,” Tack announces, walking toward the cabinet and grabbing three random shot glasses.

  “Jesus Christ! What are you’ll even doing here with fucking whiskey? This is the last damn thing we need right now. We’ll pay like hell for it in the morning.” Somewhere between wanting to say to hell with it and pull a good drunk, and stopping myself after one or two shots, I’m pretty sure none of us will be stopping after just a couple.

  “We’re here,” Tack says with an intense gaze, “because it’s time, man.” My closest friend’s eye contact is meaningful and stern. He knows better than anyone how much I’m struggling. Knows my feelings about Kass. With a small nod, he knows I get what he’s trying to do.

  Even though I’m not so sure I agree.

  Spunk stares at me strangely for a minute. Not sure what he’s thinking, I snort a humorless laugh and hold out my shot glass, knowing one or two isn’t going to be enough. Who fucking cares?

  “Let’s open that whiskey then.”

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Kass

  All too soon, it’s over.

  Jennifer Hunt sits in my chair dressed to kill in black jeans that probably cost more than my entire outfit, a huge diamond on her ring finger that screams wealth, and an ego larger than her bank balance. My emotions are nothing but a mixed-up heap of confusion. Work usually calms me when my mood is off-center.

  Today proves to be an exception.

  “You okay, Kass?” she asks. “You’re awfully quiet.”

  “Oh, just a little tired. No big thing.” I take a quick look at myself in the mirror. After another sleepless night, no amount of Visine is going to help these bloodshot glassy eyes.

  “You need a little beach time. I told my husband the same thing. We leave for Maui next week for the holiday.”

  “Christmas on Maui? You lucky wench,” I say teasingly, but then not really. One of my first clients, the taller than average, thirty-something redhead is married to the Vice President of an energy and pipeline corporation, who happens to be nearly twice her age. Richer than Rothschild, every time I see her, she’s always planning some sort of extravagant excursion. Today it just happens to be one of the most beautiful tropical beaches in the world.

  And the last thing I want to hear about.

  I glance up and force a cordial smile at a staring Reese Gentry, who I’ve fortunately been able to avoid making eye contact with for the most part, since I’m overbooked and working two clients at the same time. My heart twists at how much he resembles Rhett, and I can barely stand looking at him. Queasiness slides through my belly.

  Initially reluctant to Google Rhett a second time, I’d pleaded with myself to let it go … let him go. But curiosity and loneliness won, and I’d ended up spending an hour, or longer, breezing through photos of Rhett and Lindy Gentry, only complicating my feelings more.

  Jennifer’s content smile bugging me more than usual, I fight to keep my professionalism intact and smile back. “That’s Reese Gentry,” she whispers, her eyes wandering over Reese’s ass as he leaves Darci’s chair. “I’ve seen him a lot at the Blue Hawks’ games. Always with a different woman on his arm. Always beautiful. Always young. His brother, Rhett, is the team Captain. We’re season ticket holders.”

  Of course you are.

  I nod and conjure up a fake cough, reaching for my water bottle.

  “I love watching Rhett on the ice. He kicks absolute ass, and he’s damn easy on the eyes, but I saw an article on the internet just recently that he screwed around on his wife, shoving his dick in a new woman every time he had an opportunity. She was mentally ill … or psycho … or something. Pretty low blow to cheat when his wife is messed up that way.”

  Slowly, the fact sinks in that this woman is nothing but a stuck-up snooty-face, and I’m three seconds from accidentally cutting a big chunk out of her auburn-tinted bangs and handing it to her with a small oops. False assumptions toward a man she knows absolutely nothing about—and I love—make it hard to stay cordial. Still upset, I’ve had a lot of time to think about all this. And Rhett is a lot of things.

  A cheater isn’t one of them.

  My voice is small. “So, what’s your favorite part of Maui?”

  Jennifer’s eyes form the perfect arch at my change in conversation, and I bark obscenities under my breath.

  “Oh, definitely the whale expeditions. They’re absolutely beautiful to watch. So huge, yet still graceful. Very picturesque. Do you know the history behind the whales, Kass?” she asks, with a note of snarkiness that makes me want to hurl.

  “No. I haven’t ever visited Maui.” I turn away for a quick second, fighting coming apart in front of a client, my chest pounding at what she’s said about Rhett. Giving less than ten fucks about her beloved attraction to whales.

