Chapter Seven Tyler
Chapter Seven
TYLER
MY FREEZING EXHALES cloud and drift where I stand on my balcony, tracing the glimmering city lights down to the taillights of those commuting. The traffic stirring the memory of my and Zach’s commute when we moved a few weeks after I was called up to the Secret Service.
Knocking on Zach’s bedroom door, he answers before I crack it open. Backpack contents unloaded around him on his bed, pencil in hand, he glances up at me, reading my expression in a nanosecond. “You got called up.”
I nod and watch for the sag in his shoulders or any pinch of disappointment in his own expression, which, surprisingly, isn’t there.
“You’re not upset,” I state, to which he shakes his head.
“I won’t lie, I’m happy here at the farm,” he admits freely, “and yeah, I’ll miss them and the Sunday ball games.”
The one true drawback of my taking the call is that Zach’s gotten close to my family, who claimed him instantly.
Not only that, but he’s become even closer to both my parents since I reconciled with my dad.
As their only grandchild and an integral part of their lives, it feels almost criminal to take him away from the family he’s now such a significant part of.
It’s his following words that give me even more pause.
“But you haven’t been happy here since we lost her, so I’ll save you the drama. ”
As much as I’ve tried shielding him from how it affects me living without her—specifically here on the farm where we stemmed, grew, and were ultimately robbed of our future—it’s evident I’ve failed.
Not a day goes by that I don’t picture her anywhere and everywhere.
Since I’ve lost her, I’ve been living next to whatever past image of her my memory conjures.
Some of them sudden, burning me irrevocably with her loss while refusing to be blinked away.
“You can talk to me about it if you are upset, Zach. It’s not a done deal. ”
“I’m fine with it,” he assures.
“We can come back as often as you want to visit,” I offer in shit consolation, knowing his whole foundation is here.
“I know you wish that was true,” he counters, “but it isn’t and can’t be.”
“You’re right, I’m sorry. I can’t promise that, but I can try—”
“Dad,” he states as if he’s the parent. I should have known he would have this reaction.
Then again, he’s unpredictable in ways because his intelligence and emotional maturity are staggering.
Especially in the way he can demand an audience and focus with tone while speaking with wise eyes that don’t at all belong to a teenage kid.
The confidence came as he grew stronger, and now it’s everywhere on him.
But it’s here on the farm where he gained this strength.
“I’m proud of you, and you’ve prepared me for this.
We knew you’d get the call, and I kind of felt it coming, so I’ve been checking out a few places,” he states, turning his laptop toward me while clicking a file.
A few houses fill the screen, and as I near it, I see that he’s typed little notes.
My chest tightens further when I realize they’re my preferences, not his.
Yard big enough to bring his bush hog. West-facing. Fenced and private.
He points to a Craftsman with his pencil. “DC is cool, but Virginia is more our speed, and I like this one most … that’s if we can afford it.”
I gape at the screen and then back at him, unable to hide my surprise.
“We can. Email me, and I’ll set up a walk-through. If it’s in decent shape, it’s ours.”
“You haven’t even looked at the price,” he chuckles.
“I don’t give a damn. If you like it, I’ll love it. I’m—” I swallow hard, loving the kid that crash-landed in my life more than I thought possible as my shoulders inch down a little in relief. “You’re really good with this?”
“Yeah.” He gazes back at the house fondly and nods. “It’s time for a fresh start, just you and me.” He omits the third person dwelling here. One who haunts every corner of our tiny house, reminding me of my mangled, ineptly beating heart, which he fuels daily to help mend. “Let’s go.”
I’m jerked from the memory when a driver lays on their horn impatiently, eager to get back to life outside of what earns them their daily bread.
Some of the inhabitants of the cars surrounding it plagued with thoughts on not only how they’ll survive the climate in Capital City, but also which relationships to cultivate in an effort to monopolize.
Some of them, at this very moment, trying to figure out a way to make my boss’s life a living hell.
Others worried about paying their light bill or what their spouses’ or significant others’ moods will be when they get home.
Like me, some of them with no one waiting, considering a late dinner alone or a drink in lieu of another episode to stream.
Some lives tailored, some messy, but all being lived.
