Till The Sun Dies: Checkmate, #2

by Finn, Emilia

  My dad was a fucking asshole that deserved everything he got, and so much more, but that’s why I can’t walk away from this apartment – my turned stomach won’t allow it. I feel her in there, my body is drawn to hers. It’s been like that ever since her second year in college, when she turned to me with a smile and changed everything.

  I’d seen her smile since we were kids, I’d seen it a billion times. But that one time, when she was twenty or so, and so fucking beautiful it made my legs weak, something clicked and my world found a new North.

  She was off getting a college degree, and I was back here working in a garage. Stained hands, dirty face, torn clothes. She’d come back between semesters; she was so fucking regal with her bright eyes and platinum hair.

  She was too pure for me to risk touching with my stained hands.

  But her smiles… they were coveted. They were yearned for. And when granted, they were tucked away and remembered at night when I lay in bed and thought about her.

  “Laine?” I knock again, louder, more insistent, because my gut hurts. “Hey… It’s Ang. Can you let me in?”

  Laine Lenaghan has been my wildest dream for a long time. Longer than I should have let it go on. Brotherhood in our family means no touching, and we learned that the hard way recently when Luc and Kari’s relationship came out.

  To touch a brother’s little sister is punishable by death, and thirty years of friendship doesn’t mean shit to guys like Marc Macchio when someone is messing with his little sister.

  Luc might be kinder to me when he finds out, since he’ll have learned his lesson with Kari, but the fact remains, I shouldn’t even be looking.

  I definitely shouldn’t be in love.

  And I absolutely shouldn’t have been looking and loving for as long as I have.

  I scrunch my eyes tighter, as though that’ll help me hear better, and press my ear to the door. “Laine?” The shower is running? “Laine?”

  Drawing in a deep breath, I push away from the door and insert the key into the lock. I learned a long time ago not to ignore my gut. If she’s in the shower, I’ll sit on the couch and wait.

  If she’s not home, I’ll still sit on the couch and wait.

  I push the heavy door open and step straight into the living room. Her purse hangs on the back of the door, and the living room is spotless; not a speck of dust to be seen.

  Without that door in the way, the running shower is loud, and steam billows down the hall.

  She’s showering with the door open?

  “Laine?” I drop my keys into my pocket and step toward the hall. My feet want me to turn around. Even my brain is calling me stupid. But my heart won’t let me go. My gut won’t let me go. “Laine?” I shake my head as the steam escapes the bathroom, following along the ceiling the way smoke did in Infernos club not so long ago.

  When she still doesn’t answer, I shout, “Laine!”

  No matter how high she’s turned the pressure in the shower, she should be able to hear me.

  I stop ten feet from the bathroom door and contemplate what to do.

  I’ve never in my life invaded her privacy. Even when we were at the lake every summer, when the girls wore itty bitty little bikinis and the guys sat on the grass and drank beer, I would turn my eyes away and try not to get shot by one of them for looking.

  Except when I wore sunglasses.

  Sometimes I looked when I had glasses on, because no one knew who I was looking at. But now she’s in her shower, and I’m in the hall like a creep.

  “Laine? Can you hear me?” I step back down the hall and poke my head into Jess’ room. Empty. I go to Kari’s – empty again.

  It’s Laine’s handbag hanging in the living room.

  It’s Laine’s car parked in the driveway.

  My stomach rolls the way it did every time my mom’s head would smack against cold, white, kitchen tile.

  With narrowed eyes, I step toward the bathroom. “Laine! It’s just me, okay? If you’re naked, cover up. If you’re in there and don’t answer me this second, I’m coming in.”

  I don’t give her that second, because a shot of adrenaline bolts through my heart and draws me forward at a sprint until I skid on the bathroom tile.

  It’s like a horror movie. Blood. So much blood.

  She sits with her back against the wall, her knees drawn up, and her long hair falling over a limp head.

  Under boiling hot water and in a river of red, she sleeps.

