by Angel Payne
Until right now.
The wails of my two little girls are like banshee cries inside a medieval dungeon—despite the fact that the ridge’s underground bunker is outfitted better than most high-end apartments. But the state-of-the-art kitchen, loft-style bunk beds, fit-for-a-queen bathroom, gaming area with theater sound, and reading area with a full library of books can’t diminish the bunker’s biggest trait—and my twins’ hugest trigger.
The fucking thing is underground.
A necessity I have no choice about.
Just like the fate I have to thrust upon them.
“Fuck my life.” I’ve never been one for that trite piece of crap, but in this messed-up moment, nothing feels more fitting. For the rest of my life, those girls are going to hate the hell out of me. For the same time span, I’ll be doing the exact same thing.
My gut roils like a toilet tank filled with bile—especially from my next thought. I actually think about my own father and every wrenching call he had to make for my own good. All the school transfers, the groundings, the disciplinary meetings…hell, even the jail bail-outs. And finally having to tell the biggest lie of them all—faking his own death—just for the chance to gain intel that would keep the whole family safer.
Fatherhood.
It’s not for pussies.
If I survive this night with my heart and soul intact, that’s going on a goddamned T-shirt.
But first, the survival thing.
Which, at this point, is going to be sketchy at best—a certainty that hits my gut like an anvil as the twins’ shrieks cut into the rest of me like shrapnel. And let’s just forget any metaphors for what it feels like to turn and actually look at them again, huddled together on one of the velvet bean bags in the gaming area, a bunch of Minecraft princesses bumping into each other on the screen behind them. We might as well be back in the Biltmore’s elevator, with the two of them staring as if I’m one of the hotel’s ghosts come to life, except this time, their panic has worsened fivefold.
Because I’m worse than a ghost.
I’m the monster responsible for ordering them underground again.
“Dada.”
I don’t turn, pretty certain I’m the only one who can hear the gentle summons. Yeah, bringing the girls back underground like it’s no big deal is wishful thinking on my part. Lux is obsessively devoted to his new sisters, and he knows they don’t like this. If they told him they wanted to fly to the moon just to protest earth altogether, the kid would find a way to make it happen.
On that note, I refocus on pulling two trays of fresh sugar cookies out of the oven. Yeah, they’re a brazen peace offering. And yeah, I personally cut them into the shapes of tutus and toe shoes and then mixed pink and purple frosting for the tops. But I already know they’ll go ignored.
I suck.
Hard.
But goddamnit, there’s no other solution at this point. Not with Todd and Laurel climbing out of their Lexus up at ground level as we speak. Sending the girls away, even with Foley, Archer, and the Bommers in tow, would’ve meant they’d run into the Crists during the journey down the hill, a risk we couldn’t take given Lux’s devotion to his “grandpy.” Hiding the kids somewhere else in the house likely would’ve yielded the same result. This was the fastest solution we could think of, though fast sure as hell didn’t equate to careful or sensitive.
“Dada.”
I look down at the incessant little hand curled atop my wrist. I jerk my sights over, genuinely surprised. He’s not my imagination—but all the best parts of my dreams. “Hey, buddy. What is it? You need more chocolate milk already?”
My son shakes his head until white-blond curls drop into his eyes. He pushes them away with a small grunt of impatience, his mouth set in a grim pout. “Mis ‘n’ Ira scared.”
I crouch down and grip his proud little shoulders. They’re as tense as if the weight of the world rests on them—because to his mind, his sisters’ distress is the same thing. “I know,” I concede with as much calm as possible. “They’re having memories of when we first found them. Do you remember all that?”
A steady nod. The wisdom of the ages in his eyes. It’s not fucking fair for a kid his age, even at his psychological maturity instead of his physical one, to be shouldering so much knowledge of the world’s ugliness. He should be over in front of that monitor, telling his sisters he’s going to create a few Minecraft monsters to eat their princesses, not pickling several jars with his stress over their wall-jostling fear. “They came out of the hole. I had to tell ’em it was okay not to be in there.”
