Chapter 14
Mal
It was the persistent buzzing of my cell phone that woke me up.
The thing almost vibrated itself off the nightstand.
I’d moved into Saylor’s treehouse before the wedding, so my stuff was strewn all over the place.
Something I could tell bugged her—and I swear I was working on—but she hadn’t confronted me about just yet.
About the fourth time the buzzing started all over, Saylor rolled over and nudged my shoulder. “Make it stop.”
I groaned and blindly reached for my cell. Bringing it to my face, I grumbled, “What?”
“Fuck, man. I’ve been calling you all night,” Ryker’s deep voice muttered. “Nice to know you’re still alive. Shit.”
“Ry, it’s…” I blinked blearily at the clock display on the nightstand. “Four in the morning. What the fuck are you calling me for?”
“Gio’s dead.”
“What?” I sat up, totally alert now. “Are you fucking serious?”
“As a heart attack.” He coughed. “Sorry. That was…inappropriate. But yes, I’m serious. Gio’s girl called it in tonight. Looks like he overdosed.”
“I-I-I…” Tears clogged my throat, and it felt like I couldn’t breathe. The phone fell to the bed as I covered my face with my hands.
In the distance I was vaguely aware of Saylor’s murmurs, followed by Ryker’s faint voice. It all sounded like it was coming from a long hallway, all echo-y and distorted.
“Hello?”
“Who is this?”
“Who is this?”
“Look, baby cakes, give the phone back to my boy. We gotta discuss some important shit.”
“I’m not baby cakes. I’m not sweet thing. I’m Mal’s wife. So how about you tell me who you are and what the hell you just said to him to make him lose it?”
“Mal got married?”
“Yesterday. Sorry you weren’t invited, but it was an impromptu thing. Who is this again?”
“Ryker. Ryker O’Keefe.”
“Okay. And what’s going on?”
“Gio ODed tonight.”
“Shit.” There was some rustling, and then Saylor was tugging on my arm. “Mal, baby, I’m so sorry.” Her head nuzzled against my arm like a puppy, all wiggly warmth and impossible to resist.
I put my arm around her and pulled her into my lap.
“Girlie!” A small, tinny voice hollered. “Girl! Missus Holt, there’s some stuff we gotta talk about.”
I grabbed the phone and toggled the speaker function. After clearing my throat, my voice sounded froggy when I spoke. “What, Ryker?”
“Shit, man. I’m sorry for dropping it on you like that. But I thought it was better to just put it out there. Rip it off like a Band-Aid.”
“There’s no good way to share shit news, my friend. I get it. What else did you need to tell me?”
“We need you back here, Mal. G had you named as next of kin or beneficiary or whatever on everything, so we’re having a hell of a time getting through all the red tape without you. There’s only so much Danny can do.”
I remembered him joking about how he didn’t have anyone to leave things to—he’d grown up in foster care and pretty much spent all his time on our couch growing up—I just never thought he was serious.
“I didn’t…I never knew. He’s been ducking my calls for the last few weeks. I thought he was pissed at me.”
“More like he didn’t want the lecture about using again.”
“Shit, I never even knew.”
The weight of my failure almost broke me.
I couldn’t breathe. My breath left me in gasping wheezes, and it was everything I could do to just hold on and get through this conversation.
Ryker coughed. “So listen, when can you get here? The cops will only release his body to you, and the longer it takes, the more likely we have of shit leaking.”
“I’m in Fiji, so it’s going to take me a day to get back.”
“Getting married apparently. Congrats, by the way. She sounds like a feisty one. It’s good you have someone in your corner to help you through this.” He sighed. “Get your ass on a plane, boy-o. We need you.”
“I’ll text you the details once I have them. See you soon.”
“Stay safe.”
“You too.” I ended the call and dropped my phone on the bed. Covering my face with my hands, I wept.
I felt so powerless.
So stupid.
How did I of all people miss the signs?
I couldn’t believe he was gone.
Tears rolled down my face, and Saylor murmured something as she cuddled closer to me, trying to comfort me.
