by Hazel James
“We are, huh?”
“Mm hmm.”
Watching her write one, two, and three along the margin makes me think of our conversation in Hawaii about her being a numbers person and me being a people person. I had no idea she’d be able to perform both roles so flawlessly, at least where I’m concerned.
For someone who’s spent his career helping to slay other peoples’ dragons, it’s really fucking nice to have a partner who’s willing to pick up a sword for me.
On that thought, a flash of light illuminates the corners of the room, drawing my attention to the one thing Leilani hasn’t been able to do in years.
But maybe I can help her.
I grab the pen and jot “take Mom’s old vanity to the Habitat ReStore” as the first item on the list. I needed to do that anyway now that Dad and I have installed the new one. While I have donations on the brain, I write “pass out more toiletry bags” for number two. As sad as it is, I know I’ll see a couple of homeless people on the drive back from Oklahoma City.
With the first two items done, I stare at the blank space beside number three. Leilani’s right about helping myself while I help others, because this is something I want as much for me as I want for her.
“Help me sing?” Her eyes dart from the notepad to my face.
“You told me how much you used to love playing acoustic covers when it rained. It’d be a shame to miss out on a chance just because of one pesky missing limb.”
Her mouth is still agape when I return to the bed with her guitar in my hand. “What are you doing?”
“Between the two of us, we have everything you need. I don’t know why I didn’t think of this before.” I slide behind her and bring the guitar around, setting it on her lap. She’s small enough that my arm easily reaches the strings, so I give it a test strum. The resulting cacophony makes us both laugh—and cringe.
“Yeah, it’s been a while.” With expert fingers and a trained ear, she alternates between twisting the pegs and plucking the strings. “Try it now.”
I run my thumb from top to bottom. “Sounds like we have a winner.”
“What do you want me to sing?”
“Normally, I’d say anything, but it has to be a song I know, or I won’t be able to help you play.”
“Well, you’re old, so let’s do something from the nineties.”
“Old?” I challenge, dipping my lips to her neck. “I thought we already established that I’m just coming into my prime.”
“Fine,” she giggles. “How about ‘seasoned?’”
“I’m going to pretend I didn’t hear that.”
She leans her head back against me. “Oh, come on, you know you love me.” Her entire body goes rigid as her Freudian slip claims the remaining laughter in her voice. “Um, I didn’t mean that the way it came out. I was just—”
“I do.” It’s an easy response, and one I don’t mind sharing. “I love the shit out of you. Have for a while now. I just feel bad because technically, the first time you heard me say it was when I was firing you.” The memory makes me cringe. “It definitely wasn’t one of my finer moments.”
“I already told you that you’re forgiven. Besides…” Leilani twists so she can see my face. “I happen to love the shit out of you, too, Clay Prescott.”
“Yeah?”
She nods, matching my grin inch for inch. Our relationship is so different from most of the couples I know, but it works for us.
She tips her chin up for a kiss, then faces front again and slides her fingers down the neck of her guitar. “How about some Tupac?”
Steam swirls out of the secretary’s mug in lazy spirals. “How can she drink coffee right now?” I whisper. “This place is hotter than Kuwait in August wearing full body armor.”
Leilani smooths her hand over my back. “It’s not that bad.”
“Fine, Baghdad in April in full body armor.”
“What about Hawaii in July in a red bikini?” She smiles at me with a look that belies the wicked thoughts she’s putting in my head.
The mental image that follows diverts some of my body heat to my dick, which doesn’t give a shit about the temperature of my attorney’s office or my current state of legal limbo.
I cast a quick glance over my shoulder to make sure the secretary isn’t eavesdropping. “I appreciate the distraction, but if you keep it up, I’m going to have an embarrassing situation in my shorts and a public indecency charge.”
“Fair enough. How about some food porn instead?”
“Food porn? That’s a thing?”
She nods and casts a purposeful glance at my lap. “A very big thing.”
