by Julie Cannon
“And what about at a dinner party or a company function where spouses are expected to attend? Where small talk is abundant, questions asked, and stories told? Everybody will know. That kind of juicy gossip spreads like wildfire. What will my coworkers think of her? And Larry? He’ll drop a gasket. Will they even give her a chance? And, my God, what will they think of me? That we were prison pen pals? Jesus, I sound like a made-for-TV trashy movie. It makes my stomach turn.”
“Why don’t you sit down? Watching you go back and forth like a Ping-Pong ball over a net is making me dizzy.”
“And what will I think after a few years?” Leigh kept pacing. “What will our life be like in five years? Ten? Would I resent the limitations or microscope on our lives? Would I always worry that it would happen again? Would Peyton lose control and hurt me? Could she?” She didn’t expect Jill to answer.
“And what about the family of the man she killed? What if they find out where we live? Would they cause trouble for Peyton and, by association, me? Would we be on the news, the media camping out on our doorstep? My office?” Leigh stopped and looked at Jill. “My God, Jill. I watched some old news footage, and it was a feeding frenzy. The sharks were after her.”
“Leigh, you yourself said it was over ten years ago. The public loses interest after three days.”
Leigh looked at Jill. “This isn’t something you prepare yourself for. How many other people are in my shoes? Is there a Facebook page for girlfriends of women who killed someone who deserved to be killed? It wouldn’t surprise me if there were. Weirder shit is out there. And what are we going to tell our kids? Will they suffer because of what their mom did twenty or thirty years ago? Would they be denied government clearance for the job they always dreamed of? Disqualified from college? Will this be the proverbial sins of the fathers?”
“Leigh, for God’s sake, sit down,” Jill said harshly, grabbing her by the arm and pulling her onto the couch next to her. “When was the last time you ate something?”
“I’m not hungry.”
“When was the last time you ate something?” Jill asked a little more forcefully.
“Lunch, yesterday,” Leigh admitted.
“Yesterday? Jesus, Leigh. No wonder you’re off your rocker. You need some food. It’s after seven. That’s over thirty hours ago. Your body needs fuel even if your stomach says otherwise.”
Jill fixed them both a grilled ham-and-cheese sandwich, and Leigh picked at hers, finishing half. A full glass of milk sat on the table in front of her. Jill dried the frying pan and wiped her hands on a dish towel before sitting beside her.
“Feel better?”
“Yes.”
“At the risk of winding you up again, it sounds like you’re in love with Peyton.”
“What?” Leigh asked, the clenching in her gut growing tighter.
“Before you start denying it, let me explain,” Jill said, putting her hands up in front of her as if stopping an avalanche of words. “Did you hear what you said?” Leigh remained silent. “Things like introducing Peyton to your family and coworkers. What it was going to be like five or ten years from now? What do we tell our kids?” Jill gazed at her, her face soft and understanding. “Leigh, honey,” Jill said gently, laying her hand on Leigh’s forearm. “You are in love with this woman.”
“No, I’m not,” Leigh said, a little too forcefully.
“Yes, you are.”
“No.” Realization crept into her brain. “I can’t be.”
“Why? Because of her past? We all have one, Leigh. When we fall in love, we either accept it and deal with it or move on. It doesn’t sound like you want to move on.”
Jill’s words thundered in her brain like a fast-moving freight train. In love with Peyton? In love with Peyton? She’d been in love once or twice, and both times felt nothing like this. When she’d walked away from those women, it had hurt, but she hadn’t experienced the gut-wrenching, soul-ripping void of loneliness and despair that filled her now.
Was she truly in love with Peyton? Did she want to see Peyton’s face across the pillow from her every night? Lose all control when she touched her? Taste her hot, delicious kisses? Did she want to be the only woman in Peyton’s life? The one she hurried home to and dragged herself away from? Why did it feel like someone had reached inside her chest and yanked out her insides? Did she want to live the rest of her life without her, no matter the consequences?
