Chapter Twelve #2
Is it even a letter?
It might just be his will or something equally as shitty that could send me over the edge.
I shouldn’t read it.
Not today.
Huffing, I turn away and move to stand, but then a picture of us on the wall from our wedding day slams me straight in the chest as if the asshole is telling me from the other side that I need to read it.
“Okay, fine, you stubborn asshole… I’ll read it. But if you make me cry and ruin my makeup, I’m not going to your funeral,” I say into the ether.
My fingers tremble as I tear open the envelope.
His handwriting glares back at me, bold and messy, just like him.
My throat tightens, and a pain twinges through my stomach before I’ve even read the first line.
Sha,
If you’re holding this letter, then something went wrong.
Which pisses me off, because I swore I was coming back to you. I’m really fucking sorry I broke my promise to you, baby. You have my permission to call me an asshole. If I didn’t come back, and if this is all you have left of me, I need you to know a few things.
First off, family means everything. You, of all people, should know that. You taught me that better than anyone. You gave me a home, a reason to fight, a reason to live. You gave me Immy, and you gave me these twins. And baby, you gave me you.
My lips wobble, tears instantly welling. “Goddammit, Hurricane,” I whisper, pressing the paper to my chest for a second before forcing myself to keep reading.
I hope you’re not sitting there ugly crying, because you’re supposed to be the strong one, remember?
Don’t worry, I’m not calling you out. I know you’re probably blaming me for your ruined makeup.
If it helps, I always thought you were sexy as hell with mascara running down your cheeks.
Yeah, I said it. You’ve got that hot-as-fuck raccoon look when you cry. Don’t even try to deny it.
A choked laugh escapes me despite myself, and tears drip onto the page, smudging the ink. It feels like he’s still here, needling me until I smile.
Now, don’t go thinking this is me being all serious and noble.
You know I couldn’t write you a goodbye without a little filth in there.
So here it is—if I’m gone, I want you to remember every damn time I bent you over a counter or had you screaming my name in the shower.
Yeah, that one. And that other one. And definitely the one where I wrapped my hand around your throat and made you come so hard you saw stars.
I want those burned into your brain so every time you touch yourself, you think of me.
And since we’re being honest, I hope you do touch yourself—often.
I want you to slide your hand between those gorgeous thighs and hear my voice in your head telling you exactly how to play with my pussy.
I want you to remember how wet you’d get when I told you to spread wider for me, how you’d beg when I had two fingers inside you and my tongue on your clit.
Think about how hard you’d squeeze me when I fucked you deep, how you’d cry out when I told you to take every damn inch.
Sha, if I can’t be there, then I want you to make yourself come to the memory of me over and over until you fall apart screaming my name. That way, I’ll never really be gone, not from your body.
“Oh my God!” I laugh through my sobs, covering my face with my hand. “You absolute asshole.” My cheeks are wet, but my lips are trembling into a smile.
But more than that, I want you to remember how I looked at you, how I couldn’t keep my hands off you. How I would have done anything, given anything, been anything, just to keep you safe and happy. That’s the truth, baby girl. I loved you with everything I am.
You probably rolled your eyes just now because I got sappy. Don’t even try to lie—you fucking did.
But you need to hear it.
You were it for me, Sha.
The beginning.
The middle.
The end.
I press my fingers to my mouth, trying to hold back a sob, but it breaks free anyway. My chest aches, split wide between grief and love.
I don’t want you to hide from the world because of me.
Live, Kaia. Raise our kids to be strong, fierce little bastards.
Tell Immy her daddy was the luckiest man alive to have her.
And when the twins are old enough, tell them their old man was a stubborn prick who never shut up about family and always put his people first.
And if you find love again someday—don’t you DARE feel guilty. But make him know, loud and clear, that Lynx ‘Hurricane’ Ladet will haunt his ass if he doesn’t treat you like the queen you are.
I let out a soft exhale, shaking my head, because somehow I believe him. I believe that he would absolutely haunt any guy who tried to fuck me over.
And I fucking love him for it.
Lastly, remember this… I’ll be back as soon as I can. Maybe not in the way you want, maybe not in the flesh, but in every laugh you share, in every storm that rolls across the sky, in every wild thing our kids do, I’ll be there.