My quiet groan makes her laugh because she’s evil like that, but she follows through on her suggestion. By the time the secretary calls my name, I’ve learned how to make eight different cookies using one box of cake mix.
Nerves carry me across the waiting room and into Dan’s office. Mom’s the one who recommended him. Apparently, he’s the grandson of one of the ladies in her quilting group. That doesn’t hold any weight for me, but his track record in the courtroom does.
Leilani sits in the chair next to mine and rests her hand on my knee. It’s only then I notice how badly it’s bouncing.
“I’m sure you’re anxious for an update, so I’ll get right to it.”
I grip the arm of my chair and hold my breath, reminding myself that bad news today doesn’t mean anything. I have appeals. I can hire more lawyers. Of course, I’d probably have to sell all of my other possessions…
“The DA’s office is dropping the charges against you.”
It takes a few seconds for my brain to catch up to my ears. To be safe, I glance at Leilani to make sure she heard the same thing. Her eyes and mouth are just as wide as mine. “They are?”
He nods and leans back in his chair. “The victim’s original statement and several emails you exchanged with Marshall about showering at your gym made it seem like you were complicit in the trafficking ring. However, upon further review of your statement and a lack of any other evidence linking you to this crime, they agreed to drop the charges.”
It’s my turn to fall back in my seat. In the past, acute relief has looked like combat boots on American soil after a deployment or a suicidal client who decided to give life another chance. Today, it takes the shape of a house and a future I desperately want to have with Leilani but was too afraid to hope for, given the circumstances.
“What happens next?”
“You’ll have another court date in about two weeks to finalize everything. I’ll give you the details once I have them.”
“What about Marshall?” Leilani asks.
“You’ll have to ask the investigators about that. Anything they’re able to tell you is more information than I have.”
Right now, I don’t even care about Marshall. Like Leilani said earlier today—the police will catch up to him eventually. I refuse to let that bastard occupy any more of my time or thoughts.
I rise and extend my hand. “Thanks, Dan. I appreciate your help.”
“Glad it all worked out. I’ll be in touch.”
We turn to leave when Leilani spins back around. “What about Battles? When can Clay get his keys back and open the gym?”
Oh yeah. I guess I should figure that out. So far, I’ve been able to keep everyone on my payroll like normal, but that won’t last forever.
“Let me make a call to the DA’s office. I’ll text you as soon as I hear something.”
Leilani’s phone pings twenty minutes later with a message saying I’ll have my keys back no later than my court date. That’s fine by me. God knows we can use a couple weeks of lazy, stress-free mornings.
When we get back to the house, I grab my phone and turn it on for the first time since my arrest. As expected, the number of missed calls, texts, and voicemails is in the double digits. I ignore them for now and tap out a message to DH letting him know the latest while Leilani does the same for her parents, Kiki, a
nd Rebecca.
“I’m going to run up to Mom and Dad’s to tell them in person. Will you be okay here for a little while?”
“Yep. I’m going to change clothes and start on one of those cake mix cookie recipes for dessert tonight.” She flashes a wicked smile and disappears into our bedroom.
Just before I walk out the door, I spot her phone on the counter.
Perfect.
I tap on her contacts and take a picture of Kiki’s number, but wait until I’m about fifty feet away from my house before I dial it.
“Hello?”
“Hey, it’s Clay. Can you do me a favor?”
“Sure, what’s up?”
“I need to know Leilani’s ring size.”
DH snaps to attention in front of Paige. “Permission to install the tiki torches, Drill Sergeant.”
“Permission granted. And stop calling me that!” She swats his arm and goes back to arranging the silk flowers and tropical leaves for the centerpiece on the patio table. Just as he pokes the first torch in the grass, Paige stops him. “That one’s supposed to go right there.” She points to a spot two feet over.
“Isn’t this close enough?”
