Cavanagh - Serenity Series, Vol I (Seeking Serenity)

by Eden Butler

  “So,” he says, draping an arm over my shoulder. I instantly recoil, step out of his personal space. “There may be a thong and a bikini top with tassels on your outfit for the auction, sweetness.” He’s trying to goad me, get me to react. It’s actually kind of pathetic and a small part of my brain musters up sympathy for my ex. But it is minute, barely there, and a louder, prouder part stamps out any kindling of compassion. Tucker Morrison is an ass. As usual, Sayo was right.

  “Laugh it up, chuckles. I’m not worried.”

  “You should be. My boys back there are itching for a win.” Again he puts his arm around my neck. “You and your little hens are in for a world of hurt, babe. And I’m really going to enjoy watching that sweet ass of yours shake in nothing but a string at the auction.” I withdraw, pull my head back when the smell on Tucker’s breath assaults my senses. He’s so full of himself that he thinks attempting the Dash while clearly drunk will be a cake walk. He called me babe to piss me off, another vain attempt at a rise. And in this moment I realize what a pathetic little boy/man my ex is. Intimidation? Taunting? Is that the best he can do?

  I take Tucker’s face in my hands, grip his cheeks until those bright blue eyes are focused on nothing but my face lightened by the thrill of my forthcoming win. “Tucker, you are an asshole and no one likes you.” He jerks back, wounded. “Your boys? You mean your squad? The squad that survived and flourished when you deserted them? The same squad you belittle and bully on the pitch? Those guys right there?” We both turn to the rugby team, five or so of them circle Declan, laugh with him, and when they notice our scrutiny, I receive cursory grins, nods of acknowledgement, but Tucker receives low lidded eye rolls.

  He doesn’t bother to respond to me. Tucker darts away, and immediately the squad is dressed down, bombarded with my ex’s wild commands and threats. He walks in front of them, and behind his back are more expressions of disdain, a few vulgar hand motions and I can’t help but to watch Declan, to join him in a mutual giggle and the humiliation Tucker is about to receive. Declan winks at me, as if to say, “we’ve got you,” and the small embers of worry that still smoke in my belly are fully extinguished. He isn’t offering to fix the race so that I can win. And for me, it isn’t really about beating Tucker anymore. This is me, challenging my body, my mind, proving to myself that I am not beyond repair. That wreck took my mother from me. It didn’t take me out of this life, not completely.

  The two minute warning sounds and we all converge on the starting line. My friends join me, shoulder to shoulder and we link hands, brief grips of encouragement, determination that will steel us in our task. I hear a whistle and then my name and scan the crowd until Joe’s ruddy face shines out among the thick scarves and wool coats. He carries a blanket and a thermos of coffee and gives me an encouraging thumbs up. I laugh when he opens his coat to reveal a flask in his side pocket. My father is always prepared. I wink back at him, too focused on my friends’ hands, on our solitary joining to distract myself by exchanging pleasantries with Joe.

  “We are here,” a booming voice sounds, amplified by a speaker to my right. On the makeshift platform stands a huge blonde, donning a USMC gray hoodie and black jogging pants. In my ear, I hear Mollie’s low gasp and her grip on my fingers tighten. She seems to like what she sees. The blonde marine clears his throat, works his thick neck to encourage the crowd. He lifts his long, muscular arms and the crowd roars, a frenzy of adrenaline. “We are not runners, not accidental athletes setting out to challenge our bodies. We are here to fight. We fight the weather, we fight the elements, we fight the low niggling voices in our own heads that tell us to quit, that taunts us for our weaknesses. Right now, in this moment, tell that voice to go to hell!”

  The crowd is so loud now that my ears ache. In the excitement, I lose hold of Mollie’s hand as she jumps up and down, eyes bright and focused on the platform. “Do not listen to that voice. It is beneath you. Today we are not individual athletes. We are not hundreds of mindless participants in this challenge, we are one. Leave no man or woman down. Let no one fall. Test the limits of your body, yes, but better still, challenge your spirits, become a legion.”

