by J. D. Dexter
“You heard what I said…woman.” He eggs me on.
“You will pay for this.” I threaten him, my mind going to all the different methods of payback. I narrow my eyes at him.
“Wait.” He holds his hands up in surrender. “I see those wheels rolling. I was kidding. I was kidding.” The terror on his face is funny to watch. “Don’t do it. Whatever it is, don’t do it. Stay in the light, Finley. Stay in the light.” He pleads with me. He hates my revenge.
“You brought it on yourself.” I sit back, satisfied with the dawning horror spreading across his face.
“Dang it.” I hear him mutter.
“Back to our discussion: have you heard from Brian’s contact about putting the new surveillance system in?” I ask sweetly.
“What have you planned, Finley?” He’s using his two-year-old-whiner voice.
“You’ll just have to wait and see. Have you?” I ask again.
“No, I haven’t heard from him yet.” He grimaces as he eats another fry.
“Buck up, buttercup.” I laugh at him.
“Yeah right. You’re the worst when it comes to getting people back.”
“You should have remembered that before purposely riling me with that ‘woman’ crap you know I hate.” I toast him with my Pepsi.
The cup in my hand explodes, soaking everything at the table in the brown carbonated liquid. Josh and I are stupidly staring at each other when the plate in front of me shatters.
Screams sound all around the restaurant, people flinging themselves onto the floor.
Josh yells at me to get down, I drop to lay flat on the booth seat. Two seconds later, I feel his weight push me down farther into the lumpy cushions.
A male voice crowds into my brain. Words that aren’t my own tumble through my head. “Get her down, get her down. Oh, God, please let me get her down.”
More things on the table are erupting, food and drinks dribbling off the side of the table into my hair.
Josh pulls me down onto the floor, throwing me under him once again.
“Thank you, God. Don’t let any bullets hit her. Please. Please. Please. Please.” The same man speaking; again, words splash across my brain like I’m reading subtitles on a movie, but they aren’t mine. I can hear Josh faintly murmuring, but the words are all blending together.
The restaurant finally quiets. No more screams, no more dishes breaking. The silence is eerie.
“Josh, what’s going on?” I whisper to him. I know he can hear me since his face is directly above mine.
“Finley, someone was shooting at you,” he rages.
“I was able to protect her from this one, praise the Lord.” Now that I can focus, I listen carefully to the sound of the voice talking in my head; it’s a voice almost as familiar as my own.
Josh.
“No, they weren’t. I didn’t hear any shots.”
I blank my mind, waiting to see if any other thoughts crowd into my consciousness.
“Suppressor. Unless you think the restaurant started using exploding plates as a new cost saving measure for dish clean up.” His sarcasm level is at a ten and quickly rising to fifteen.
“But no one knows, or cares, who I am. Why would they be shooting at me?”
Josh slowly eases his considerable weight off of my body. I see his shoes in my vision before I feel him wrap a hand around my waist, helping to lift me off the floor. I can feel him picking things out of my hair.
Looking down, I sigh as I see the whole front of my dress is covered in red once again.
“You know that’s wrong. We just met some people who are very interested in you, not to mention the ones we haven’t met officially.” His voice trails off as he looks at me.
“OH MY GOD! She’s been hit. She’s covered in blood.” Josh’s terror sweeps through my mind.
“Finley?” Josh’s voice is shaking, his hands feeling through my dress for the wound that’s soaking my dress in red.
“Ketchup, Josh. Just ketchup.” I reassure him, swiping my finger through the red smear and licking it off.
“Oh, thank God. I don’t think I could handle it if had you had gotten another gunshot wound,” he whispers, pulling me into his arms. His heart is pounding under my ear, his back trembling.
“Not today.” I pat his back absently, trying to help him calm down. My mind is stuck on the fact that I can hear Josh inside my head.
We have something else to freak out about.
