by Celia Loren
I tiptoe back into the bedroom, my heart racing. He must just be knocked out, he has to be. I grab my gun from my holster where I left it on the bed. I didn't intend on needing it anymore, and sure didn't want to get caught trying to take it over the border. I flip the safety off, and creep toward the kitchen. Someone's in the house, and it's not like I can call the cops.
I crouch low as I move along the wall. I listen for footsteps, or even breathing, but I don't hear anything. I get to the doorway, and watch Ford's foot for movement. Nothing. I take a deep breath, and swing around the edge of the doorway.
With a thwack, a baseball bat comes down on my forearms. I cry out and drop my gun. As I fall back onto the tiles, I see Taz reaching for the gun. I'm stunned with the pain in my arms, but I manage to kick my leg out and send the gun shooting across the floor to the living room.
Taz lets out a feral yell and raises the bat above his head. I see blood on it – Ford's. I roll out of the way as the bat flies down, and hear it crack down on the tiles. I scramble to my feet as Taz raises the bat again and swings for my head. I duck, and he takes out a corner of the wooden cabinets.
He leaves himself slightly off-balance as his arms jerk around, and I seize my opportunity, snapping a swift kick into his crotch. He yelps and doubles over slightly, so I kick upward and into his chin. He stumbles back, but doesn't let go of the bat.
I grab a cast-iron skillet from the stovetop and throw it at his head. It's heavier than I thought it was, so I don't quite get his head, but it slams with a thud into his chest. He gasps and drops the bat, and I make a run for my gun.
I scramble toward it, bending over. I can feel the metal against my fingertips. Just as I tighten my grip around the base, I hear footsteps and feel Taz slam into my back. I hit the ground with a grunt and the wind is knocked out of me. I'm still holding my gun, but there's not much I can do with it since I'm lying on top of it.
Taz snakes his arm around my neck and I bite down hard on it. He pulls it away slightly, and I tuck my chin down so he can't choke me out. Taz raises his hips to try to get a better angle on me. I can feel ragged breath on my ear, and the sour smell of his sweat is stifling.
I pull my knee under me, then kick back as hard as I can. He grunts as I make contact with his crotch again, then I fling my head back against his face.
"Fuck!" he yells, and his grip around my neck loosens. I scramble away. I feel him grab my ankle, and kick back again, hard. There's a crunching sound, and I leap to my feet, swinging around with my gun pointed at me.
He jumps to his feet and starts toward me, but stops when he sees the gun. His face is a wreck. I made contact a couple times, and now his nose is spilling blood over his mouth.
"Motherfucker," I hear, and steal a glance toward the kitchen. Ford is stumbling out of the kitchen, supporting himself on the island.
"It's over, Taz," I say.
"What are you?" he snarls. "FBI? ATF?"
"I'm a cop. I was," I tell him. "But it doesn't matter anymore."
"Course it does," he replies.
"Taz, the club is over. Tank sold us out to the FBI," Ford says.
"You're a fucking liar," he spits back.
"It doesn't matter whether you believe us or not, we're leaving," Ford says.
"You brought this bitch into our club. She's the reason all this is happening."
I walk over to Ford, keeping my gun trained on Taz. "You okay?" I ask him.
"Don't worry about me. I've been through worse," he replies grimly. "You?"
"Could use a stiff drink," I tell him.
"There's a beach waiting for us," Ford replies.
"What the shit? This is not happy couple time. You two are leaving over my dead body!"
"I really hope not, Taz, but I'll do what I have to do to leave," I tell him.
"I should have fucked you when I had the chance," he says. His eyes glow grotesquely over his blood-stained face. "And then passed you around to whoever wanted a taste."
Ford lurches forward, but I grab his arm and pull him back. "We don't have time for this," I remind him. "Soon he'll be in our rearview anyway."
Ford takes a deep breath. "You're no kind of man," he finally says.
"Let's go," I say, and pull him toward the front hallway. I wait until we're about to turn the corner to lower my gun and turn my back on Taz. I reach up to give Ford's arm a squeeze, when I hear movement from behind us.
Taz is running toward us, grabbing the bat from the floor in mid-stride. His face is twisted in anger. Without thinking, I raise my gun and fire.
Chapter 39 – Ford
I gently lower Marie's arm. "It's okay," I tell her, and put the gun on the counter. "You had to do it. You gave him plenty of outs."