  All around me the chant begins; a low rumble from the back that circles over bodies, waves into a crescendo of energy, a beating drum that shouts over and over “We are one.” The mantra flows into my skin, seeps through my ears, but my focus is reserved for the gun hoisted in the air, ready to fire. I disregard the eager clap of Mollie’s hands, the jubilant crowd around me. I will become one later. Right now, that course is mine. This win, mine. I offer one last glance at my friends, hoping that their resolve is as peaked as mine and then my eyes are ahead, my arms poised for the takeoff, my feet dig into the cold ground below me.

  The gun fires and I dart from the crowd. I don’t listen to the squeals of laughter around me, to the dozens of girls more content on fun than on the challenge or the footfalls at my side, Tucker, his squad, my friends, they all become an echo of sound, faint, fading.

  The first three miles are nothing, an easy jog that is no harder than our treks up to the falls. Runners pass me as I set an easy pace, focusing on my heartbeat and the cool breath that hangs in the air with each exhale. I know my friends are behind me, working on their own strides. They shoot words of encouragement to me, shouts of positivity that make me smile. But then Tucker approaches, his pace even with mine and I have to double my efforts at concentration.

  “You kept asking me about Declan,” he says, his words flowing easy, not a bit winded. The distraction he attempts is difficult to tamp down. Of course I want to discover Declan’s secret, but not now. Not while I’m trying to clear my mind. “Why do you want to know what he’s hiding, sweetness?”

  “Shut up, Tucker. I’m running here.”

  He drops back for a second, then speeds to my side again. “Oh, I know you are and you look hot as hell shaking your ass in those tight pants. If I wasn’t so focused on making sure you end up in that auction, I’d drag you into the woods over there and remind you of some of our favorite activities.”

  My pace slows and the fog of air from my mouth gets heavier. “For your information, those activities were for your benefit. I didn’t enjoy them nearly as much you thought I did.”

  “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

  “I faked them all, Tucker. Every single one.” His eyes round and his skin takes on a bright flush that I doubt has little to do with the race. I smile when he tries to speak, the stammer of his words becomes a muffle of curses. And then I forget Tucker, forget that there are secrets he holds close to his chest. He wouldn’t reveal them anyway, the moment isn’t right. I know Tucker, he’ll wait until he’s cornered or until I’m at my weakest. I don’t want to stick around for that, so I lower my head, set my feet firm on the ground and kick off fast, leaving my ex sputtering behind me.

  Ahead of me, the sound of loud groans muffle between the blue lips of runners. The incline begins, a treacherous terrain of rocky trails knotted by thick roots and downed limbs. I welcome the pain. It’s become my dear friend. Three long strides and at my side are Mollie and Sayo, ridiculously pleased smiles stretching out their lips.

  “What happened to Layla?” leaves my mouth, but as soon as I ask the question, I hear a litany of curses behind me. I think I’m being called a “sadistic heifer,” possibly “the spawn of Satan’s junk,” but then our grumpy friend makes it to just feet behind us and I swing my head over my shoulder and blow her a kiss. The curses only get louder.

  Sweat covers my back, slips down my spine like oil and I start to feel the impact of the Dash. There are small groups ahead of us, some overconfident, some smug, but they don’t anticipate the last leg, the hard kick that will be necessary once the finish line comes into view. The incline dips, weaves around a low cropping of shrubs and miniature trees and Mollie trips, swings out her palms to balance. It’s too late. She’s on the ground, jamming into a thick, loose root, her fingers trickling blood. We stop, move Mol
lie out of the path of runners, surround her, to check her injuries.

  “I’m sorry, Autumn.” She holds her hands against her chest and I can clearly see the crooked break of her index finger. She tries to cover her pain behind a quickly wiped wince and a forced smile.

  “Forget about, sweetie. It’s not important. We’ll stay with you until the officials come. There should be EMTs around the—”

  “No,” she says, not willing to let me finish. “You keep going. You’re only losing time fussing over me.”

  “No man left behind, Mollie.”

  “What the hell ever, Autumn. We ain’t men and I want you to pulverize Tucker’s time.” She grabs the hem of my hoodie and pulls me down into a crouch. “Go kick that smug pig’s ass.”

  “I can’t leave you,” I say, trying to ignore the slowing of my heartbeat, the momentum I’d created in the past hour begins to diminish. I love Mollie, all my girls, and I won’t abandon them.

