Alexander: Alexander’s Story (Spearhead Lake #4)

Chapter 1

ONE

Alex

december

Being cold in the desert seems like it should be an oxymoron.

Well, moron that I am…I’m here. In another fucking desert. Fucking cold. Again.

For the record, there were a lot of places I didn’t want to be right now.

Had no desire to be back in the Middle East, bunkered down, taking fire on Iraq’s barren plains.

And I wasn’t. Wasn’t interested in going back to sleeping on a bed of rocks in sub-zero Afghanistan. Never doing that shit again.

And then there was this place, least desirable of them all, and I sure as fuck didn’t want to be here.

Yet here I am, kicking rocks down cracked asphalt. In December. In a desert. Cold and alone at night. Albeit, this was nothing new to me.

When most people think of deserts, they all seem to conjure the same image.

Probably some homogeneous landscape of sand for miles.

Maybe a cactus. A tumbleweed blowing by.

And for the most part, that’s all true. But this place takes ‘desert’ to the next level.

The strip feels barren in more ways than one.

The land is barren, sure. But the people here feel barren, too. I mean, fuck, it’s why I’d come here after Jess told me she loved me, and I…said nothing. I couldn’t. I just couldn’t.

It had been an unspoken truth, but it was definitive now; both of us knew that as long as there was breath in my lungs, I was never going to let go of the pain. Never let go of what she did. Her realizing that was like a serrated blade carving me open.

The pain felt visceral. Still does.

I saw the realization in her eyes when she said, “Don’t call me or text me or come see me.” And there it is again, that pain throbbing in my chest cavity, only increasing as each second ticks by until, eventually, I won’t be able to withstand it anymore.

Fuck you, Jess.

The truth is I don’t know how to let go of the pain. Don’t even want to if I really think about it.

What’s life if not pain?

So, I’d come here with a plan. Being surrounded by people like me was just a bonus.

All of us here seeking some sort of high life back home can’t supply.

Or maybe it was some sort of relief we sought.

Doesn’t fucking matter. We came here seeking something, though, only to continue being empty fucks and soullessly barren in a new place. Again.

A strip club in Vegas seemed like the perfect kind of emptiness for an asshole like me.

But it’d been too hot and sticky in the club.

There were no windows I could count, no clear exits, and simply being surrounded by other lost souls and vacant gazes had my chest caving in under the weight of all the nothingness.

I’d gone there tonight to set a plan in motion; I had a goal in mind.

A fucking laughable plan, in retrospect.

Because looking around at all the people faking like they were fine set my skin on fire.

Everything itched and screamed at me: Wrong.

The gut feeling was yelling at me to leave the club — a warning.

So I stood, knocking over the ice bucket filled with vodka bottles, the scantily clad waitress falling off my lap, and I shot Blanks a look. I can’t do it anymore.

All I could manage was a shake of the head.

It said a lot, though. It said: Don’t fucking follow me.

And maybe, from the deepest depth of my soul, a part of me said, this is goodbye.

But we don’t do goodbyes, so I walked out of the nightclub, nearly running until the cold desert air hit my cheeks.

Only then did I stop, bending over to catch the breath I’d been holding.

My inhales were big and shaky. Over and over. Just trying to shake whatever the fuck this feeling was. Trying to right my mind.

But I couldn’t, still can’t, because all I hear is: I love you, Alex. In her voice. Over and over.

My teeth drew blood from how hard I was biting down on my lip. My jaw and fists clenched, hating this feeling, knowing it felt like the end of an era.

Because it was.

So I started walking, which is how I wound up here, kicking rocks down a desert road. Alone. In December. In the cold.

Where am I walking? Fuck, who knows? I just know that once I started walking, my skin stopped itching. The panic attack abated.

For a moment, I think maybe I’ll just walk until I can’t anymore. Maybe I’ll just keep going till I hit fucking Utah, and then I’ll only be about a day away from death by dehydration.

What a fucking way to go. Just disappear. Vanish. That’s sort of my thing already, isn’t it?

I just want it all to stop. The thought makes itself known. Again. And my jaw tenses, my fists clench.

So I start walking faster and further until I’m no longer in view of the bright lights of the strip. I breathe a little easier as I put more space between myself and all those empty people. And then I walk some more.