"Mm," she replies, but she's not looking at me. She's staring at Taz as he lies on the kitchen tile, bleeding. I walk over to him. I can tell with one look that he's not going to make it.
"Let's go," I tell her. She nods. I hurry into the bedroom and grab the backpack. The sound of that gunshot will draw the cops here in no time. She's still staring at Taz when I get back. I take her face in my hands. "Marie, we gotta move really fast now, got it?"
"Yes, yes," she mumbles back. I take her hand and pull her to the car. I've got a splitting headache and can feel moisture on the back of my head that I know is blood, but Marie's in shock and I'm not letting her drive. I take one glance at my bike and know that it's not the best option. I think Marie might fall off the back off it right now.
I open the door of the truck. "In," I tell her. She hops in, and I run around to the other side and toss the backpack behind us. I peel out, noticing a neighbor nervously glancing through their curtains as I drive by.
"Your bike," I hear her murmur.
"I can get another bike," I tell her. I pull onto the highway. We've just got to make it to the border before they catch up with us.
"Is he dead?" Marie asks.
"He will be soon," I tell her.
"I killed him."
"If I'd been holding the gun, I would have done the same thing," I reply. "I wish it had been me, just so I could take it off your conscience."
"Are you okay?" she asks again.
"Don't worry about me. I'm fine. We can stop in a hospital in Mexico for some painkillers."
"We're going to Mexico," she replies, and a slightly hysterical giggle bursts through her lips. "I feel weird."
"You're in shock. Just give it some time," I tell her. "Hear, listen to some music." I reach forward and turn on the old CD player. Bob Seger plays through the speakers, and we fly down the highway, heading south.
Four and a half hours later, I nudge Marie awake. "We're here," I tell her.
She jumps and her eyes fly open. "What? Where?"
"Mexico."
"What do you mean? The border?" she asks, glancing around. The dawn light is filling the truck, and she looks around in confusion at the dusty road.
"Passed the border forty-five minutes ago."
"I fell asleep?" she asks, sounding horrified.
I laugh. "It was a long night," I tell her.
"So we're safe?" she asks, looking over at me in disbelief.
"We're safe," I tell her. She leaps across the console toward me, covering my face in kisses. I swerve slightly. "Woah, careful!"
"Where should we go? What should we do?" she asks breathlessly.
"Well, if you're up for it, there's this little village called Sayulita on the Pacific coast that I've always had my eye on. It's near Puerto Vallarta so it still gets some tourist traffic, but not too much."
"Sounds perfect," Marie says with a grin.
"It's still a long drive," I warn her.
"Fine with me. But I want to stop soon and take a look at that head wound. You were out for a couple minutes, so you're almost definitely concussed."
I spot a sign by the side of the road. "Puerto Peñasco's coming up. It's a little resort town. What do you say we stop here for the day?"
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p; "Sounds good to me," she replies, and I take the next right. Just like that, the Pacific ocean springs into view, the early morning sun glinting off its calm waters. "Wow," Marie breathes. "I saw the ocean when I lived in Washington, but the color is completely different here. Lighter, more green."
I pull into a public parking lot by the sand. It's still early, so it's completely empty. I reach back and grab a small first aid kit from the backpack and hand it to Marie. We both get out of my truck, then meet at the hood. I take her hand, and we walk down the still-cool sand toward the water.
When we're about ten feet away from the spot where the sand turns damp, I sit down, and Marie kneels behind me.
"You've got a nasty bump," she says. "It's probably too late now, but stitches would have been a good idea. Headache?"
"Yeah."
She roots around in the kit. "Here," she says, handing me some Tylenol. "Any other symptoms?"
"My ears are ringing a little. I don't remember what happened before he hit me. I remember you coming to the compound."
"We drove back to your place," she explains. I wince as she cleans the area around the throbbing spot on the back of my head. "And you got the backpack."
"I should have just left it. I wanted us to have a better start here."
"You couldn't have known. He must have followed us from the compound." I study the water as she works. "I guess I'm wanted for murder now," she adds quietly.
"It was self-defense," I tell her. "I might not have seen what happened with your stepfather, but I saw this one, and I'm telling you, it was self-defense. You have nothing to feel guilty over. I'm not saying it'll leave your mind right away, but don't let yourself dwell on it," I advise her.
"There. I cleaned it as best I could," she says. "I don't know about a bandage, because of all your hair." She sits next to me on the sand, and rests her head on my shoulder.
"Do you think there's really such a thing as a fresh start?" she asks me.