  “Sometimes, Autumn, the battle takes causalities. Some folks get left behind and that’s okay. You go on, you finish this.”

  “I’ll stay with her,” Layla says, ducking next to Mollie on the ground as a flash of runners zip by us.

  “Miss, you okay?”

  We all turn, to see the mammoth blonde marine from the beginning of the race staring down at Mollie. She doesn’t speak. Her words seem to catch somewhere behind her tongue and she can only offer the inquiring marine a quick nod. His smile is nice, open, and when he bends down to examine Mollie’s hands, I get the feeling that thoughts of us standing next to her completely evacuate her mind.

  “Go ahead,” Layla says to me and Sayo. “I’ll supervise.”

  It takes us ten full minutes to recapture our time, and by then, I notice Sayo’s breath come out harder, her pants growing more frequent.

  “Do you need to rest?” I ask her, but she only offers a curt shake of her head, as though even moving her pink hair off her face requires too much effort.

  “The mud pit is up ahead,” I say, curious if that will deter my best friend. I’m not exactly excited about getting in that murky, freezing water, but my main concern is how Sayo will handle it. This isn’t something we practiced much. Layla’s pool isn’t exactly encumbered by rocks, boulders and oozing mud floors. “We can slow down if you want.”

  “Stop it, Autumn,” my best friend says, eyes straight ahead, narrowed in deep focus. “I can do this. Stop babying me.” Her head jerks toward me, a quick glance to measure my expression. “If I am holding you back, then run ahead. We’re all doing…doing this for you. Get…get moving.” She slows then, her strides decrease to an easy jog. I count ten slow seconds before I can ease the worry out of my chest. Sayo’s quick, encouraging smile and how she is suddenly surrounded by the rugby squad, gives me enough encouragement to move forward.

  When Declan mouths something to his squad mates, and then thunders next to me, that small twinge of support turns into an angry nag. “McShane, move your arse. We’ve got her. Go, before Tucker sorts out how far behind you are.” He pushes me along, leading me toward the mud pit and into a run. “You’ve another hour and his buzz is wearing thin. Pretty soon he’ll be sober. Don’t let him use that to his advantage.”

  “Declan, I don’t need—”

  “God above, woman, I know you don’t. I want my spot back.” He stops us as we near the pit. “But more than anything, I want that uppity bollocks knocked off his pedestal. And there’s no fecking way any of you are going to be forced into prissing about in your knickers for a load of pervy old men.” When I start to speak, just a quick reply of gratitude, Declan shakes his head, slaps my ass and I slug into the pit.

  The water burns against my legs. My pants are too thin and my shoes are a sodden mess not five seconds after I enter. Mud and murky water fill over my socks, squish between my toes, but I stretch my arms, shake off the sensation of being held back, pulled further away from the finish line.

  The runners around me endure the same treatment. Girls focused on laughing are now squealing with revulsion; seemingly fit, expert men lift curses against the water as they trod along. I forget them, forget what I left behind and hunker down, stamping into the clearest, thinnest areas, until I am free of the water, of the mud and onto dry ground again.

  I take a moment to stare behind me, beaming when I see Sayo being shifted, hand to hand through the pit. Declan’s squad mates are centered at various spots in the pit and they move Sayo as though she weighs nothing, pushing and pulling her forward like a sandbag. Declan catches my eyes, smiles only once before his urges me forward with a toss of his hand.

  The wall is black with tar. By this time in the Dash, most of the participants have forgotten their time and the struggle through the obstacles becomes a communal effort. Hulking, broad men scuffle up the slick wall, are helped over it by women and teens half their size who straddle the wall, their feet locked behind metal bracings. Relief floods me when I see Tucker laboring to climb up. He rises, slides back down and doubles his efforts, ignoring the outstretched hands around him.

  He spots me after losing his footing, watches as I work my small feet between the joints, gripping the tight seams with the tips of my shoes and my nimble fingers.

  “Give it up, Autumn. There’s no way you’re going to make it up that wall.” When I ignore him, navigate further up than he’s managed to attempt so far, he jumps into action, trying to match me climb for climb.