“And now, because the bunker is underneath the ground, they think we’re putting them back in the hole.”
His forehead gains some furrows. “But we’re not!” he argues. “And the bunker is fun!”
A few drops of amusement spread their way into my pond of guilt and dread. “Well, we know that, buddy, but they don’t. And it’ll only be for a few hours, I promise.”
“Bad people coming, Dada?”
The lines across his brow get some friends in the frissons across my heart.
“No, son. It’s not like that.” I slide my hands down, surrounding both of his with them. “Just some visitors we didn’t expect, who might be confused about what Mis and Ira are doing here. They might ask some questions we can’t answer right now—and until we can officially adopt your sisters, we want to make sure nobody tries to take them away from us.”
His responding rage is palpable, his eyes glowing like caution lights and his veins pulsing a rich cobalt. “I’ll beat ’em up, Dada. Hard!”
“Okay, nobody’s getting beaten up tonight.” It’s an effort to punch my tone with rebuke instead of high-fiving my little stud with pride, but I give myself a mental back pat for doing the responsible adulting thing. “Right now, I need you to be my big helper hero, okay? Lead the girls by example.”
“Example? What’s that mean, Dada?”
“Well…” I give in to a full grin. “In this case, it’s pretty easy. Just show them how we like to party down here, okay?”
“Yeah! Okay!”
At once, the kid launches into a flawless shoot dance, while singing “Don’t Stop the Party” complete with hand motions and an “autotuned” voice. He’s roused into more by hand claps that synch to his beat, and I swing a stunned stare to watch Foley—Foley!—join in on the freaky dance. The claps are coming from Lydia, who sidles up and finally elbows me enough times that I’m joining into the syncopated applause. Even the twins halt their screams long enough to watch the guys bang out a freaky-fly routine, though they return to the exact same spot they were in—somewhere between mild dread cookies and full-blown spazzcakes—as soon as Lux and Foley finish off the routine by parkouring into backflips and then sticking their landings with “ta-da” poses.
“What the hell, Folic Acid?” I demand at once. “You been sneaking out for nights at the raves with the cool kids?”
A snort from the surfer stud who’s just danced as if auditioning for a Black-Eyed Peas video. “News flash, Bolt-a-zoid. Your son is a cool kid.” He turns his hands out and shrugs, looking like a fifteen-year-old caught teaching the preacher’s kid to smoke. “What? You think we spend all our training time just training?”
“Like you’re supposed to be?”
My comeback gets another chuff from his direction, along with an eye roll. The combination is enough to garner a belly laugh from Lux, with the trickle-down effect of stopping Mis’s and Ira’s sobs. For the first time ever, I’m tempted to reward the bastard for his insolence with a crushing hug—but I don’t dare tip the room’s energy balance that way. Hopefully, the Sawyer and Lydia show is off to a positive start, especially when the girls finally peer over at the cookie assembly counter with interest.
“Bolt Jolt. Dude.” Lydia looks ready to give my ribs another “love tap” from her elbow but sticks to a fun-filled shoulder bump instead. “We got this for now. Go turn on the charm for your guests.”
Hefty snort. “Guests,” I scoff. “Who had the ‘manners’ to give us a fifteen-minute warning on their approach?”
She beams a shit-eating grin. “Which is why you’re called the Sultan of Smooth and I’m down here frosting cookies, baby.”
Narrowed glare. “I’ve never been called that.”
“Well, you are now.”
“So that would make Emma the Sultana of…”
“Patience.” She’s ready with that answer, in all its sincere reverence, before any of us can blink twice. “Especially when it comes to our whacknut of a maternal creature.”
“Who’s unleashing the crazytown Kraken on my wife as we speak,” I return.
“Which means you gotta bolt, lightning boy.” She shoos me with a spoon overloaded by a gob of lavender frosting. When a chunk of the stuff drops off, spattering across her sweatshirt emblazoned with Cute but Psycho, it’s enough to make me add a smug smirk to my reluctant departure.
“As you wish, Princess Purple Psycho.”