Chapter Thirty-five
Peyton’s knees buckled from the pain. She knew it was Conway. It couldn’t be anyone else. It had been almost three weeks since he barged into her apartment and threw her life to shit. She’d just finished her testimony detailing his actions in her apartment to the civil-service board. Public policy in the state allowed an employee on the verge of termination to receive a hearing in front of a panel consisting of two civilians and three city employees. In this case, the panel was all men, and if Peyton hadn’t had the video, she doubted Conway would lose his job. She’d stopped for a quick sandwich and was walking back to her truck when she was grabbed from behind and hit in her right kidney. She’d suffered a similar hit in Nelson, and she’d had blood in her pee for a week.
“Get up, bitch,” Conway snarled in her ear. He dragged her to her feet by a handful of her shirt and slammed her face-first against the hood of her truck, her nose crunching like he’d broken it. She fought the blackness that threatened to overtake her. No way could she pass out now. She’d be lucky if she woke up alive if she did. He wrenched one arm behind her back so far she thought it would break.
“This is all your fault,” he hissed, spittle blanketing her good ear. “Because of you I’m going to lose my job and my pension.” He emphasized the last word by shifting her arm a little higher up her back. “You and your sweet little deal and that sweet little piece of ass.” His breath reeked of whiskey, and his words were slightly slurred.
Peyton’s blood raced faster at Conway’s reference to Leigh.
“Maybe when I’m done with you, I’ll pay her a visit.” He had Peyton pinned against her truck and ground his pelvis into her. He didn’t need to be any more explicit, his intention clear.
Peyton struggled to catch her breath and clear her head. She was in a public parking lot, but unfortunately not a highly trafficked one at this particular moment. Stars danced behind her eyes, but they grew fewer with every fill of her lungs. She had to get out of this situation and get out of it fast.
“What do you want?” she managed to choke out, her breath still ragged, blood spattering on the hood in front of her.
“What do I want? What do I want?” Conway said, then said it again. The longer he talked, the more she was able to get oxygen to her brain. Keep him talking long enough, and someone was bound to see them.
“What I want,” he sneered, “is for you to go back into that room and say you made it all up, but that’s not going to happen because of your fucking amateur video.”
When he said it that way, her future sounded bleak. She managed to turn her head to the side, and blood poured out of her nose.
“I want my pound of flesh before I have to leave town. If I can’t throw your ass back in Nelson, then you’ll suffer another way.”
“This is not going to help your case.”
“I don’t have a case.” He was mocking her. “I was good at my job, one of the best. I did shit and took ex-cons nobody wanted. And after twenty-five years, this is what I get? Nothing. All because a privileged killer was released early.”
“You let me go, and I won’t say anything about this.”
Conway laughed, his disgusting breath hot on her neck.
“Do you think I’m that stupid?” He leaned his excessive body weight into her. “I asked you a question, bitch. Answer me,” he growled.
Conway was proving that he was an idiot, but Peyton kept her opinion to herself. “What are you going to do?” Probably not the best question, Peyton thought, but she wasn’t going to just do nothing and take his shit. Not
again. Not ever.
“What are you going to do, Conway? Beat me up? Again? A lot of good it did you the last time.” Peyton knew she was antagonizing him, pushing him further out of control. A man like Conway would lose it and make a mistake. When he did, she’d be ready.
Conway yanked her up and shoved her toward the passenger door of her truck. “Shut up and get in,” he said quickly.
Peyton knew if she got into the truck with him, her chances of surviving would diminish substantially. “No.”
Conway’s fist connected in the same spot as his first blow had, and she staggered again, the pain so severe she vomited up her lunch.
“God damn it, I said get in.” With his free hand he reached inside her front pocket and pulled out her keys. He unlocked the door and shoved her inside. “Move over,” he said, pushing her behind the wheel. He put the key in the ignition and started the truck. “Drive,” he commanded.
