Cross My Heart

by K. D. Friedrich

  Carl Sands shook his head and shrugged. John’s father, Carl, stood about six feet one, had thick shaggy hair, and though he carried a little extra weight in the front and some scatters of white on top, he appeared much younger than his sixty-plus years. Carl had a way about him, a positive, calming air, which made everyone feel at ease and at the same time uplifted.

  “The sewer pipe burst from age. I’m sure all the rain we had the last few weeks is to blame. I’m surprised it didn’t happen sooner with this crazy weather. Not a problem, we’ll get something to eat. My treat.”

  John had never been tenacious about much. However, he seemed to take his career as a cop very seriously and Pete admired the change. “This rain is no joke. We had to evacuate those close to the riverbank, and from the looks of it, we’ll be having more rain by week’s end. They’re anticipating more evacuations. The chief doesn’t want to take any chances.”

  Needing to lighten the mood, Pete said, “I want a beer, doesn’t matter from where, and you’re not buying dinner. My treat tonight, Pop.” Carl wrapped his arm around Pete. He had called him Pop since, well, since forever. The title felt right.

  “You’re a good man, Pete.” He patted him on the back.

  Pete almost believed him.

  He eyed the bar flies swarming around the stools. A few of the woman gazed his way and smiled, batting their mascara-coated eyelashes. They didn’t spark his interest, per se, more his desperate need to feel the soft warmth of a hand other than his own. Jerking off offered him a vacant release, a quick and easy way to take the edge off his frustration. After months of becoming intimate with his left and right hand, he needed to see other people. He bit his lip and almost laughed aloud. Shit, did I just break up with myself? The doctors were right. I am crazy.

  A girl at the end of the bar eyed him. Petite, blonde, and busting out of her top, she reminded him of an insecure child playing dress up, nothing at all like Cara. Cara possessed a warrior’s heart, an incredible confidence he noticed from the moment he had watched her climb the tree in her yard in a pink frilly dress and Mary Jane shoes, her pigtails flopping back and forth. The blonde’s friend had long brown hair with streaks of thick gold. She whipped out her phone and whizzed her fake pink fingernail around the lit screen. Her eyes were almost the right shade, although Cara’s were a more calming shade of blue.

  One after another, he sized up the rest of the females prowling the area. None of them lived up to his expectations. None made him burn like…

  Well, what the hell do you expect, idiot, scoping for women is damn hard when there is only one woman you want.

  Cara knocked him off kilter. Since the first day he met her, all those years ago, she held his heart in her hands. Years away from puberty when they met, and he knew, without a doubt, he loved her. Those enormous, bright, sapphire eyes peered straight through him, believed in him, trusted him, and hooked him for life. Even though he refused to act on the intense crush she elicited, he continued to foster innocent boyhood dreams of love and marriage and all the things his parents should have had. All the things Cara deserved. With each passing year, his fantasies became more vivid, more sexual. So much so, he hated looking John in the eyes.

  How the hell do you act around your best friend when all you want to do is ravage his teenage sister? You date as many girls as possible. Bleed her out of your system. Deny what you feel until your heart weeps at the sight of her.

  For years, he managed to excuse his jealous behavior as the caring gestures of an overprotective friend of the family. Once he kissed her, the sham had become impossible. The mere thought of her soft lips and warm body made his cock want to bust out of his jeans.

  Why did he have to move in with her? He should kick himself in the ass for his weak judgment, being back in Heart Falls, living in her house, immersed in her scent day in and day out.

  He remembered the pitiful way she stared at him when he lay on the ground covered in sweat. Today, he suffered the worst flashback he had ever experienced, and Cara was front row center for the show. Damn if his psychotic episode hadn’t emasculated him. Then what does he do? He admits his need for a pistol in order to sleep.

  Why did he have to admit his weakness? Didn’t his bum leg offer a firm indication of his failings? Didn’t his jagged scars give her more than enough reason to consider him damaged?

  Lost in his dark thoughts, Pete almost ran into the back of Carl who had stopped in front of him. He tightened his fingers around the handle of his cane. Sharp pain centered in his knee as his weight shifted. Knowing he intended to have a few beers, he’d held off on his pain meds. Now he wished he’d swallowed a pair to ease the burn in his leg along with his pride.