I was once a part of that kind of living until I sold my soul to a title, a badge, a number, a position, and an obligation to protect, to allow everyone around me to choose their life. Everyone aside from myself.
When I moved Zach to DC and finally left that house in Triple Falls, I gave up any notion of a personal future willingly.
But on days like today—and after seventeen hours on and nothing but sleep to fill the few free hours I’m granted—I’m envious of someone else’s routine.
For some odd reason, tonight, a large part of me wishes I were the fly on the wall in a house where the lasagna is coming out of the oven, garlic bread permeating the air.
That I had a bland task list—walking the dog, checking the mail, or researching hiking trips and vacations that could max my Amex.
Simple living.
For a short time, I was the closest I’ll ever be to a husband and father. But those years with Delphine and raising Zach were so abrupt that they now seem more of an interlude to this life. But a father I’ve become, even if it was unconventional, and that’s something … more than something.
My thumbs idle over my cell screen in indecision as I weigh whether to check on Zach again, who will probably accuse me of hovering too close due to his freshly laid ink.
Fuck it.
I type out my message, in need of the contact. You good?
I’m only able to release the breath I’m holding when he types back.
Z: Good.
I’m here if you need anything.
Z: I know. I’m perfect, Dad. Swear.
I only had Zach for a handful of his teenage years, and the second he was able, he spread his wings, all too eager to join the fight.
I only became good with him enlisting due to how much say I have in his positioning because of my own.
Knowing what I do now, I refuse to purposefully decipher a second past the one I’m in—at least personally—because, at this point, it seems fucking nonsensical, whimsical, and romantic.
That’s all plans are at the end of the day—romanced future.
Tactics are different. I can position my men to take on any force I can see coming, but personal planning is a fucking unchecked minefield.
Still, I find myself longing to have the faith of a planner.
After years of running full speed toward the place I’m currently in—and a few spent maintaining it—there’s only so much farther past this place I can go.
Swallowing, I identify the emotion threatening to convince me that I need an idea of a future.
Loneliness.
Tonight, I’m lonely.
Lonely, but not alone.
The truth is brought home by the sound of the sliding door before an earthy, floral scent invades me as Larissa takes in my view.
We stand for a few silent seconds as she simply stares out at the bustling DC streets.
The two of us watching the burgeoning violet consuming the remaining daylight as winter’s elongated tail lashes ice along the spring breeze.
“I can’t believe I’m saying this”—her words echo with each arctic breath misting from her mouth—“but I’m starting to miss Barga.”
“Not a fan of the city?”
“I used to pray for my freedom from that olive grove, from the ceaseless, watchful eyes, only to land myself now in a similar situation. So, if I had my choice, I would prefer Barga. I spent so many of my days walking through those trees, especially while they were in bloom and during the summer.”
Turning to her, I allow my eyes to do a thorough sweep. “I see you found some clothes.” In response, I get a slight lift of her lush lips. Dressed in a simple sweater and jeans and little to no makeup, her beauty is fucking blinding. “What reaction were you hoping for, Larissa?”
Refusing me an answer, she steps up to me and tugs on my Windsor knot, pulling it loose as I examine her up close.
Her honey eyes are already remarkable in color, but even more so because of the pitch-dark tint of her long lashes.
Lashes that she stares up at me through as she continues to loosen my tie.
If I were a different man, I could spend endless hours admiring the perfection of her face.
“It’s crazy, isn’t it?” Her scent invades me like a warm breeze over the chill as she crowds me, unraveling my tie while keeping her eyes intent on mine. “How just a slight shift in view can make the city a lot more alluring.”
I lower so we’re close enough to share foggy breath.
“If you wanted to make sure I steer clear of you, then job well done.” I smack her hands from me, and she lowers her stare, raking her lip with her teeth to hide a victorious smile.
“If you make it out of this alive, you’ll be followed the rest of your life,” I warn.
“The rest of your fucking life, Larissa. You’ll likely never get your grove view back.
You’ll never be free now, you know that, right? ”
“Too soon to tell,” she tosses back flippantly.
“Whatever leniency you think you deserve, you’re likely not getting.”
“That’s for Tobias to decide, though, isn’t it? His call.”