The screech of sirens covers the noise of so many overly excited people talking over each other, bringing blessed silence once the sirens cut off. The sudden silence is almost deafening. I rub my knuckles below each ear, trying to soothe the frazzled nerves.
“I’m Detective Upchurch with the Wichita Police Department. Please stay where you are so we can conduct interviews. You will be released after you’ve been questioned.” This said over a loudspeaker.
Detective Upchurch is a small-framed woman with bright red hair. She looks like an angry version of Raggedy Ann. Her face schooled into tight, unyielding lines, she directs the other officers and detectives with her to different points in the room. I see a familiar face walk in behind all of the other law enforcement officials.
Detective Max Wallace stands in the doorway, taking in his surroundings, quietly surveying the crowd before his eyes land on me. I see his eyebrows twitch slightly before settling back into his blank cop face. Keeping his eyes on me, he steps to Upchurch to say a few words, nodding in my direction, and at her nod, makes his way over to our table.
“Ms. Tindol, Mr. Hastings.” He nods slightly as us, pulling his little black notebook out of his inner jacket pocket. Wallace is dressed in another lackluster suit and tie combination. It also looks like he hasn’t gotten any more sleep since the last time I saw him.
“Detective Wallace.” Josh returns his nod.
“We’ve got to stop running into each other like this,” I offer lamely.
Detective Wallace’s shoulders shrug just a little bit, a smile wiped away before ever making a full appearance. Not a laugher, our Detective Wallace.
“Tell me what happened.”
Josh and I give him a recap of what happened. It doesn’t take very long considering it lasted about five seconds from start to finish.
“Any reason why you believe this was an attack on Ms. Tindol?” Wallace turns to Josh.
“Well, it looks like bullets are embedded in the wall next to where she’s sitting.” Josh motions towards the small holes in the wall, the faint glimmer of metal winking in the overhead lights. My heartbeat stalls for a second; this is news to me. I glance at the bullets embedded in the side of the booth.
This earns wide eyes from Wallace. They quickly return to their normal size, before he turns to face me, his face rigidly blank.
“Ms. Tindol. What is your opinion?” he asks.
“I’m not really sure. Josh explained that the gun likely had a suppressor on it, which is why I didn’t hear any of the shots. I hadn’t noticed the bullets sitting in the booth-back though.” I gesture lamely beside me.
“Stay here a moment.” Wallace holds up his hand like a traffic cop at us and walks over to a coworker with Crime Scene Technician emblazoned on the back of his jacket. They exchange a few words before the technician accompanies Wallace back to our booth.
“Hold still for me,” the technician, with the name Johnson over the left breast pocket, says as he raises a professional camera.
The flashes blind me for a couple of seconds. He takes pictures from every possible angle, before he motions us out of the booth. His gloved hands are at the ready with some tweezers and baggies with a bright red seal that says EVIDENCE in bold letters.
“This way, please.” Wallace gestures us over to another booth that’s been recently vacated of traumatized diners.
Josh and I sit down, waiting for any other questions from Wallace. We’ve already given our statement; we didn’t leave anything out.
“How many shots do y
ou remember?” Wallace asks, his eyes flicking between Josh and me.
“Five,” Josh answers quickly.
Trying to count in my head, I tilt my head to the side. “Four,” I say out loud, lifting my eyes once again to Wallace’s somber face.
“You’re both sure?” Josh and I look at each other for a second, nod, and answer in unison, “Yeah.”
“Ms. Tindol. This is the second time in as many weeks that gunfire has erupted around and at you. Do you have anything you would like to say?” The droll tone of voice tells me that Wallace thinks I should know something more than what I’m sharing with him.
I do; I’m just not sharing what I do know about all of this with him. I need to discuss all of this with the family and Hunter…with some new aspects thrown in for good measure. So much for that quiet life I was supposed to be leading. There wasn’t even time to get complacent in my new, quieter life.
I shake my head, shrugging my shoulders. “Sorry, Detective. If I knew, I would definitely share it with you. I’m not really fond of being shot at.”