Through her haze of pain and the swelling of her eyes and nose, Peyton saw Conway had a gun in his hand, pointed at her. Her odds plummeted. Peyton put the truck in gear and pulled out of the parking lot.
“Where are we going?” Peyton asked, trying to focus on the road in front of her. The white lines were blurred, and the lane seemed much too small for the truck to remain in the middle.
“Just shut up and drive.” Conway wiped sweat from his forehead, his breathing labored.
Peyton knew that no way was she going to drive herself to some secluded place where Conway could kill her and dump her body. The more in focus her surroundings became, the more she saw that people were staring at her as she drove down the street. The bleeding from her nose had eased to a trickle, but the front of her shirt was covered with blood. She knew bruises were starting to form under her eyes that, along with her nose, had started to swell.
Conway reached into his back pocket and pulled out a flask. With his attention on unscrewing the lid, Peyton risked a look at the woman in the car beside her. She held up her cell phone, indicating if Peyton wanted her to call 9-1-1. Peyton nodded once.
The light turned green, and a block later Peyton saw the woman in the car pull in behind her, talking excitedly on the phone. The woman gave her a thumbs-up, and Peyton gave a silent thank you.
Traffic was light, and, in between ranting and raving about what she’d done to him, Conway directed her onto the interstate. Peyton kept glancing in the rearview mirror looking for the police, her fuzzy brain scrambling for a plan. If the police stopped them, there was a good chance Conway would simply shoot her. At this close range and given the caliber of his gun, she’d be dead before the ambulance arrived. She hadn’t gone more than a mile or two before she saw a car speeding up behind her. It didn’t have lights or any markings, and she suspected it was an unmarked patrol car. Just as it was about to overtake them, a plan formed in her mind.
With her right foot still on the accelerator, she lightly tapped the brake with her left, but not hard enough to be detected. She repeated the action several times, hoping the driver behind her understood. Bracing herself, Peyton slammed on the brake with both feet.
The truck skidded on the pavement, fishtailing several times before coming to a stop. Peyton opened the door, jumped out of the truck, and ran, seeking cover behind the tailgate. The car behind her slid to a stop, missing her back bumper by less than a foot. The driver’s door flew open, and a uniformed officer got out, his gun drawn.
“Hands on your head,” he shouted from behind the cover of his door.
Peyton quickly complied and dropped to her knees. Her head was swimming and she almost passed out, but somehow she managed to do exactly what the officer told her to.
“Passenger,” the officer said, his voice broadcasting over the loudspeaker. “Put your hands where I can see them.”
He repeated the command two more times before a marked patrol car slid to a stop behind them both.
In a matter of minutes, the officers had Peyton in the back of the patrol car and Conway on his stomach on the side of the road, his hands cuffed behind his back, blood coming from a gash on his forehead. He hadn’t had his seat belt on, and when she stomped on the brakes, he hit the windshield. It took the better part of an hour before they sorted everything out and Marcus was allowed to come take Peyton home.
A trip to the emergency room, an icepack, and three prescriptions later, Peyton fell into bed.
Chapter Thirty-six
Two weeks later, the bruising and swelling had subsided enough for Peyton to return to work. She’d actually gone back three days after Conway assaulted her in the parking lot but stayed out of sight of the guests and members. The tape on her nose was gone, and the bruises under her eyes had turned from colorful shades of purple and green to slight smudges of yellow.
“Leigh cancelled her lessons,” Marcus said, turning the pages in the appointment book. “She didn’t reschedule.”
“She probably won’t,” Peyton said before she realized that her comment would elicit questions from her brother.
“Is there something you’re not telling me, Peyton?” Marcus asked, his eagle eyes never missing anything.
Peyton fidgeted. What she and Leigh had done involved much more than socializing. She didn’t want to put her brother in an awkward position, one she herself was ashamed to be in. She should have had better control when it came to Leigh. She knew better and understood the problems her actions could cause Marcus. She should have kept her distance, but the chemistry between them was explosive, and she’d been without that spark for far too long. Regrettably, she had a burning need to touch that flame again.