  “Maui and the surrounding islands are actually the top of a huge underwater volcano. The channels between the islands bring in warm water for the humpbacks.”

  “Hmm.” I’m not one bit interested, but she continues with her long spiel of whale water preferences and humpback whale travel between Alaska and Canada. While I hear what she’s saying, I’m biting my tongue, cursing within, and trying to hold back from correcting her on her accusations about Rhett, which are nothing but false, bitter rumors.

  Thirty long minutes later, I finish up her blow dry.

  “Five weeks?” she asks, knowing I’ve already pre-booked her appointments for the next six months.

  “Five weeks,” I repeat, still gritting my teeth, walking her to the exit like I do all my clients. Jennifer leans over, kissing me on the cheek. This woman is just too much. Something causes me to lose it.

  “Just so you’ll know, Jennifer, Rhett Gentry’s wife was not a psycho. She was in a coma after being injured during a robbery. And I happen to know that Rhett stood by her side every single step of the way … and he damn sure isn’t and wasn’t a womanizer.”

  Jennifer’s eyes widen as her I’ve seen it all eyes blink repeatedly, full of shock and probably a tinge of anger that I’ve corrected someone of her financial status. No doubt, I’ve just lost a client.

  And I honestly couldn’t care less.

  “Just telling you what I read, Kass. I wasn’t trying to upset you. Have a great Christmas.”

  With that, Jennifer turns and walks out the door for what is probably the last time. My eyes fill with angry tears along with bittersweet memories, once again twisting my heart into painful knots. God, I miss him.

  “Can I talk to you, please?” I turn to see Darci behind me. Not only have I pissed off a steady customer, but now my aunt is equally upset.

  And me? My heart is spiraling a million directions. Rhett isn’t a panty-chaser. He’s a human being with feelings. Hurting. Dealing with a terrible tragedy the best that he can. And in the last twenty minutes, I’ve realized just how heartless I was when I last saw him. I sent him away wishing him the best of luck. Wishing him luck? You wish a damn person luck when they’re starting a new adventure in life. Opening a new business. Taking the bar exam. Bringing a new child into the world. Not when they’ve just spilled their guts about a horrific robbery that went terribly wrong and the very p
rivate outcome.

  “I’m sorry, Darci. I just … she just…” I can’t even finish speaking. Inside, I feel like I’m breaking. I want to cry. Scream. Throw something.

  Unshed tears sting at my eyes. I want Rhett to hold me against his chest. Brush warm kisses against my neck and tell me everything’s going to be fine.

  But it isn’t. And he won’t.

  Darci turns around and steers us toward the ladies’ room.

  “Kass, go talk to Rhett, sweetheart. If he already means that much, fight for him. And I heard a little of that conversation with Miss High and Mighty. Don’t give her a second thought. Jennifer’s always been a stuck-up bitch. You don’t need her.”

  I reach for my aunt, sobbing. “Okay,” I whisper. “Can we talk again later?”

  “Of course we can. My door is always open, Kass. You know that.”

  With fifteen minutes to clean my face up before my last appointment, I wipe off the running mascara and do the best I can to cover my streaky makeup. Then, I scan through my phone contacts until I reach Megan. My heart speeds up as I read the quick response from my text and walk out of the ladies’ room.

  “Hey, Mary Beth.” Back in the reception area, I add, “You want to put on a smock, sweetie?” The teenage girl nods.

  “I’ll meet you at my station.” With a hint of a smile, I head to talk to Kim for a second.

  “You up for another hockey game tonight? Short notice, but I just scored the same two seats if you’re interested.”

  ****

  Dressed in a Gentry jersey and jeans, Kim and I are in our seats. The first period is well underway against the Maple Leafs. Since I was late getting away from my last appointment, we missed the team introductions and first five minutes of the game. Still no score, Rhett suddenly steals the puck and starts skating down the ice. He looks stiff. Altogether different from the last time I watched him skate. A Maple Leaf heads his direction, tilting his stick and tripping him. He plummets to the ice, hitting the ground with a hard thud. He doesn’t move, as Jokinen, number nine, tosses his gloves and starts a brawl with the penalty-seeking Maple Leaf. I’m on my feet in seconds.