“Mmhmm.” He looks like he doesn’t believe me. The nerve of some people.
“You’re both free to leave. If you think of anything else, or about the first time I came to see you, you know how to get in touch.” Just to make sure we do, he leaves another card on the table for us. He turns around and has a short conference with Detective Upchurch before going to the next table of witnesses.
I’m beginning a collection of Detective Wallace’s cards. I got one when I went by his office after getting released. I didn’t need him trying to hunt me down at the hospital and sending out a search when I wasn’t there. The meeting lasted maybe twenty minutes, and by the look on his face, I hadn’t given him anything new or revelatory.
Josh and I look at each other for a couple of short moments, nod in unison, and make our getaway.
Chapter Eighteen
“Josh, we need to have another family meeting.” We’re getting into Josh’s Camaro, and his eyes are tracking all over the parking lot as if looking for more shooters.
“I know, we need to let them know that you’ve been shot at again.” His fingers are clenched around the steering wheel so tightly his knuckles are a bloodless white. He screeches out of the parking lot.
“That, and I think I heard your voice in my head,” I say.
Silence explodes in the car. I can’t even hear Josh breathing.
“What the shit is she talking about?” His words breathe through my mind, much quieter than their predecessors.
“Exactly. And language,” I answer him out loud.
“I didn’t say anything.” He sounds like he’s trying to hide the fact that I answered his thoughts. And keep a lid on his freak out.
“Right. Keep on thinking that.” I’m freaking out as much as he is, although I’m probably handling it better than he is; they’re his thoughts in someone else’s brain, not mine.
“Can you really hear me?” he asks mentally, like a little boy asking for help but still wanting to be considered a big kid.
“Yes, Josh, I can really hear your thoughts,” I say softly.
“Well, for shit’s sake, Finley. That’s totally not fair!” He’s sounding even more like a little boy than before, except for the language.
“I completely agree, but I have no idea why or how. So, I think we need to get everyone together and have some kind of discussion,” I tell him again.
“Ya think?”
He’s really whining now. Men can be such babies.
“And you think I like hearing other people’s thoughts? I was a big enough freak before, now I’m just a freaking mutant!”
“Well, don’t go poking around in my head. That’s not for public consumption.”
“Please, like I really want to know all of the inner workings of your brain? That answer is a hard no,” I retort. I stew as I cross my arms over my ample chest.
“Sweet shitting cakes, Fin, don’t cross your arms!” Josh’s lament fires through my brain.
“Why can’t I cross my arms?” I say, a bite in my tone.
He huffs at me. Or would it be more of a growl?
“Because your boobs are too big, and you’re about to spill out of your top, Finley Marie. I love you, I love boobs, and you’re currently killing me with both!” He screeches at me.
I turn to look at him, needing to see his facial expression.
The muscles in his jaw are clenching and unclenching, the tiny veins running up the side of his head are extended as well.
“Sorry,” I whisper as I uncross my arms. There’s not much I can do about my boobs, they are huge, and tend to have a mind of their own.
He lets out a huge sigh. Rubbing a hand over his forehead, he says, “No, I’m the one who’s sorry. I shouldn’t have snapped at you for crossing your arms. But between you being able to hear my thoughts and your boobs pushing up like that, I feel like a cat in a room full of rocking chairs.” He sounds not only freaked out, but on the verge of a complete melt down.
“I know you try to keep the girls under wraps, for which I, and the other boys, greatly thank you. We know they are more of a pain than anything else for you. But, dang Finley…boobs!” He looks at me, his eyes wide enough I can see white all the way around the iris.
I hang my head, a little ashamed. All of my boys are boob-men, they’ve told me so on many occasions. And considering we all treat each other like siblings, I’ve never had to worry about them getting creepy about my boobs. I sometimes forget that we aren’t really related, and sometimes the guys get more of a show than I ever intend to give.