  They reached the packed dining room to find one open table. John fell in line beside him. Carl shrugged off his jacket. “Why don’t you grab a table, John? Pete…why don’t you get us a few beers? Make mine Guinness.” He offered Pete a twenty-dollar bill.

  Pete shook his head. He plucked the money from Carl’s fingers and tucked the bill back in Carl’s breast pocket. “First round is on me, Pop.” He spun away, not giving Carl a chance to argue.

  Dozens of people surrounded the bar by the time he squeezed himself through the crowd. Aerosmith’s “Sweet Emotion” pounded in his eardrums, yet he still heard the ringing in his ears over the soloing guitar and classic, soulful rhythm. Various conversations rattled on in every corner, while bodies brushed him as they passed. The longer he stood there waiting to order his drinks, the shorter his temper became. Following his last deployment, he discovered his hatred for places like this. Loud, crowded establishments filled with inconsiderate, boisterous strangers. He preferred to lie in bed, by himself, a six-pack in one hand and a bottle in the other, the guy who once loved to be in the middle of the excitement was no more.

  At last, a spot opened up at the bar. Pete squeezed his hips through the foot-wide gap, refusing to allow anyone the chance to seize his opportunity. The space gave way to organized chaos. From side to side, the barmaid hurried around. Glasses thudded against the laminated wood and bottles clanged. Foam-topped mugs hit the bar without regard, sending waves of white bubbles down the frosty sides. Against the mirrored wall, lined with liquor, an antique cash register rang with each sale. Pete waved his bills in the air only to have the bartender pass him without fail. Frustrated and damn thirsty, he slammed his tense fist on the bar when the woman sitting beside him burst out a high-pitched cackle, shooting her screech through the crowd like a rocket. Cringing, Pete shot a glare toward the offensive sound and discovered the petite blonde he had noticed earlier, cozying up to a tall, fit man with ink-black hair who looked familiar.

  The more Pete stared, the more his memory cleared.

  Holy shit.

  Stan Morrison.

  The last time Pete saw Stan “The Man” Morrison was at the end of his bloody fist. Drunk and with balls bigger than cantaloupes, the asshole had dared put his hands on Cara. Carved in his mind like a tattoo, Pete would never forget the sight of Stan mauling Cara up against that damn tree. He wanted to chop the thing down and incinerate every stick of wood. The bastard still had the same beady eyes and pointy nose. Maybe a little more buff than Pete remembered. He had cut off his long hippie hair, molding the strands into a casual business-like style. Yet Pete recognized a little weasel when he saw one.

  Stan turned away from the golden-haired ditz, shifting his attention back to the person to his left.

  “What do you need?” a voice shouted over the music.

  The soft curve of a feminine calf peeked out from beside Morrison’s profile as a dainty hand patted Stan’s knee. Pete tipped his head to the side, trying to get a better view of Stan’s victim for the night, to no avail.

  “Time’s wasting, handsome, what can I get you?”

  Realizing the voice belonged to the buxom bartender, Pete snapped his gaze in her direction. “Sorry. Umm, shit.” What did Carl want? Oh, yeah. “A Guinness, two bottles of Bud, and a double sh
ot of Jack.” She winked at him and hurried to get his order.

  Pete returned his attention back to Morrison and his prey.

  Other than being a female with bad taste, Pete knew little about the woman next to Morrison, but something about her set him on edge. Call his unease a soldier’s intuition. Call the dread weighing down his shoulders a sixth sense. Whatever name he plastered on it in no way prepared him for the shock wave about to strike. When Stan threw his head back to laugh, he revealed Pete’s worst nightmare and the reason for his apprehension. Screw the double shot of whiskey. He needed the entire bottle. Giggling in the seat beside Stan was Cara.

  Pete’s entire body tensed. His stomach plunged to his feet. Blood rocketed through his veins, hot and unstable as his teeth clenched so tight they were ready to shatter. He kept his face hidden within the crowd, casting them short glances, not wanting Cara to see him. Out of the corner of his eye, he watched Cara lift her glass to the flirty, blonde girl as if amused, muttering a few words in Stan’s ear. Each word, though indecipherable, struck like a knife to the heart. Morrison put his arm around Cara’s waist, sliding his fingers along her skin peeking out from the bottom of her tight tank top, tainting the memory of Pete’s touch. Cara leaned into Stan, a silly grin on her face. She had a beautiful smile, while Morrison leered at her.