“Almost only counts in horseshoes and hand grenades. We need perfection for tomorrow night.” DH grumbles but obeys, knowing he won’t win this argument.
Kiki was more than helpful with ring information when I called her last week. I told her about my plan to propose at sunset the following Saturday, and she offered to invite Leilani to her place on Friday night so I could get everything set up while she was out of the house.
The first thing Mom said about the proposal was, “When are you going to give me grandbabies?” which was oddly similar to Mrs. Moretti’s “I can’t wait to be a grandma!” when I FaceTimed them to get their blessing.
Apparently, Hawaii wasn’t the only thing our moms had talked about.
Ring shopping was a breeze thanks to a store in Honolulu. I explained the significance of the ring I was looking for and the woman immediately said she had two pieces in mind. One video chat later, I was the proud owner of Leilani’s engagement ring, a small wedding band that nestles next to it, and a titanium and koa wood band for me. Cart before the horse, yes, but I’m not worried about Leilani’s answer when I’m down on one knee.
As far as the actual proposal, I’d planned on hanging some garden lights and putting floating candles in the pool. When Paige heard the news, she joined forces with my mom and threw my plan out the window.
“Trust us,” they’d said. Famous last words from women who get high off happily ever afters.
Armed with forty-percent-off coupons, they stormed two craft stores, invading aisles and decimating clearance bins while somehow managing to keep the total price under fifty bucks at each store. Now, they’re transforming my deck into a miniature Hawaiian paradise at eight o’clock at night because Paige was too excited to wait until tomorrow morning to set up.
“Clay, honey. I think you have a message.” Mom blindly feels for my phone under a stack of unassembled paper lanterns that will hang from a pergola DH and Kurt are building tomorrow morning.
I don’t recognize the number, but I know the name.
Hey. It’s Stephen. Something happened tonight and I need someone to talk to.
While logic says to call him, instinct says to keep using the method of communication he established so he doesn’t shut down on me.
Me: Ok. Where are you?
Stephen: Battles.
Dammit. I don’t want to encourage him to drive anywhere else because he could be under the influence of something.
Me: It’s not open yet, but I’ll meet you there. Give me fifteen minutes.
Stephen: Ok.
I stow the phone in my back pocket. “I have to go up to Battles. One of my clients is there and he’s had suicidal thoughts in the past. Why don’t you guys pack up? We can start again tomorrow morning.”
“Is that safe? It’s getting dark.” I stifle a smile and give Mom a reassuring hug. Sometimes I wonder if she knows I’m thirty-four.
“It’s fine, Mom. There’s a diner just down the road. I’ll take him there for some coffee and if it looks like he needs more help than I can give, I’ll call in reinforcements.”
She holds my gaze for several seconds before relenting. “Okay. It’s getting to be my bedtime anyway. Drive me up to the house?”
Paige promises she and DH will leave as soon as she finishes the centerpiece. At the rate she’s going, they’ll both still be here when I get back, but I keep that comment to myself.
I reach the gym sooner than expected thanks to the light traffic. I don’t see Stephen in the parking lot or on the bench outside the main door. Which is shattered.
Fuck.
My compassion for whatever situation he’s in has just vanished. I haven’t even gotten my goddamn keys back from the DA and I already have another mess to clean up. Careful to avoid the shards of glass, I step through the broken frame and follow the sounds of destruction coming from the main gym.
The smell hits me first.
Then, something hard.
A fist maybe?
Whatever it is hurts like a motherfucker and sends me stumbling to the floor with a metallic taste in my mouth and a deafening roar in my ear. I clutch the left side of my face and fight to gain my bearings again.
The fumes are stronger.
I can’t see out of one eye.
Move.
Take cover.
My attempt to stand is cut short by a five-pound weight plate flying toward me like a frisbee. It demolishes the mirror behind me, embedding tiny razors into my clothes and skin. Instinctively, I cover my face because I can’t afford to lose vision in the other eye.
What is that fucking smell?
