Set In Stone

by Rachel Robinson

  My stomach churns with fear and dread. My life will end tonight because I fucked over a lunatic. A tear trickles down my face, mostly from anger.

  I lean over the edge and see Alex holding a small black handgun by his side. I creep down the stairs, taking one at a time, hoping to just get close enough to put a hole where I want one. I take a deep breath and try to remember everything I know about my gun and about making a clean, effective shot. Steven’s words trickle in. Speed. Surprise. Violence of action.

  “Oh my God,” I mouth when I realize it’s either him or me. The police won’t be here for at least another ten minutes. I could lock myself in a bedroom and wait. That would be the most rational decision. I take a step back up the stairwell, landing softly.

  Rational thought processes take a nosedive when I see headlights out my front window and then a truck squealing into park—definitely not the police. A second later, a bulky figure hops out. Steven. My heart skips at least five beats before it starts working again. He has no clue what he’s walking in on. I can’t breathe. All plans for my own safety die. Protect him. I must protect him.

  “I’m here,” I warble, words broken.

  Alex grins a wicked smile and takes aim at me. I hide the gun behind my back. He notices Steven, his gun turning to point in the only direction I don’t want it.

  “No!” I yell, shaking my head. “Leave him out of this. You’re upset with me!”

  His crazed eyes turn to gaze at me. “Upset with you? You took everything from me. I can’t get a job. I don’t have a cent to my name. Penny, that stupid cunt, got it all. It’s your fault. I should have killed her when I had a chance. Maybe that’s where I’ll go next, after I watch blood spill from your lying mouth. You took everything and you are so fucking stupid that you didn’t figure it out, did you? ” Alex asks, still aiming his gun at Steven, a scowl of frustration smeared across his face.

  “Morganna!” Steven yells.

  I hold my breath at the sound of his voice. “Don’t come in here!” I beg. After the words leave my mouth, I realize I should have said the opposite if I wanted him to obey me.

  Then Alex fires his gun out the door in a rapid, unskilled manner. Quicker than I thought humanly possible, Steven barrels into the room, weaving back and forth to make himself a harder target. It’s obvious to both of us that Alex has no idea what he’s doing with the weapon. Steven tackles him to the ground in the next second, but not before Alex shoots off a few more rounds in my direction. Steven seems slow, clumsy…drunk. No. This can’t be happening.

  I make a decision, one that I’ll regret for the rest of my life. I pull the gun out from behind my back and point it at Alex’s head. “Speed,” I whisper and pull the trigger. The gun’s recoil is strong. The bullet hits the wall behind the men. Steven’s eyes widen in surprise as he struggles to get the gun out of Alex’s hands.

  Closing one eye, I take aim again and squeeze the trigger.

  The bullet spirals out of the barrel and hits him in the stomach.

  Steven.

  I hit Steven.

  The smell of gunpowder scents the air.

  Red. Red. Blood.

  Sirens. Police swarm the living room. Someone takes the gun from my hands.

  Steven.

  They arrest Alex. He’s screaming. Irate. Insane with blood lust—a man completely unhinged.

  I fall to my knees over Steven, unfeeling of everything. I’m numb as I stare at the deep red wound, pulsing blood, dripping onto the white marble. My heartbeat shatters my eardrums, as I process what I’ve done—the scene too surreal to be considered anything but a nightmare.

  “Steven,” I whisper, tears I have no control over sliding down my cheeks and dripping off my chin into a puddle of his blood.

  I touch the pooling blood next to my knees reverently. His eyes are closed, his hair still wet from a shower he probably took only minutes ago. Minutes before I shot him. His massive body is still, so unlike it usually is. Laughter is absent. Love is absent. Life is absent.

  Cradling his face in my hands, I wail out his name over and over. Although it’s just his name I’m saying, I’m thinking of every memory we’ve shared over the years. Time stands still. Seconds fill a lifetime. A familiar sensation wells in my chest. Loss.

  Steven.

  Paramedics bump me out of the way, and someone tries to usher me away from his body, but I refuse to leave. I hear clips: …smell alcohol. Bleeding out. Find a pulse? I want to see everything. Hear everything.