  Drinks appeared in front of him like a beacon through the darkness. He dropped thirty dollars on the bar. “Keep the change.” Before the bartender had a chance to scurry, he grabbed her wrist. Giving her another ten-dollar bill, he said, “Come to think of it, get me another double shot.” She nodded and grabbed the bottle from behind her. He downed the first shot without hesitation, enjoying the burn rushing to the pit of his stomach.

  Cara had lost her damned mind. The guy had mauled her in high school and she was giving him toasts. Not to mention, she had lied about seeing him. Infuriated at her deception and disgusted by her choice of companions, he wanted to grab hold and shake her until she screamed. Knock sense into her thick skull. She’d rather spend the night with a rat bastard than with him. He groaned aloud, causing the girl beside him to raise an eyebrow.

  To get another glimpse of the disaster waiting to happen, Pete tipped his head to the side to find two different people sitting on the stools. He spun in his chair in time to catch Stan and Cara disappearing into the crowd.

  He glanced back at the bartender as she slid another shot glass in front of him. “Keep them coming, sweetheart,” he demanded. Pete lifted the shot to his lips and tossed it down his throat. She slid his change to him. He slid it back.

  A minute later, she returned with a glass filled three fingers high with whiskey. “On the house,” she said.

  He drank it, left the change for her tip, and with a nice buzz shuffled back to Carl and John before their beers got warm. He didn’t dare turn toward the billiard room, where he last spotted them. Why should he care if she wanted to spend time with a weasel?

  By the time he made it over to John and Carl, they were sitting in the aged wooden booths. John had his face buried in a menu. Carl fiddled with his cell phone. Pete took a big swig of his beer and sat beside John.

  John popped his head out from the menu. “What took so long? I’m freaking parched over here. Damn, a man will die of thirst waiting for you.”

  “Hey, guess who I saw?” Pete tipped his beer to his lips.

  “Who?” John asked, yet his eyes remained glued to the specials, as if uninterested.

  “Stan Morrison, you know, the jock I beat the crap out of in high school.”

  John’s head popped up. “Get out. Where is the little bitch?”

  “No fighting, boys. You’ll ruin my appetite.”

  “Nothing can ruin your appetite, Pop,” John teased.

  “Hey, no cracks about my little belly; you’ll damage my pride.” Carl patted his stomach.

  “Little? You’re about to pop. I wasn’t sure whether I should throw you a baby shower this month or next. You’re carrying kind of high, must be a boy.”

  “Wise-ass.” Carl tried to hide his grin behind his menu.

  Pete laughed. God, how he missed their banter.

  “I think I’m about to ruin your appetite, John. Guess who he had his arm around?”

  Both men eyed him.

  “It better not be who I think it is, Pete.” John’s jaw tensed.

  Carl sat clueless, glancing back and forth between them. Pete confirmed John’s guess with a stern nod. All amusement fled John’s features.

  John slammed his hand, rattling the bottle on the table. “Son of bitch! Is she out of her mind hanging out with him? I heard they hung out a few times over the years, but I didn’t want to believe it. I thought people were gossiping nonsense. Small town bullshit.”

  Carl appeared concerned now. “What’s going on, John?”

  “Stan Morrison took advantage of Cara in high school. He got her messed up and tried to…” He narrowed his eyes, letting his fury tighten his features. “Pete caught him before he did any real damage and beat him pretty bad.”

  “Are you serious?” Carl was a mellow man, until it came to his Cara. His face shifted to a deep rose red.

  “Dead serious, Pop,” John said.

  “Why didn’t I ever hear about this? She’s my daughter, damn it.”

  “Pete and I took care of him,” John explained. “There was no need to make you worry.”

  The anger in Carl’s voice, mixed with the six-plus shots of eighty-proof whiskey, revved up Pete’s temper. Memories of Cara helpless against Stan’s manipulation became a vivid nightmare, suffocating his logic. He squeezed the bottle in his hand so tight he was shocked the glass didn’t shatter.

  “I can’t see Cara being stupid enough to get involved with this Stan character. Are you sure about what you saw all those years ago?”