Always.
So don’t cry too hard, Sha.
Or do.
But know this…
You were my life, my reason, my everything.
I love you with everything I am.
Always yours,
Hurricane
The words blur through my tears. My heart cracks open and somehow feels full all at once.
He’s managed it—the stubborn, impossible, hilarious, filthy, beautiful man—he’s made me laugh and sob in the same breath.
And as I press the letter to my chest, I can almost hear him whispering in my ear, reminding me he’ll never really be gone.
A gentle knock at the door snaps my head around to my mother, who pops her head in. Her eyes widen when she looks at me. “Oh, honey!” She rushes into the room toward me.
Sniffing, I shake my head. “No, no. I’m okay,” I say, folding his letter back up, sliding it into the envelope, and popping it into the top drawer for safekeeping. “I just found something of Hurricane’s, and it’s made me a little emotional, but I’m okay.”
She weakly smiles, her own eyes red-rimmed from crying. She loved Hurricane like a son, and watching her own daughter’s heart break has been almost as hard as losing him.
“You look beautiful, Keiki,” Mom says, straightening the collar of my black maternity dress as I stand. “Hurricane would be so proud.”
I catch my reflection in the mirror and barely recognize myself. The woman staring back looks hollow, like a shadow of who I used to be. Eight months ago, I was glowing with pregnancy and happiness. Now I look like I’m barely holding myself together.
Because I am.
“Time to go,” Lani says softly, popping her head inside the room, and I realize I’ve been in this room longer than I thought.
Letting out a long exhale, I find an ounce of inner strength that I think Hurricane just gave to me, and I nod. “Okay, let’s go.”
The three of us walk out into the main room of the clubhouse, and it feels eerily empty. I know the guys left before us, but seeing it so quiet like this feels ominous.
Like the calm before the storm.
The cars are waiting outside—a procession that will take us from the clubhouse to the cemetery where Hurricane’s casket waits.
Empty.
The word echoes in my mind as we walk toward the front door.
There’s nothing left of him.
The love of my life is scattered in particles across some godforsaken sinkhole in New Orleans, blown apart saving people he didn’t even know. Because that’s who he was. That’s who he’ll always be in my memory—the man who ran toward danger to protect others, even when it cost him everything.
I guess he was always supposed to be a force of nature.
He just decided to literally go out with a bang.
The thought almost makes me smile, because Hurricane would have loved the dramatic irony of it all. He lived large and died larger, saving so many women in the process.
If he had to go, that’s how he would have wanted it.
But knowing that doesn’t make it hurt any less.
I shuffle forward, my shoes whispering against the pavement, toward a black sedan that feels more like a hearse. I glance up at Ingrid with baby Louis and Novah with her son, Elijah, hopping into another car while I give them a weak head gesture, knowing we’re in this together.
But I haven’t been.
I’ve been absent.
I’ve been staying in my room, drowning in my own grief and not sharing in theirs.
A mother and sister who are hurting just as much as I am.
A wave of guilt flows over me, a twinge of pain settling deep in my gut, radiating around to my back as Mom settles Immy into her car seat while Lani helps me into the back.
My belly makes everything awkward, and I can’t help but think about how Hurricane would have been fussing over me, making sure I was comfortable, probably making some joke about how I look like I swallowed a basketball.
I’ve been doing all of this wrong.
Shutting myself away from all the people he loved, when I should have been leaning on them for support.
Grieving with them.
That all stops today.
I keep my head down as a prospect drives through the familiar streets of New Orleans, my city, our city, the place where Hurricane and I fell in love despite ourselves. I can’t bear to look up, can’t bear to see the life going on around us when mine has completely stopped.
Immy is chattering quietly to my mother about something, her three-year-old brain moving from topic to topic the way children do. Her resilience amazes me. She misses her daddy, asks for him every day, but she still finds joy in the small things. Maybe that’s what I need to learn from her.
“Mama, look,” Immy says suddenly, her voice filled with wonder.
“Not now, baby,” I murmur, my hand pressed to my forehead as another wave of grief threatens to drown me.
“Mama, look!” Immy insists, more urgently this time.
Lani nudges me gently. “Kaia, you need to see this.”
Something in her voice makes me lift my head, and when I do, my breath catches in my throat.