I’m not sure if it’s my comeback or ’Dia’s growl that makes Lux and the twins bust out with new laughs, but I’m grateful no matter what as I back away from the happy scene—every cell in my body hating that I’m not a part of it while every neuron in my spirit prays the positive ju-ju will carry through for at least a couple of hours.
A couple of hours?
And just what kind of crack was I smoking, thinking Laurel would limit their cute little drop-in to a hundred and twenty silly minutes?
Even with our cover story that “Luke” has gone for a sleepover at Unca Saw Saw and Auntie ’Dia’s place—not a lie, if it’s stretched by just a little—Emma’s mother has insisted on a full tour of the house, with special attention to the minor improvements we’ve made, as well as enjoying the sunset over drinks out on the terrace. During that time, both Kainalu and Aliz have arrived and been introduced, fortunately having already received my texts that they’re to be as general as possible about sharing details of any kind with Laurel. Though I didn’t disclose too many details why, I deduced that both of them would discover that for themselves after three minutes in the woman’s presence—but shockingly, Laurel goes by for much longer stretches without invoking the almighty name of goddess Faline.
Soon, I recognize that the disparity is just as obvious to Emma as me—an observation she finally gets a chance to vocalize when her mother wanders off to the kitchen on a quest to ask Anya about the artichoke and feta bites that were brought out along with our twilight cocktails. As soon as the two women are busy discussing gluten-free chips and alternatives to sugared coffee creamer, Emma grabs her father by the elbow to guide him into the sanctuary of our home office. While the room isn’t soundproof, it’s in the middle of the wing that’s separated from the rest of the house by a large chunk of the cliff, adding some natural privacy to the setting.
“All right, Grandpy Todd, what’s the four-one-one here?” she presses. “I had to mention Faline first? And Mother actually looked constipated about it for a second?”
“And thank you for that perfect visual, darling.” Todd’s cocked brow and arid tone convey the man’s own knowledge about being a Sultan of Smooth. “But even with the colorful help, I’m afraid I haven’t got a clue about your mother’s new frostbite about Fa-Fa.”
“Is it?” I charge. “Frostbite, I mean? Is Laurel completely broken of the addiction?”
“No.” Emma mutters it from twisted lips, clearly craving to be wrong. “When she was in my closet and admiring my new boots, I deliberately told her they were an impulse buy, perhaps to make Faline jealous. She smiled and muttered something about how the woman doesn’t have time to be jealous.”
“Of course not,” I snarl. “The witch doesn’t waste time with the petty stuff. She goes straight for the big flash stuff. Spitting spite. Shondaland-show nastiness.”
Emma spurts out a soft laugh. “You know you just invoked Shonda Rhimes, mister. You also know I accept bribes for silence, right?”
Brief snort. “Oh, I might have a few…talents…with which to work off my shame.”
Emma indulges my flirty sarcasm with a fond smile but picks up her point where she left off. “Mother gave the assertion with a lot of obvious affection, as if she was speaking about an old friend she dearly missed.”
I rock back on one foot, letting my head fall in the same direction. “But still, an old friend.” I study the patterns of afternoon light reflecting off the pool onto our ceiling. Following the intersecting light trails makes it easier to re-envision those strange moments in which Laurel wasn’t really herself—which means, of course, that she’s actually becoming herself again. “Did you catch the moment where she almost forgot Fa-Fa’s name completely? She wanted to say something else, I think.”
“Perhaps Farrah?” Todd offers.
“Yeah.” I snap my head back down, meeting his quiet but insightful gaze. “That really could’ve been it. She was dancing with an ‘r’ sound, for sure. What came out sounded like ‘Farrine.’”
“Yep,” he confirms. “Heard it just as clearly.” And changes his expression to convey how he remembers the rest of the moment, as well. Laurel had fumed, openly mortified with herself…as if she was inwardly punishing herself.
As if she was petrified that Faline would show up and do it instead.