  “Oh my God. Laine!” I slide onto my knees and pull her close until her forehead smacks my chest and her legs fall limp. A silver knife falls from her lifeless hand and clatters on the tile. “Laine!” Her head lolls to the side as I pull her close. Her hands lay slack, and blood flows down the drain like an unrelenting river.

  “Wake up. Laine, you need to wake up.” I tap her face, and when she doesn’t react, I stand with her almost naked body in my arms, and turn toward the door, slipping on the wet tile. I rush toward the hallway and set her on cold floorboard. With fumbling hands, I search for the pulse in her throat with my left, and search my pockets for my cell with the right.

  I can’t find a pulse.

  I don’t know how to find a pulse.

  We all know what TV shows us, but I can’t find the right spot on her neck.

  Or maybe I have found the right spot, but there’s no pulse.

  That’s not fucking acceptable!

  I hit the red emergency button on my cell and wait for the call to connect. Dripping wet and wearing nothing but an ugly bra and panties, her long hair splays out on the wooden floor, water and blood pooling beneath her body.

  “9-1-1, police, fire, or ambulance? How may I direct your call?”

  “Ambulance!” I search her body, landing on the slash that spans from her wrist almost to her elbow – the place that life is escaping her body – leaving me breathless. “I need an ambulance! Suicide attempt, I think. She’s not conscious. We need help.”

  “Alright.” The droning voice is so calm, so bored and unbothered. “Address please, sir.”

  Squeezing Laine’s wrist until I crush delicate bones in my palm, I rattle off the name and number of her street and pray she wakes up. I can’t let her go. It’s not time for her to go yet.

  I can’t do this again.

  “Wake up, Laine. Please wake up.” Memories batter at my brain; a bathtub, white tiles, a raging inferno, and melting skin. “I need you to wake up. I’m begging you.”

  It takes only minutes for the screaming sounds of an ambulance to tear into her street. This a small town, the hospital is only three minutes away, and the dispatch caller knows everyone and their dog, so the second Laine’s last name left my lips, her boredom was dropped and suddenly my call was escalated to priority.

  This address belongs to one of the hospital’s very own nursing staff, and the last name belongs to an emergency responder.

  I brush blonde hair off her cheek with one hand, and crush her wrist with the other as I try to hold her together. “Why’d you do this, Laine?” Tears drip off the tip of my nose and plop onto her chest. I don’t remember the last time I cried – maybe that last time with my mom? – but I cry now. “Why, Laine? Why would you leave?”

  Mercifully, a faint pulse thrums beneath my palm. It’s soft. Way softer than mine. But it’s there, and that’s all she needs until the ambulance gets here.

  “Ang?” Her whispered word forces a sob to burst from my chest. Her ocean blue eyes flutter open for the barest second, and her lips, always so full and thick, turn into a small smile. “You’re such a pretty angel.”

  “No!” Rage courses through my blood. “Not an angel, Laine! You’re not dead. You’re still here and you’re not allowed to go.”

  Her eyes flutter closed when the front door crashes open. “Laine!” I shake her. “Wake up! You’re not allowed to sleep.”

  “Angelo?” Libby Tate, a local police officer moves through the hall and stops with a gun in her hand and a white washed fac
e. She studies me, then Laine. “Is anyone else here?”

  I shake my head.

  Turning on her heels, she waves medical personnel in. “Go! Scene’s clear. Move in.” She grabs at the radio on her shoulder. “Scene is secure. Medical are moving in. No weapons apparent. PT unconscious. Send another cruiser.” Her eyes come back to mine for a long beat before she adds, “Don’t tell the chief yet.”

  “Sir!” Men in navy blue uniforms flood the hallway and shove me aside. None of them are Luc, none of them are Kari, but the family resemblance between Luc and his sisters is uncanny. They know she’s special. “Move aside, sir. You need to move out of the way.”