My body calms, but the pain is still there, thumping against my ribs. Pulsing in my clenched knuckles.

When the well-lit streets turn to dark, empty strip malls and mobile home parks, my walking slows. Because honestly, this is the sort of place that feels like home. It’s not where I want to be, but it’s comfortable. I’m used to it.

Swallowing past the lump in my throat, I focus on putting one foot in front of the other because if I stop, it feels like the intrusive thoughts might swallow me whole.

‘Don’t call me.’ Jess’s voice.

“Hey!” The haggard shadow shouts at me from an alley. I turn and look, but keep walking because if I stop walking, something bad will happen. I know it. I can feel it.

‘Don’t text me.’

If I stop walking, it’ll be because I’ve found myself in a pawn shop, staring down at a case of firearms.

Fuck, this sort of actualization was new for me.

‘Don’t come see me.’

I just want it to stop — all of it.

My hands shake, and I slip them into my pockets while I walk. I keep walking until the faintest hint of purple lightens the eastern sky, birthing a new day. Another day, I realize I have zero interest in sticking around to see the end of.

I fight back tears that are trying to well, but…fuck this. Fuck all of it.

It wouldn’t be the worst thing if I were gone. No one needs me. People don’t depend on me. The few I care about would all be fine. Blanks would be fine. Wouldn’t even need a fucking funeral because who would show? Five people, at most?

I would make sure there’s no funeral. No one should be allowed to mourn me in some public display like I’m some fucking hero. I’m not anybody’s hero. Don’t want to be. I’m a fucking monster.

My loose strings are few. I need to make sure Jess’s trust is set. And then, yeah, I could disappear. Step off the face of the Earth once and for all.

And then the pain would stop.

I don’t know what’s waiting on the other side, but maybe I’ll see Tally again.

Fuck, maybe there’d be nothingness.

A lone tear escapes.

Just want the pain to stop. For it all to stop.

My legs cease moving.

I stop walking.

Because I’m ready.

I stand and watch the sunrise — my last sunrise — standing in the parking lot of a 24-hour diner.

A last meal. Feels kismet.

Emma

“Hun,” Dina’s raspy voice catches my attention.

“Take table 19 for me? I need a smoke break.” She scoots past me in the narrow galley, already taking her apron off like the answer is obvious.

It is, of course. They all know I’ll say yes.

Everyone who works at Eddie’s knows this.

I’ll take any shift, any table. All they have to do is ask.

Does that mean they all take advantage? Also yes.

“Sure, just, uh, drop this off at table six on your way out?” I pass her a newly filled ketchup bottle, and she doesn’t so much as smile or say anything in thanks. God, she’s fucking bitter. You’re welcome.

“George, it’s been 13 minutes on the onion rings for table five,” I press the only line cook, not also on a smoke break. He looks at me, rolls his eyes, then pushes off the counter and drops a basket in the deep fryer. I hate it here.

This isn’t forever, Em. Nope. This is just a quick detour. A very quick detour that’s turned into three years. I mean, three years could be a really small amount of time if, say, you live to be a hundred. I mean, it’d be hardly any time at all, right?

But then again, if my life ends tomorrow, three years will feel like an eternity to my 26 years of life.

And I’d spent them here. I don’t even have a good reason for why I’d spent them here. That’s sort of my problem, though. Always has been. I don’t know when to leave.

“Roni, when those onion rings come up, will you take them out for me, please?” I ask the only ally I’ve managed to make in the last 36 months — as if referring to the past three years in months somehow makes the time seem less.

She looks up from her phone to nod, then looks back down, typing furiously.

Her bright purple fingernails fly over the glass screen in a fast tap, tap, tapping sound.

I can only imagine the latest catastrophe her latest boyfriend is putting her through.

Maybe I don’t know when to leave, but Roni doesn’t know how to pick ’em. We’re both problematic.

Pulling out my guest check pad, I sigh, then head to table 19, singing softly with the oldies that play on repeat 24/7. Roni hates it when I do this, so I pipe up and sing to her as I walk away. My only goal is to bring a smile to her face.

“Won’t you staay, just a little bit longerrr,” I sing while swaying away from her.

It works, breaking Roni away from her phone and lodging the smallest of smiles on her face. Not that you could even call it a smile. She doesn’t really smile. But a smirk, that’s peak Roni right there.