  Outstretched hands hover in my face, next to Tucker’s, and I have no problem grabbing hold, breathing easier when this stranger tugs me up. I don’t know if Tucker does the same. I imagine he doesn’t because when I rest on the top of the wall, I hear his loud curse below me. I don’t care. My only present concern is the 12 foot plunge below me and the rows of gutted, topless rail cars filled to the brim with dirty water, a few swimming bodies and icicles.

  “I hate this part,” I say, hearing a chuckle from a woman next to me. It must have been her hand that helped me over the wall.

  “And you should, sweetie.” I notice that she wears a dirty, pink scarf over her shaved scalp. She is older than me, likely in her fifties. Her body is thin and there are dark circles under her eyes. “If I can do it, so can you. Best to hold your breath and jump. Get it over with.”

  I smile at her, flick my head in a quick nod and manage the biggest inhale I can muster before I jerk off the wall, tucking my knees to my chest. If feels like I’m flying. The wind around me burns my wet clothes to my body; I free-fall and logically I know it’s only seconds before I crack the surface of the water, but it feels like years.

  The moment expands and I am outside of myself. In my mind, I am uninjured; a perfect specimen of health and wholeness. There aren’t bubbles of fear stirring in my stomach, no long, wide scars that mark each incision made on my body, every fragment of glass pinched from my flesh. My body does not ache. My spirit is not crushed. I am Autumn, fierce warrior bitch and this Dash is mine to claim.

  Then I crash into the water and the Xena voice quiets. Holy God in Heaven above I forgot about the ice cubes; the freakin’ freezing damn ice cubes. My eyes burn and I fleetingly wish I had to pee. Disgusting or not, that quick gush of liquid would at least provide some brief warmth.

  By the time I break surface, the collective whine of the runners around me sounds like a slaughter. I am reminded of Titanic, and feel every bit like Rose, bobbing in the glacial water, gasping against the cold, surrounded by wailing, screaming passengers praying for a rescue.

  But this time, Rose has to rescue herself.

  I evoke the Warrior Bitch, hope she will urge me forward as I shake through the water, swim until my limbs burn. She screams in my mind, “Move, girl! Onward!” and I laugh at the ridiculous idea of her “Ayiyiiyiyiyiyi” scream propelling me faster.

  A long, wooden plank blocks my passage; an obstacle that I can either climb up and over or plunge beneath before I reach the end of the car. I’m already frozen, limbs in a constant stinging quake, s
o I gather my breath, dive under the plank and push my feet against it to zip through the dirty water. Finally, I reach the ledge of the car and hoist myself up, breathing out quick prayers of “Oh God, please let me survive this” before I jump away and down onto solid ground again.

  The fog from my breath whizzes out like a heavy mist crowning my head before I take another step. I remember this part. This is where I made my mistake last year. This is where Tucker beat me. I’d been too eager to finish the race, didn’t consider my temperature, the pain, and collapsed from shock just before the tire lane that led to the finish line.

  A few moments of rest, then twenty jumping jacks and circulation returns to my limbs, pumps my heart faster and faster. One quick squeeze of my heavy hoodie to drive away the excess water and I take off. There are less than a dozen runners around me. All are slowing. They seem to have made my same mistake from last year and I see a few stumble before staying still on the ground. And then, inching up beside me, comes Tucker. He doesn’t have a sarcastic gibe for me. There are no threats. He doesn’t, in fact, even look at me as we run, side by side, toward the tire lanes. Beyond that I see the finish line, no runners on the lane and the bright red tape still secured to the poles. No one has finished. Dear God, I could really take this thing.

  Energized and grinning like an idiot, I move ahead of Tucker, my body rocks at the movement and I only slow when the tires are in front of me. This, we’ve practiced a thousand times. Mullens has an old bunch of tires he keeps on his property, much used and handled by his players throughout the years. They became ours when we took to his land to train.

  Next to me Tucker is winded, his breath so labored that I think his steps will suffer, that he’ll trip. He isn’t graceful, isn’t breathing properly, which he should know better than to do. When he grunts, slipping against the rubber, I focus ahead, pick my knees up in quick, light movements. The sound of my feet barely touching solid ground in the middle of each tire fuels me and I imagine that my steps make a song; squishing out back beats, thumbing a steady bass line.