But all that didn’t matter. Leigh was out of her life, and Peyton saw no need to bring it all up. “No. I’m just still a little tired, I guess.”
Marcus looked at Peyton so hard she was afraid he could read her mind. Finally, he asked, “Are you good to make a cart run?”
“Yeah. I’m fine,” Peyton lied. Maybe a little fresh air and sunshine would do her good.
“Leigh must feel her game has improved. She’s out there now with some guy named,” Marcus flipped the page back in his reservation book, “Larry Taylor.”
* * *
“Nice drive.” Larry complimented the way Leigh’s ball sailed into the air and landed perfectly in the middle of the fourth fairway. Their scheduled game had been changed twice, and they’d finally teed off an hour ago on a bright, sunny Saturday morning.
“Thanks,” Leigh said, absentminded. She hadn’t slept much the past few nights in anticipation of today, and it wasn’t because she was playing a round of golf with her boss. They would be at Copperwind, and Peyton would be here. She worked every Saturday, and Leigh had been looking for her the entire morning. She wasn’t sure if she wanted to see her.
Her game today was respectable, but clearly Larry was a much better golfer than she was. Leigh remembered everything Peyton had taught her without overanalyzing it, and her game was solid. Very much unlike her game with Stark and her life since meeting Peyton.
“So, tell me, Leigh. How are you settling in?” Larry asked, referring to her new job.
“Good,” she fibbed. “It’s pretty much what I expected, but I think I’ve adjusted quickly.” Fib number two. “How do you think things are going?”
“You’re doing great. I’ve asked around over the past few weeks, and they all said the same.”
“Would they say any different?” Leigh wondered out loud.
“Why do you ask?”
Leigh looked over Larry’s shoulder and saw Peyton’s cart approach. Her body instinctively remembered how it felt to be held in her strong arms, caressed by her gentle hands, driven to ecstasy by her skillful mouth. She flushed all over, and her heart rate picked up.
She had less than a minute to decide. She’d thought about it for weeks and hadn’t yet reached any conclusion until this very moment.
“Good morning,” Peyton said, only glancing at Leigh. “Can I get you two something to drink?”
Leigh’s heart skipped at the warm timbre of Peyton’s voice. She remembered another time when it had whispered in her ear, “Come for me.” But her attention was immediately drawn to the remnants of bruising on Peyton’s face. Her sunglasses hid most of them, but Leigh knew every inch of Peyton’s face, and there was no hiding it from her. Somehow, she managed to ask for a bottle of water, when she really wanted a shot or two of Canadian Club.
Peyton was counting change from Larry’s twenty-dollar bill he’d handed her for their two waters when she said, “I need to tell you something, Larry. Peter Stark is a problem.”
“I beg your pardon?” Larry said, after almost choking on his swallow of water. Peyton stopped counting his change and stared at her.
“Peter is a problem,” she repeated, more confident now that she’d gotten the first words out of her mouth. “He’s homophobic, probably a racist, and he’s definitely an ass.”
“I think you’d better explain,” her boss said seriously. He took his change from Peyton and thanked her.
“When he and I golfed in that tournament benefitting the foster kids, he made some very inappropriate, disparaging, insulting comments about a woman.” Leigh proceeded to tell Larry, almost word for word, what Stark had said to, and about, Peyton. Larry was pale when she finished.
“I should have said something right then, but I admit I was a bit intimidated by him and was so shocked to hear that kind of talk come out of his mouth, I didn’t do anything. That’s the biggest mistake I’ve ever made in my life. I will never again not speak up when something is wrong, no matter who it concerns, and I’m doing so now.”
Larry stared at Leigh, and it was a long moment before he said anything. Peyton was still standing across from them.
“Do you have anyone to corroborate this accusation?”
Leigh looked at Peyton, who was eyeing her seriously. She gave her a nod so imperceptive Leigh almost missed it. Her resolve was solid.