“That’s it, cower like the little bitch you are.”
Not. Stephen.
“You are so fucking predictable. One cry for help and you’ll come running.”
Rage pushes me to my feet. Ignoring the piercing pain in my head, I spit the blood out of my mouth and come face-to-face with the devil. “Better than you can say for yourself. You come running and they cry for help.”
“You don’t know the first fucking thing about help! I was helping them. They needed us.”
I still can’t hear for shit in my left ear, but Marshall doesn’t sound like he’s high on anything. That’s good. Then again, that means everything he’s doing is straight from his cold, dead heart. I take several steps forward, erasing the advantage he had by ambushing me. “Right. They needed you so much they ran away the first chance they got.”
The acrid stench in the air burns my nose. I know that smell. I just can’t think of what it is right now.
“How’s that little cunt of yours, by the way?” The light reflects off something sharp in Marshall’s hand. “All this is her fault. If she would have kept her fucking nose out of my business, none of this would’ve happened.”
My jaw clenches. I know he’s trying to bait me. Still, it takes every ounce of self-control not to let loose on him. When he shifts to the left, I counter his movement. It works to my benefit anyway. Just another few feet and I can grab the empty weight bar off the squat rack.
He takes another step, but this time an evil grin spreads across his face. “This is going to be so much fun.”
A flash of orange catches my eye half a second before he attacks. The distraction lands me on my back with a gash down my forearm and two hands vice-gripping my neck. That’s when I see the flames consuming everything in the lobby.
Oh shit.
The smell.
“You motherfucker,” I choke out. I lock on to his left side and thrust outward, reversing our positions to put me on top. My fists move of their own accord. Cheek. Nose. Jaw. Repeat.
Fire spills into the main gym and follows the trail of paint thinner snaking through it. The heat and smoke flip a switch in my brain, replacing the need for safety with the need to destroy the
devil beneath me.
“Is the savior gonna take a life with his bare hands?” It’s the last thing he says before I tighten my grip around his neck.
“Yes.” It’s the last thing I say before the room explodes.
Three Days Later
EIGHTY MILES SEPARATE LAWTON AND Moore. Kiki made it back in an hour.
It was the second time in two weeks that she’d taken me to see Clay. Both of us white-knuckled it the whole way—me gripping her hand, and her gripping the steering wheel—while I replayed Mrs. P’s voicemail in my head.
“Hi, it’s Beth Prescott. I’m so sorry to leave a message like this, but there was an accident at Battles while Clay was there meeting a client. The only thing we know is that he’s alive and in surgery at Barton Memorial. Please call me back as soon as you get this.”
It’d taken me three tries to get my trembling hand to tap the right buttons.
When Kiki and I got to the hospital and saw DH and Paige flanking the Prescotts, I had an instant understanding of what my mom and dad went through. No parent should ever have to sit in a sterile room waiting to hear their child’s prognosis, no matter if he’s four or thirty-four.
But in typical Clay fashion, it’d been impossible to deny the small miracles that happened in the midst of all the bad.
The fire was the leading story on News 9’s nighttime broadcast. Seeing the silhouette of Clay’s little blue truck against the roaring flames made bile slosh in my stomach. Though the volume was muted, the closed captioning told us firefighters had pulled two bodies from inside and both were rushed to Barton Memorial in critical condition.
Ten minutes later, the sliding glass doors opened. It was Jonathan, the man Clay saved on the bridge earlier this summer. He’d seen the news and got to the hospital as quickly as he could. Over the next couple of hours, a steady stream of clients, employees, and friends had joined our vigil. I’d willed Clay to pull through, if only to see his community—the one he feared had abandoned him—was rallying around him instead.
The second miracle had come in the form of a doctor pushing through a set of swinging doors marked “Hospital Personnel Only.” The six of us—me, Kiki, Mr. and Mrs. P, DH, and Paige—met him in the hallway, unable to wait one more second for an update.