  If I don’t, I won’t believe the incomprehensible truth. I killed Steven.

  Steve

  “Should we let her in here?” my mom says, worried. I can visualize her twisting a tissue in her hands, looking to my father to make the decision.

  As expected, my dad’s deep tenor cuts in. “She killed him for a whole twenty minutes. I think she deserves something for that. Release the predator, doctor. Send her in,” he says.

  “Don’t say that!” my mom snips. “I can’t believe you’re joking about something so serious. It’s Steven’s health, for crying out loud.” I guess I’ll live, then. Dad’s cracking jokes, which is a rarity, and mom isn’t catatonic. I open my eyes. It’s a painful process and the lights are far too bright—they blur my vision.

  “Twenty whole minutes?” I ask, trying my best to smile. My mother lets out a high-pitched squeal and leans down to kiss my cheek. My dad chuckles under his breath and runs a hand through my hair, scrunching it like he did when I was a boy.

  I turn my eyes to see him, his eyes crinkling at the sides—just like mine do, except with deeper lines. “Too stubborn to die and too dumb to live,” he admits. I laugh, but it hurts and turns into a small cough. My stomach is on fire.

  Mom places a hand on my shoulder. “Calm down, sweetie. Don’t talk at all if it hurts. You’re going to be okay. You’re okay.”

  “The bullet missed all of your vital organs by centimeters. It’s actually miraculous,” Dad says, his eyes drifting to the window. “You were lucky. He didn’t want you up there quite yet.”

  There’s an IV in the hand I lift to rest on his fingers. “Of course he didn’t. I have to give mom a grandchild first,” I quip. She wants to swat me, but she wouldn’t dare. Vaguely I remember what happened in Morg’s foyer—the struggle that shouldn’t have been a struggle because I was doused in beer, and then Queen Morganna deciding to take matters into her own hands. It happened so quickly. Seconds. All I remember is the rage I felt at seeing the STD threatening her…with a gun.

  High heels on polished concrete make a very specific sound. I hear her before I see her. My parents look over their shoulders. Mom smiles. Dad shakes his head.

  “Hey killer. He’s awake,” Dad says. Morganna stays silent.

  Reluctantly, Mom rises from the bed. “We’ll give you two some time to talk. But don’t talk too much. It hurts, remember?” She presses her lips on my forehead and leaves, taking my father with her. I’d talk to Morganna, regardless of pain, until I ran out of oxygen and died…again.

  Morganna takes a few more steps. She comes into view, her tight blue jeans and black fitted t-shirt accentuating her beautiful curves. Her gray eyes glass over as she sniffles and brings a tissue to her eye. I clear my throat.

  “I always figured you’d be the figurative death of me. Never thought you’d be responsible for my actual death,” I quip. It’s probably in poor taste, but I want her to know that I can joke about it. She breaks down, tears flowing wildly, sitting next to me on the bed, unsure where on my body is safe to touch. “You’re not in handcuffs. That means that didn’t arrest you?” I ask.

  She shakes her head, irritated with me already. “I don’t even know what to say. I’m sorry seems weak in light of what I’ve done to you,” she whispers, her soft hand trailing over my hand and arm. “I never deserved you, Steven. Never. I’m sorry for everything. For everything.”

  I take a deep breath and relish the burn. “I’m going to make this easy on you. I love you. I wa
nt you to be mine forever. We’ll start over…again, beginning now.” Leaning down, she places her lips on mine. It’s a perfect kiss. It says more than “I’m sorry” ever could. It says she accepts my offer. It says we’re still connected despite everything we’ve been through.

  She pulls away and her gaze is deep as she looks into my eyes. “ How can you forgive me that easily?”

  “You didn’t do anything malicious, M. I should have known you wouldn’t need rescuing.” I grin. “It’s probably eighty percent my own fault. I drank too much,” I admit turning my face away. Her cool hand against my cheek forces my face toward hers again.