  “Oh, I’m positive.” Believe me, it’s tattooed on my damn brain.

  Carl must have noticed the anger building in Pete. He sighed. “Pete, I know what you want to do, but you have to let it go.”

  “Pop, we can’t let her…” argued John.

  “Yes, we can. She’s a grown woman and tougher than all of us combined. No trouble tonight, you hear me? You can’t risk getting into it, John. Not with the sergeant job in your grasp.” John frowned, crossing his arms over his chest. “And, Pete, you’re home safe. We need to celebrate. Let’s not ruin the night with ancient history, okay?”

  Carl glanced up at the waitress who had stepped up to the table. He grinned wide. “Sorry, darling. I’m gonna get the chicken club hero. Can I get onion rings instead of fries? Extra crispy.” The waitress nodded. “Great.” He handed her the menu.

  John muttered his order of a burger with fries, and knowing Carl would snap if he refused to eat, Pete ordered a cheeseburger well done, hold the fries.

  Ancient history, my ass. Funny thing is, history has a way of repeating itself. He refused to let her make the same stupid mistake. Not to mention, the thought of Morrison with his hands all over her made him sick to his stomach. He had to do something. Maybe he’d give him a gentle warning, some quick and clean advice. There was no harm in having a little chat.

  Fifteen minutes later, the food arrived. Pete didn’t give his plate a single glance. The room that housed the pool tables, hid behind the wall. However, the bar remained wide open to his view. Pete waited, watching the crowd circulating the area. Three beers later, he caught sight of Stan near the bar and he was alone. Perfect.

  “Want another?” Pete asked John and Carl. With a burger shoved in his mouth, John grunted his approval. “I’ll take that as a yes. Pop, how about another cold one?”

  “I’m good, son.” Carl dipped an onion ring in some ketchup. “You should eat your burger, it’s getting cold.”

  Pete grabbed his cane from the side of the booth. “I need another beer to wash it down.” Determined to get some answers, and with adrenaline pumping through his veins, Pete stood. He limped over to Stan who leaned on the bar t
alking with a flaxen-haired beauty. Somewhere, Cara waited alone while her date flirted and manipulated some bar whore. Nope, Morrison hadn’t changed at all.

  Pete flexed his tense knuckles and squeezed into the little space beside Stan. He ordered another double shot. The whiskey went down easy. He guzzled the rest of his beer, finishing every drop and then cleared his throat. When Stan didn’t respond, Pete tapped his shoulder. “Stan Morrison, how the fuck are yah?”

  Stan cringed and wheeled around. His eyes narrowed. “Do I know you?”

  Oh, he wanted to play this game. “Come on, Stanley. Heart Falls High. Senior Party…” When he didn’t respond, Pete added, “Wow, you’d think a guy would remember who beat him like a bitch. Maybe I hit you harder than I thought.”

  Instead of cowering, Stan chuckled. “Holy shit, if it isn’t Pete Cross. How’s it going?” Stan glanced at the cane. “Not too good, I guess.”

  Pete tightened his fingers around the handle. “So what are you up to tonight, Stanley? Got a hot date?”

  Stan grinned wider. He glanced around. “As a matter of fact…I got one hot piece of ass waiting for me in the back room. You can say, I’ve been revisiting the past a lot tonight. Later, I plan on strolling down memory lane in more ways than one.”

  Unable to control his fury, Pete closed the last few inches between them. “Like hell you will. You’re playing with the wrong damn memory, brother.”

  “You think I didn’t see you creeping around Cara and me earlier? She told me you were in town. Listen, Cross, this isn’t high school and I’m not some dumb jock you can push around and threaten. If you can’t get your head out of your ass long enough to see what’s right in front of you, well, that’s your problem.”

  “You touch her—”

  “And what? You going to call me out like a damn schoolyard bully? I don’t think so.” Stan poked Pete’s chest with his finger. “You had your chance six years ago, but you didn’t have the balls.” A sliver of fear raked up Pete’s spine. He erased the unease. “Yeah, you know what I’m talking about, don’t you, Petey? I saw you from my friend’s car. I watched you press her up against the truck. She offered herself to you, and like the punk you are, you dicked out.” Stan pushed Pete back. He lost his balance for a second, but recovered. “It’s not my fault you’re a coward.”