I pause for a moment, thinking. "I don't know, but let's find out."
Chapter 40 – Marie
Three and a half years later…
I blink as the light comes through the gauzy curtains. I feel Matt's hand slide across my stomach and smile.
"Having cold feet?" he asks. I look over to see him staring at me with one eye open and a devilish grin on his lips. "It's not too late to back out, you know."
I hear running footsteps down the hallway outside our door. "I think it is," I reply, as Peter pushes our door open and jumps onto our bed.
"Oof!" Matt says as Peter lands on his chest.
"When are the people coming?" Peter asks. Matt pushes his dark hair out of his eyes.
"You need a haircut," he says.
"Daddy, the people!" Peter insists.
"Not for a little while," Matt replies. Peter sighs.
"Did you make us breakfast yet?" Matt asks him.
"Daddy, I'm not big enough," Peter says, sounding exasperated.
"Ohhhh," Matt says. "When will you be big enough?"
Peter considers. "Probably when I get married, like you."
"I was hoping for a little sooner than that," I say, and plant a kiss on his tanned cheek. He's still a little fuzzy on the exact details of what's happening today. We explained to him that a wedding is basically like a party, one where Mommy and Daddy promise to stay together forever.
Of course, we would have done that anyway, but we still wanted to make it official. We would have done it earlier, but time just sort of got away from us. After we came down here, we had to find a place to live, start a business, and then there was the surprise of my almost immediate pregnancy. We were too busy living.
"Come on, we'll make breakfast today," Matt says, wrapping his arm around Peter and standing up with him.
I watch his broad back as he carries our son out of the room and then downstairs to the kitchen. I sigh happily and lay back against my pillow. As always, our room smells of the ocean, and I inhale deeply.
Our house sits one block back from the beach, and across from it, and bordering on the sand, is our small bar. It's frequented by a mix of expats, locals, and tourists. Sayulita Beach has excellent surfing, so we get a good amount of tourist traffic, though not so much that the local culture has been lost. Peter already knows Spanish, and Matt and I are struggling to keep up with him.
I stand up and stretch, then peer out the window at the bar. I can see Nicolas opening up the shutters and preparing the tables. They're all pushed together for the reception. Hanging on the back of the bathroom door is my wedding dress. It's white linen, with some lace around the bust. A local dressmaker made it for me, and it's perfect for a beach wedding.
"Breakfast!" I hear Matt call from downstairs.
A few hours later, and my friends Maritza and Nicole are sticking white wildflowers they found at the last minute in my hands. "Perfect," I tell them with a smile. They both nod to me, and head out of the restaurant and onto the sand. Peter reaches for my hand and tugs it excitedly.
He's walking me down the aisle. Our friends asked a little about whether or not Matt and my families would be coming down for the wedding, and we explained that we aren't close with them. I think some of them have guessed that there's something back home that we're running from, but no one really brings it up.
Matt and I still talk about it when we're lying in bed at night, our bodies turned toward each other… the things we miss, the things we were glad to leave behind, and the things we regret. When we first came down here, he cut his hair and shaved his beard in case anyone was looking for a runaway biker, but now it's shaggy again. I also took to calling him Matt instead of Ford, since last names are more distinctive.
"Now?" Peter asks, looking up at me with his father's dark hair but my own green eyes.
"Now," I reply, and we walk out onto the sand. A grin spreads across my face as I see Matt. He stands at the end of the aisle created by the rows of folding chairs filled by our friends, and the ocean gleams behind him. Tears prick at my eyes. I didn't think I'd be so emotional. Matt and I are already so bound together – what more could vows do? But they still mean something to me.
"You may be seated," Nicolas says as I reach the front of the aisle. He was our first hire at the bar, and he got ordained online so he could marry us.
Matt leans forward and brushes a kiss on my cheek. "You look beautiful," he murmurs in my ear. I shiver the way I always do, the way I still do, when he touches me.
Peter bounces happily over to his seat in the front row as the ceremony begins. It passes in a blur, though we've purposefully kept it short because he doesn't have much of an attention span.
"I do," I find myself saying. I'm rushed back to the present as I feel Matt's arm around my back and his lips on mine. A laugh bursts from my lips as I look up at him, and I feel Peter launch himself at our legs.
"Took a while, but we're finally a conventional married couple," Matt says with a laugh.
"I don't think we could ever be conventional," I reply.
"No, I don't think we could be."
* * *
THE END