“Farrah.” Emma’s thoughtful repetition is the hook on my concentration, yanking me away from the startling hypothesis my mind’s begun spinning to life. It’s okay, since I know the theory isn’t fading off anytime soon. “Mother has a friend named Farrah, doesn’t she?” she asks her father. “From the club?”
Todd nods. “You have a good memory, kiddo. They bonded pretty tightly during your last year at college, so you only met her a few times. She and your mom enjoyed the same books and movies.” His smile is soft and genuine. “That was a good thing for your mother, since she was trying to get used to you girls not being around all the time. Farrah even encouraged your mom to start painting again. They started taking some night classes together.”
“Until our wedding reception.”
I could have predicted Emma’s ensuing words, down to the emotional wobble. What I’m less sure of is what Todd’s going to do with that. While I understand the crazy fence he’s been balancing since the second Laurel returned from her “field trip” with Faline after the wedding, there’s nothing he can do about the forces controlling his wife. Not so with his daughter, who needs to be guided and loved now more than ever.
And thank fuck, he gets it too.
My chest surges with warmth as I watch him gather Emma close, wrapping a hand around the back of her head as she burrows against his shoulder. “It wasn’t your fault, Lina-Bina,” he husks, rubbing the top of her head with his cheek. The new angle helps him look over to me as well. “Nor yours,” he affirms my way.
And while I have a long and valid list of reasons as to why he’s wrong about the last part, now isn’t the time to re-hash how his daughter could have married a lawyer, a doctor, or even a lion tamer and had just the loony drunk cousin to handle at the wedding reception instead of the lunatic bitch with a grand plan of taking over the world, one susceptible mind at a time.
Except that now…maybe she’s not.
Or maybe…she can’t.
I’ve never been happier in the conviction that Emma and I must sometimes share the same brain—and that this moment is absolutely one of those occasions. Just as the revelation stuns me like a high-voltage Taser, it zaps her as well. She stumbles back from her father, hands and jaw dropping, before swiveling to confirm all the same jolts of understanding are taking over me. One second’s worth of a look, and I confirm it’s so. We’re on the same page, down to the same damn letter.
And she grins, silently telling me what she plans on doing with that page.
Fold. Fold. Fold.
Tweak. Tweak. Tweak.
I’m pretty damn sure I’m the only bastard alive to ever watch a woman prepare to
fly a paper F-18. Big deal if it only exists in her head. Her eyes, the color of rockets at full throttle, have me ready to whoop as if six Gs of force have slammed me back into my own cockpit. Rock and roll, my gorgeous Flare. Let me see what you’ve got cookin’, goddess.
She slides closer to Todd once more, gingerly toeing the floor. “So…Daddy?”
“Hmmm?”
She switches up her posture, leaning over to make sure that Laurel and Anya are still jabbering away about chick pea cookies and kale cupcakes. “How long has this stuff been happening? The…frostbite?”
Todd seesaws his head, bouncing from ear to ear as he considers the query. “Not that long,” he hedges. “Why?”
“A few weeks?” Emma persists.
“Oh, no. Not that long.”
“A few days?” Emma persists. “Three, four?”
“Yeah. No more than that.” He levels his stare, at once driving it straight at her. “Again, dear one, why?”
Emma works her lips against each other. Works her fingertips against her palms with the same nervousness. But she’s calmer as soon as she darts a glance at me and I’m ready with a reassuring nod. We’re still sharing the same mind, and that’s becoming a good thing.
“You…errrmmm…may want to sit down for this,” she finally tells her father. “I’m serious, Dad. Sit.”
Todd complies, bracing himself against an arm of the sofa, but not without looking like he’s preparing to hear something freaky. Can’t say I blame the guy. But he’s rapidly become an expert on freaky and shows it by handling Emma’s hasty but thorough report of everything that’s gone down since the earthquake. Well, almost everything. I’m relieved when she leaves out the part about Atticus Scorpio and his three musketeers being literally camped out in the front driveway. Since she still notes that Foley’s been calling in favors from his Special Forces buddies, I assume—and hope—that Todd writes off the motorhomes as accommodations for the extra houseguests.