  I shuffle back as the EMTs snap open med bags right beside Laine’s head. They’re rough with her. They’re so rough. They jam her eyelids open and stab needles into the arm that isn’t sliced open. They slap an oxygen mask over her face, and roll her onto her side when her chest seizes and she begins choking.

  They rush a stretcher into the living room, then slam it against walls and jam it into the hallway.

  On a ‘one, two, go’, two men I know by name lift her like she weighs nothing. They drop her onto the bed and strap her in for transport. I watch them move; both fast and slow. It feels like a lifetime of her not being awake, of her not breathing on her own.

  Of her leaving me before I got to tell her how I feel.

  But at the same time, it’s fast. They move at the speed of light and rush her away. The second they wheel her out of the hallway, my mind whips back into real time and I’m on their heels.

  Shouted instructions.

  Blurred noise.

  Ringing phones.

  Smoke alarms tripped by the steam.

  A shower still running.

  Then I throw myself into the back of the ambulance mere seconds before they close the doors and speed toward the hospital.

  It’s all so loud. So fast.

  And though I latched onto her bed, though I twined my fingers with hers while we sped across town, I still find myself left behind as they rush her through ER doors and out of sight.

  I still find myself collapsing into a hard, plastic chair in the waiting room, and I still stare at my hands; hands that were stained black with grease an hour ago. Too dirty to touch her. Too stained to taint something so pure.

  Now they’re stained with her blood. Now they’re stained with something I’m not sure will ever wash off.

  * * *

  Hours pass.

  One.

  Two.

  A million.

  Luc arrives, but best friends or not, he’s employed by this hospital, and he’s allowed through doors I’m not. I was invisible to him as he ran through the waiting room with Kari’s hand clutched in his. They’re with Laine now. Wherever she is, whatever they’re doing to her, Luc and Kari are with her.

  And I’m out here.

  “Ang.” Kane Bishop’s rough voice drags me out of my fog. The tattooed thug walks through the emergency room doors with Jess’ hand clutched in his, her face puffy as fat tears roll over her cheeks.

  I stand just in time as she slingshots herself forward and into my arms.

  “Oh my God, Angelo.” She buries her face in my shirt and howls. “What the hell happened?”

  Kane stands two feet away from the woman he loves; he stands guard and watches on suspiciously, like I might kidnap her at any moment.

  His eyes dare me to make a wrong move, just so he can gut me.

  He doesn’t trust that the identical twins are different in my eyes.

  He doesn’t trust that I can be in love with Laine, but not with Jess.

  I shake my head and lean into Jess’ embrace. They’re not the same person to me. I’ve known them forever, so where someone sees identical, I see Laine’s personality. I see her sass, and her skating skills. I see the schoolteacher she is, and the way she eats her cereal one piece at a time.

  Jess drinks milk with ice in it, and she wears her hair up twice as often as Laine does. Laine wears her makeup a little heavier than Jess; not to cover up an already beautiful face, but because she likes how smudged eyeliner makes her blue eyes stand out.

  Laine drinks fruity cocktails, and Jess goes for the straight liquor with a splash of juice.

  They both wear heels more often than not, but Laine’s are usually a little more daring. Brighter, or higher.

  Jess is a corporate lawyer, which shows in her personality and dress sense, but Laine is a middle school teacher and about as mature as her students.

  Kane’s new around here, and he found out Jess was a twin at a kind of tense moment. He’s struggling to understand there are two of them, but he has no problems here. They’re like night and day to me.

  Jess’ slim body shakes with sobs. Her hands, strong and demanding, fist my shirt and pull my attention. “What happened to her, Ang?” She steps back and clutches at my hands. Turning them palm side up, she looks up at me with wobbling lips. “Is that hers?”

  I hold my breath and nod. Because I’m a man, and if I don’t, I might cry.

  “Was there an accident?”

  I shake my head. “She hurt herself.” My voice cracks as she steps back into my chest. “She hurt herself, Jessie.”

  “On purpose?” She sobs. “But why? Why would she do that?”

  “I dunno. I dunno, but Luc’s with her now.”