But some wounds just wouldn’t ever close. And I had a feeling this was going to be one of them.
Everything moved quick after that.
I texted my assistant, Naomi—who I saw had also tried to reach me—and got her to work arranging our flights home.
We packed in a flurry. Having to put one foot in front of the other was the only thing keeping me upright. That, and Saylor’s hovering presence. She never really asked too many questions, just got to work packing and arranging details on our end to get us to the airport.
I could tell from her expression she was stressed.
I was just numb.
Gio was dead.
Gio ODed.
The words looped in my brain until they almost lost all meaning.
I didn’t get it.
How didn’t I see?
I should’ve seen the signs. But I’d been too caught up with preserving my sobriety. I knew his girl was partying. Why didn’t I think about him?
My shame spiral continued through the boat ride to the small Taveuni airport that looked more like a bus station than an airport.
Which might’ve been a joke from Saylor. I can’t really remember.
I was too busy thinking about how Gio had been shooting up for the last time while I’d been making love to my wife. I’d been starting a new life while Gio had been ending his.
Fuck
Fuck!
“I’m sorry, but we don’t have a booking for a Saylor Tate.”
I blinked and found myself standing in front of an airport representative. I shook my head and turned, taking in the sleek white counter and the display screen behind the lady.
“We do have a second booking with Mister Holt’s for a Saylor Holt, but I’m afraid you can’t travel under that name if it doesn’t match your passport.” She stared back at us like an animatronic robot, all crisp diction and blank expression.
“Switch it to Saylor Tate then,” I muttered.
“I’m sorry, sir, but I can’t do that this close to departure. Our airline regulations state that—”
“I DON’T GIVE A FLYING FUCK!” I shouted. “We’re flying back to claim my best friend’s body. MAKE IT WORK!”
Silence fell through the entire airport.
Saylor nuzzled into my side. “Mal, please let me handle this. Go sit down over there.”
But I didn’t move. I kept my glare fixed on the bitch standing in front of me.
Three more agents came from behind a concealed door and judging by the walkie-talkie squawk behind us, security or police were standing nearby.
“We’re sorry for your loss, Mr. Tate, but we can’t—”
“Book another ticket then! I don’t give a fuck. But the two of us have to be on the next flight out to the US.”
Her head went down and after some tippy-tap on her keyboard, we magically had two first-class tickets to LAX.
We clunked our bags on the scale, and she didn’t even murmur when Saylor’s toy bag was over the limit.
Like I gave a fuck. I could afford the fee and then some.
Cops followed us from the check-in desk to security and hovered like I was some kind of security threat. I wanted to provoke them, pop off on how fucking ridiculous they were being, but I also needed to get on the damn plane.
Saylor passed our passports and tickets to the border agent when prompted, while I stared at the crowd around us with hazy eyes.
Gio was dead.
Gio ODed.
I blinked, and we were sitting in the first-class lounge. Saylor’s knee bounced as she sat in the chair next to me.
I know I should probably say something to her. Comfort her or something, but I couldn’t make the words appear.
Gio ODed.
Gio was dead.
I blinked again, and we were walking down the jet bridge.
I don’t even remember hearing the boarding call or leaving the lounge.
As we settled into our seats, a flight attendant came over and buzzed about drinks or food or something. Saylor answered in her soft voice. I just stared back with blank eyes.
I grabbed a beanie out of my bag, stashed the bag in a compartment, and then sat back down. Pulling the beanie over my head and face, I blocked everything out.
I didn’t want to see anyone. Talk to anyone. I just wanted them all to go away.
Leave me alone.
I must’ve fallen asleep because the next thing I knew, a voice overhead said, “Prepare for landing.”
I tugged the beanie off and looked around blearily.
Saylor gave me a soft smile. “How are you feeling? You missed both meal services. I saved you a muffin if you’re hungry.”
“Oh, I’m hungry, baby girl, but not for a muffin.” I leaned over to give her a kiss, but she frowned and didn’t close the distance between us that I couldn’t reach.
And then it hit me.
Gio was dead.
Gio ODed.
I should’ve seen.
I should’ve known.