  “Alex or David is a crazy lunatic, Steven. Even if you weren’t drunk he would have been nuts. He literally, and I do mean literally, has nothing left to lose,” Morganna says, her hand still on my face. I like it.

  With the hand that doesn’t have an IV, I pull her down next to me on the bed. She curls her legs in and snuggles next to me, careful with my stomach. “He should be six feet under right now,” I growl into her ear.

  Anger spreads quicker than the pain meds I’m hooked up to. I meet her gaze, then think better of it and focus on the ceiling.

  “I’m sorry I wasn’t there, M. I should have checked my phone. I should have done a lot of things differently. Overprotective to a fault…except when I need to be.”

  When we were young I saved her, just barely, from getting her lights punched out by the head cheerleader. Something about Morg telling her that her brain was as short as her skirt really pissed her off. Morganna is a lot of things, but a scrapper isn’t one of them. We can add not sufficient in a gunfight to that list.

  She shakes her head vehemently. “No. I should have done a lot of things differently. I was the flaming idiot. I still don’t know how I overlooked something so large, and come on…my shooting?” She closes her eyes. “Horrendous. I wasn’t using logic or common sense. Emotions took over.” Blinking away tears, she changes the subject. “He’s in jail. That’s next best to six feet under. He won’t get out…ever. Especially if I have anything to do with it,” she proclaims. “The new guy, Dax, came in after you and was able to get the gun away from him before the police arrived.”

  Adrenaline makes you do crazy things. Morganna is a testament to that. I owe Dax a thank you. His stripes are officially earned. He did sober what I was barely managing to do drunk. Let’s be honest, what I failed to do at all.

  “I wasn’t sure how you’d react,” Morganna says, her voice quiet.

  I raise one brow. “Did you think I’d be upset? Turn you in to the authorities? Make you pay for breaking up with me via video chat?” I smile. She doesn’t. “It’s merely a scratch,” I say, gently rubbing the side of my stomach. “It will heal and fade away just like any bad memories in our past. We’ll make new ones.” I stroke the side of her face. “The worst part of this is you probably destroyed my eight pack.” A half smile, one that lights her eyes, finally makes an appearance.

  “I don’t care about your eight pack.”

  I hug her as tight as I can manage. “Of course you do.”

  “Fine. I do. How long until you get it back?”

  I chuckle and then regret it. She kisses my neck, and warmth and relief course through my body. “You can help me find it again as soon as you bust me out of here. I’ve heard tongue GPS can be useful in situations such as these.”

  “I’m imagining my tongue on wounds right now. It’s not pretty. Just F.Y.I.” She finally laughs. Mom pokes her head in the door, smiles, and leaves again. She probably heard too much talking outside with her ear pressed against the door, and thought I was aggravating my injury.

  I press the button on the hospital bed to raise my shoulders and back up to a seated position. It’s painful as fuck, but I want to be as close to standing as I can be when I finish this conversation. Morganna sits up with me and cringes when she looks at my face.

  “It hurts badly? Should I call in a nurse?”

  “No. No.” I stroke her leg. “I wanted to tell you that I’m thinking about leaving the Navy. I’ll get a nice normal job and I’ll be home every night.” The weeks leading up to the confrontation with Alex, I’d pondered what it would be like…life on the outside as a normal Joe. If it would ease Morganna’s fears, I think it would be worth it. I’d find other ways to chase the high this life gives me. Hell, I can get shot any Friday night, just by her proximity—the adrenaline chase won’t be that difficult to find. Maybe after a life of hardships, I owe her this as a show of faith and my commitment.

  Her gray eyes widen in shock and disbelief. “There is no way. No way…that you should leave the Teams, Steven. You were made for this life. You would do that…for me?” she mumbles, still stymied at the drastic change in conversation.

  “No. I’d do it for us,” I respond.

  She shakes her head. “I would never let you. It’s part of you. I love every part of you, even the one that…forces you into danger. If you got a typical job it would change the fundamental part of Steven Warner. As much as I’d love to come home and see your face every night, I don’t want that. The cost is too high.” Her eyes glass over again and I know she’s remembering…or trying to forget. Again.