“I really am sorry. I hadn’t thought about how well my ladies showed in this dress. Although it could account for some of the looks I was getting from the older ladies at church.” I remember a couple of delicate sniffs as I walked by.
“That dress does wonders for your boobs. Just don’t cross your arms and we’ll get through this without any more issue.” He gives me a wink.
“Thanks.” I try to lift the front of the dress so that more of my décolletage is covered, but it’s no use. I can hear the weird noises coming from the other side of the car, so I stop all movement. I’m really not trying to make things worse, but…boobs!
“Boobs are so inconvenient,” I complain. They have brought me more hassle than happiness.
A choked chuckle is my reply from the male perspective.
We finally make it back to my house, no more boobs or telepathy issues ruining the short drive. I managed to get a hold of everyone, even Hunter—who had the day off—and they’re all converging on my house in a couple of minutes.
I go down the hall to change out of my ketchup-covered dress. Thankful once again that it’s not blood.
I walk into my bedroom, close the door, and just breathe deeply for a couple of moments. Taking a look around my room, I sometimes forget that I live in the house of my dreams.
An Arts-and-Crafts style house with three bedrooms, two bathrooms, a full kitchen that opens into the dining/living room, with a small basement for laundry and waiting out tornadoes.
I picked out all of the colors—bold, rich blues with accents of other primary colors, and mixed those with white trim and crown molding to contrast nicely with my natural wood floors and doors. I tried to keep all of the original hardware, and sourcing some replacements seemed to take forever and a small piece of my soul. But I’m pretty happy with the result.
My bedroom is my favorite space and my personal retreat. A king size bed dominates the space, with a handcrafted headboard standing as anchor. Two small nightstands in a dark stained pine compliment the clean lines and crisp linens I use. Furry throw pillows, a chenille blanket, high thread-count sheets, and an antique bronzed ceiling fan satisfy my needs for different textures.
Walking towards the attached bathroom and closet, I pull the ruined maxi dress over my head, and drop it into the sink before filling the bowl with cool water. I put some orange essential oils in the wate
r to help treat the ketchup stains.
Taking a couple more steps in just my bra and panties, I get to the closet. I pull out an ancient pair of leggings that are soft enough to swaddle babies, a raggedy oversized sweatshirt that I’m pretty sure was one of Brian’s, and some socks before I make my way back out to the living room.
Josh is just getting something out of the fridge when the doorbells rings. Knowing all of my family just walks right in when they come to my house, I figure it must be Hunter.
I step to the front door, using the side windows to confirm it is Hunter, then open the door.
He looks delicious in his casual clothes. A worn pair of jeans that hug his muscular frame combined with a KC Royals shirt and hat covering is blond hair. Good to know that he’s a supporter of our professional sports teams. His toes look a little chilly in his flip flops though.
“Hey, come on in. Thanks for coming over on such short notice.” I back up to let him over the threshold.
“It sounded important, and I was dying to see you, so it all worked out.” He smiles at me. He takes his hat off as he steps all the way inside. Turning to face me, he’s leaning down to give me a kiss when we hear a loudly cleared throat coming from the entrance to the kitchen.
“Save it, you two.” Josh’s choked laughter letting me know he just wants to give me crap, that he doesn’t care if I do kiss Hunter in front of him.
I give him a glare for good measure before leaning up on tip toe and kissing Hunter anyway. Hunter’s lips curve into a smile over mine.
“I’ll do what I want, when I want. It’s my house.” I gripe at Josh after resting back on my heels.
Josh’s reply is thwarted when two big bodies move through the open doorway, jostling into Hunter and me.
“Yeah, Josh. It’s her party and she can do what she wants to,” Brent says.
“Do what she wants to.” Brian sings along, his bass voice supporting the baritone of his brother’s.
We all crack up. Any time we can quote a movie or some song lyrics is a good day for us.
“Hunter, good to see you man. Although I didn’t know you were expected.” Brian takes Hunter’s hand in welcome. Hunter just nods.