Crimson snakes through my vision at her easy use of his name, but I don’t react. “You’re zero for two today. Got anything else?”
“Do you want me to bring up your ghosts to give you an excuse to lash out? I know about them, too, Tyler. But, let’s be clear.
” She lifts violence-tinged, honey-colored eyes to mine.
“You’re the one continually threatening me, and I’m growing tired of it.
I’ve yet to say anything of the sort to you, so my behavior today might have been poor form in your opinion, but who’s really being fucking petty here? ”
You threaten me by breathing.
Seeing that in my expression, she glances back at the thirty-story drop behind her. “You could end it right now if you truly wanted to.”
“I could end it anywhere, at any time.”
She shakes her head slightly, as if I’ll never understand the punchline or her.
“My entire childhood consisted of nothing but violence and fear”—she steps up to me and slowly wraps my tie around her fist—“and I’m trying really hard not to let my adult life consist of the same. I came out to greet you, nothing more. But I see that’s not allowed, either.”
She holds my gaze, coiling my tie neatly into her palm before lifting it to me in offering.
The second I take it, she smashes her shoulder into mine as she passes.
The unexpected contact is hard enough to have me taking a small step back and looking after her as she opens the door.
When she again lifts her eyes, I see her very first warning inside them, her tone full of venom when she voices it.
“I’m not a fan of repetition, either, and my patience with you is wearing thin. I will tell you this once more. I want to be your partner, and I simply want to be treated as one. Until you’re willing to regard me that way, I have nothing more to give you.”
* * *
“Ne me pleure pas. Promis moi.” Do not mourn me.
Promise me. Jerking to sit, Delphine’s words echo throughout my mind as I rouse, sweat sliding down my back in aftermath.
I hadn’t been dreaming of her, but as images and memories threaten to thread into my waking minutes, I blink, tune into the dark, and wipe out the threat.
It’s a different sound echoing through the penthouse that has my ears perking up.
A long, mournful sound that evokes deep-seated emotional pain.
Tuning in fully, I listen intently for a few seconds, and the penthouse remains quiet.
Soaked in sweat from whatever my mind decided to process after lights-out, I glance at the clock and see it’s close to three a.m. Deciding on a shower and an attempt at more shut-eye, I toss off my soaked sheets before heading to my kitchen.
The glow of the DC skyline streaming through the windows is enough to light my path as I stalk toward the kitchen.
Opening the fridge, I grab a bottle of water and down half of it before I speak. “You have a bedroom, Larissa.”
“I’m not your prisoner,” she rasps out from feet away, where I pinpointed her the minute I exited my bedroom. “I’m not anyone’s fucking prisoner. Not anymore.”
There’s something in her voice that completely contradicts her declaration and sounds a lot like what I felt just after waking—haunted. I don’t answer, because she intentionally walked straight into this cage of her own volition.
“Bad dream or can’t sleep? I’m dealing with both,” she admits freely. I hadn’t imagined the sound. It was her cries that woke me. “Want to tell me a bedtime story?” she asks, fighting the tone of her voice to exude sarcasm rather than what’s truly there—fear.
“Not particularly,” I say before turning in the direction of my room.
“He’s not stupid,” she warns of Ciro. “Men don’t stay on top for this many consecutive decades without knowing who their enemies are, even if they are their own flesh and blood.
I can’t be sure of what he thinks of me.
He might have sensed my hatred for him since I’ve returned, but I’ve done everything I could to convince him otherwise.
I did what was expected. Forced to—” She cuts herself off, and my ears perk.
“To what?” I ask, prompting her where she’s huddled in the corner of my couch, legs drawn, arms wrapped around them, her golden brown eyes peering at me over the top of her knees.
She’s shaking, and it’s apparent that she hates it.
“If you want to bring your father down so badly, you could speed things up by cooperating.”
“Maybe I’ll tell you a bedtime story one day,” she whispers, almost inaudibly, while knowing I can clearly hear her. “But not today.”
A long silence passes as we hold one another’s stares in the dark before she slowly rises from the couch and mutely retreats. The only other sound she makes is the snap of her bedroom door.
“A man who cannot command his mind will be ruled by it.”
—Friedrich Nietzsche