  She kisses me, her hands planted firmly on the sides of my rough face. I pull away. “It’s just an option, Morg. You need more than all of my love. You require more than any other woman in the world. You require an unspoken promise of life—unending love,” I whisper against her wet lips. “I’m not sure I’ll be able to give you that because life is fickle and mean, but I can do all I can to limit the fickleness.” I can’t give her promises of life. Not even by a lying, pigs-flying long shot. I can’t back down, though. And I definitely never miss a long shot.

  “Promise me you won’t quit—ring that bell, so to speak.”

  I smirk. The fact that she uses BUD/S terminology is odd yet comforting. I lay a palm on my chest. “I promise. If that’s what you want and if I’m not too broken I will continue my crusade as a badass. The only bell I’ll be ringing is the one between your legs.”

  Morganna shakes her head. “A record was made; I think you’ve inserted sex into our serious conversation three times already.” Chewing her lip, she makes eye contact. “But I can’t say I’m opposed. Let me go find a doctor and figure out what we need to do to get you out of here.” Morganna rises from the bed, but leans over to kiss me once more. “I sold my house, Steven.”

  I’m not sure what that means, or how to process it, but she’s wearing a wide smile so I assume it’s a good sign. I smile and nod, what I think is an encouraging gesture.

  She lays a hand on the doorknob and looks back at me, her black hair swinging over one shoulder. “We’ll have to wait until you heal a little more to move my stuff into your house, I guess.”

  I wink at her. She winks back and disappears into the sterile hospital hallway.

  The love I feel engorging my insides steals away the pain and I’m reminded how amazing the good is when juxtaposed next to the bad. I’ve waited a lifetime for that wink. The one that says I’m a part of something real.

  Forever.

  I got out of the hospital the very next day because Morganna pushed, but it took several more weeks before I was ready to go back to my regularly scheduled program. Morganna hired movers because the couple buying her house wanted to move into it as soon as possible. She was more than happy to oblige. I think every time she walked into the front door the bloody, horrible scene from the night Alex went insane comes to mind. The mere mention of his name makes my blood boil. With Penelope’s help he’ll be locked up forever. It puts my mind at ease now, but anytime I see his photo in the newspaper it makes me go a little crazy.

  We bought a house together out in the country—on the outskirts of Virginia Beach. It has more acres of land than we know what to do with and a gorgeous, old farmhouse that I’ll probably be fixing for the rest of my damn life. But most importantly, it has a large set of pristine stables. Her daddy
came and stayed with us for a few weeks when we first moved in to teach us what he found important about taking care of a farm. Not that we have a farm, per se, but because horses are his specialty. He was happier than I’d ever seen him to find Morganna out here in the country, surrounded by what has always made her happiest.

  In return, Morganna’s happiness shined so bright she might as well have burnt up the atmosphere. Another reason he visited was to bring her horse to his new home. Pillage, the dark beasty horse from my nightmares, now resides in our stable, a fact I’m both wary and happy about. I envision releasing him if an intruder dare step a foot on our property. I’d ride him bareback with a sweaty headband wrapped around my head and an AK lighting the sky in one hand.

  Morganna interrupts my cowboy Rambo daydream. “The awards ceremony was great. It was nice to see everyone,” she says. I’m still wearing my uniform, sitting at the kitchen table sorting through a box my parents sent. Now that I have a house large enough, they felt the need to unload my childhood on me, one box full of memories and old trophies at a time.

  Glancing up from my sorting, I admit, “It was a good time. Less boring than it usually is.” I smile. She looks radiant, more beautiful than I ever remember.

  She snatches a football trophy from the box. “Yeah, because you were one of the few getting awards today. Though, none quite as awesome as this golden, pop warner trophy,” she says, squinting her eyes to read the faded plaque on the front.

  If I were a blushing man, I would. Several of us were honored for the mission. Honored is such a strong word. I did my job correctly—we planned accordingly. Everything went right. A pat on the back and a “good job” would have sufficed if anyone brought it up at all. The Navy loves awards ceremonies, as does Morganna, apparently.