  Like he can’t bear to be apart from her for a single second longer, Kane takes Jess’ hand and pulls her into his chest. She goes willingly, because she’s as drawn to him as he is to her.

  As I am to Laine.

  As Laine is… not to me.

  “She’ll be okay.” Kane presses his lips to Jess’ hair. He rubs his jaw over her forehead to make sure she smells of him and not me. “She’ll be okay, Blondie. Then we’ll make sure it doesn’t happen again.” His eyes come to mine. “We’ll take care of it. I promise.”

  I nod.

  He nods.

  We have an understanding.

  3

  Laine

  Soundtrack To My Life

  I wanted to go to sleep. I wanted to escape the pain that sits on my heart and strangles the breath from my lungs.

  It worked for a little while.

  Memories of childhood road trips flash through my mind until the soft lulling of a car engine leaves me straddling that line between awake and asleep. I remember the way Jess’ fingers would twine with mine while we sat in the back of the family station wagon with Luc. I remember the hypnotic purr of the engine and the radio playing low, or Luc’s humming, because he wrote music since before I can remember. Even when he was dumb and noisy, since he’s the drummer in his band, he still knew how to write music and make it soft and pretty.

  He wrote music for his band.

  He wrote music for me and Jess; his favorite girls in the whole world, according to him.

  He wrote music about stars, teddy bears, love, devotion.

  My life comes with a soundtrack written entirely by the band my brother formed with Scotch, Marc, and Angelo.

  I remember piano recitals, and strings plucked on a guitar.

  But now, while I straddle that awake-asleep line, all I hear are beeps.

  Beep. Beep. Beep. Beep.

  “BP is low. Artery was nicked.”

  “Want a vascular surgeon in for consult?”

  “No. I think she’s okay. Blood flow is good. She didn’t open it all the way up. We’re gonna put it back together ourselves.”

  “Laine? Lainie!?”

  “Lenaghan! Get him outta here!”

  “Baby? No, let me go!”

  “Security!”

  “Let me in to observe! That’s my family!”

  The beeps grow faster. Louder. My big brother is sad, and that’s not what I wanted for him. I was supposed to go to sleep, and my family was supposed to move on.

  “You’re not scrubbed up, idiot! Get. Him. Out!”

  Beep. Beep. BEEP. BEEP!

  “Get him out! Patie
nt’s in distress. We need three units of whole blood. We also need packed cells, platelets, and probably some plasma.”

  “Laine!”

  That awake-asleep line fades. The sounds of scuffling, arguing, tools clanging, and the incessant beeps dim until I step firmly into sleep.

  Much better, and no dreams of Graham.

  Dammit. Now I’m thinking of Graham.

  4

  Angelo

  Set The World On Fire

  For years, I’ve watched Laine’s relationship with another man grow and change. When she was single, she was oblivious to me. When she was with him, she was oblivious to everything but him. And like the coward I am, I didn’t tell a single soul how I felt.

  Why?

  I don’t know.

  Fear of rejection, maybe.

  Maybe it was because I knew she was the forbidden fruit. My best friend’s little sister.

  Or perhaps I was scared of being with her, for fear that somewhere in the deep recesses of my soul, I might wake up one day and turn into my father.

  I won’t.

  I abhor the thought of hurting women, but still, the fear gnaws at my gut.

  Fuck knows the exact thing that stopped me from reaching out to Laine over the years, but almost twenty-four hours ago, I found her in the shower, and the vibrant woman I know – the crazy, wild woman I remember from before Graham came into her life – was almost dead.

  I never made my move – not ten years ago, not a couple years ago before she met him, and not a few months ago when I found out she’d left him – and because of my cowardice, it was almost too late.

  How do I come to terms with that, when, even if she’s here now, I still can’t say a damn thing?

  She needs time to heal. She needs space and support. She needs a therapist and a fucking hug, not the next guy in line knocking on her door.

  So my shot may never come, but that doesn’t mean my heart will step away.