I was such a shit friend.
Gio deserved better.
Saylor deserved better.
What the fuck had I been thinking?
We stumbled through customs and immigration.
I didn’t even know what time it was. Morning? Evening?
But it didn’t matter.
They were waiting for us at baggage claim.
“Malcolm! Malcom! Did you know Gio had been using?”
“Mal! Over here! Look this way!”
Suddenly we were in a scrum of photographers. The clicking of their cameras, their questions, and the flashes surrounded us.
I held Saylor’s hand in a tight grip and tried to get us away from them, walking so fast that she tripped a few steps later.
“Ah!” She went down on her knees, and I almost lost her in the scrum.
“Saylor!” I elbowed the guy on my right and lashed out on the one in front of me. “BACK THE FUCK UP!”
She was feebly trying to stand up.
“Is that an engagement ring?”
“Who are you?”
“What’s your name?”
“Are you engaged to Malcolm Holt?”
“BACK UP!” I shoved one pap who was right in Saylor’s face. “Let my wife stand up, for fuck’s sake.”
I might as well have chummed the water.
The questions and flashes came faster and more furious.
“When did you get married?”
“What do you think of Gio’s death, Mrs. Holt?”
“Where were you when he died?”
I picked up Saylor and carried her away from the pestering fucking annoying assholes.
“I’m so sorry, Mal. I can walk now. Put me down, please.”
I ignored her pleas. I wasn’t letting her out of my arms as long as those vultures were circling.
I couldn’t protect Gio, but I could damn well protect my fucking wife.
A few seconds later, police arrived and played interference between us and the paps.
“Where were you guys five minutes ago?” I snarled. “They fucking took out my wife.”
“Sorry, Mr. Holt. We didn’t see your arrival,” one cop replied as we were ushered toward an office.
“Are you okay, miss?” another asked.
“I’m fine. I can walk. He’s just protective and won’t let go.”
I was pretty sure I heard one mumble, “I wouldn’t either,” but I didn’t know which fucker had said it so I couldn’t swing on him.
“Is your transportation here? We can arrange your pick up at a secure location so you’re not swarmed driving home.”
I had to put Saylor down so I could get my cell out and text Naomi. She should be here somewhere.
Me: Paps swarmed us at baggage. Where are you?
Naomi: I saw. I’ve got your bags. Where do you want me to meet you?
I’d never been in this situation. Usually only one or two paps waited to take my picture if I was passing through LAX.
“My assistant is in baggage claim with our bags,” I told the officer and he sent someone to arrange our pick up.
Fifteen minutes later, we met Naomi at a side exit and were motoring our way down the 105 in my Rolls-Royce Cullinan.
“How are you holding up? Congrats on the marriage, by the way,” Naomi said from the front passenger seat since she’d engaged a driver for the trip.
I grunted in reply.
“Right.” Naomi swung back to face forward with a sigh. “When do you want to meet with the authorities to make arrangements?”
“Let’s do it now. Get it over with.”
“We’ll have to wait until they’re open.” Naomi tapped away on her cell phone. “It’s only 6AM.”
“I don’t give a fuck. Just do whatever.” I turned and stared out the window at the passing traffic.
I felt numb. Like there was a layer of cotton between my ears and all over me, muffling me from seeing and hearing what was going on.
And yet when I looked down, my hands were trembling in my lap, in much the same way they did when I was jonesing for a hit of something.
“Find me a meeting. I really need a fucking meeting.”
“That’s where we’re going now,” Naomi replied. “Crenshaw United Methodist Church has one starting soon.”
“Good,” I grunted.
“Um, meeting? At a church?” Saylor asked tentatively. “I didn’t know you were religious.”
My bark of laughter was harsh. “Fuck, no. It’s an NA meeting. For addicts,” I went on when it didn’t look like she understood. “Because the one thing guaranteed to make an addict relapse is losing control.”
“Oh.” Saylor stared down at her hands in her lap and pursed her lips like she was trying and failing to find something to say.
I should reach out to her, let her know I still loved her, but I couldn’t.
I turned and stared out the window instead.