Chapter 13
Thirteen
FELIX
S he's been gone for over a week. She sent me a text yesterday explaining that Faye isn't doing well and she needs to stay in LA for a bit longer. I tell her I understand and to do what she needs to do. I'm not going anywhere.
The boys—Riley, Cole, and Nyx—have decided to break me out of my funk by taking me out every night. I haven't drank this heavily since Amy left. I wake up with a sour stomach and woozy head, slug back some coffee and Tylenol, and get to work, stopping for a breakfast burrito from Larry's taco truck. A greasy lunch cures the stomach the rest of the way, and by the end of the day, I'm feeling back to normal…ish.
But then the guys show up and I end up in some dive bar somewhere, throwing back shots of Jameson and pints of Labatt like I'm twenty-one all over again.
They categorically disallow any mention of Amy or Ember. No pining, they tell me. Just dick and fart jokes, stories of our high school antics, and discussions of good lays from days gone by…
Dude stuff.
They're distracting me, and it works. Mostly.
Thirteen days after Ember took my FJ40 and headed for LA with an old lady she wasn't related to, I found myself colossally wasted with the guys. Cole was the DD for the night and we'd all driven here in his sheriff’s department SUV—we got a kick out of being locked in the back. Well, Nyx and I did. Riley sat in front with Cole, because being in the back would've given him nasty flashbacks, he said. Which is fair.
We're at a dive bar in the next county over, a place Nyx knows about. Dive is a nice term for the place. Shithole is closer. The floors are wood planks so old, sticky, and creaky, I'm worried my foot is gonna stick to one and then go through it. The ceiling is drop tile barely seven feet high—I can touch it if I go on my tiptoes and hop. The walls are covered in the requisite neon beer company paraphernalia, spotted, filmy whiskey brand mirrors, and holes from bar fights past. A band plays in the corner—good ol' boys with long gray beards playing rollicking bluegrass except the lead singer is rapping…about possums? I don't know. The bartender is a woman in her late thirties wearing ripped black jeans shorts so short her entire ass hangs out beneath the frayed hems and a black tank top that leaves her improbably gargantuan tits almost totally bare. For some reason, mixed drinks are popular. You know, the kind that require a lot of shaking of those silver cups.
Nyx is at the bar, ordering shot after shot and working his magic on the bartender. She's eating it up in a way that says they've probably gotten it on a few times.
Riley watches, snickering behind his hand. "Now I know why he wanted to come here."
Cole leans back in his chair, drinking beer straight from a pitcher. "Those two have been on and off for years. They go through a whole circus. He shows up, flirts with her, flashes that stupid grin of his, they hook up for a coupl'a months, and then he does or says somethin' stupid and she kicks his ass to the curb. He ignores her for a few months, but then he gets a hankering for those giant bazingas of hers, and off they go again."
I glance at him. "Thought you were the DD?"
He juts his chin at a uniformed deputy sitting by the door, sipping a bottle of water and reading a paperback thriller. "Called in a favor. Brian'll drive us. He's a teetotaler and he owes me."
"For what?" Riley asks.
Cole snickers into the pitcher. "Let’s just say he fucked up big time, I found out and saved his ass—and his career. He'll be doing me favors for a decade."
"Aw, c'mon," Riley says, throwing a shelled peanut at Cole. "Details, bitch!"
"What is this, real housewives?" Cole asks, flipping the peanut back at Riley. "It was official police business. I ain't tellin' you shit."
Riley hucks the peanut clear across the bar, nailing Brian in the face—a reminder that before he went to prison, he had full-ride offers from no fewer than eight Big Ten universities. His QB records still stand at Three Rivers High. "Yo, B!"
Brian frowns, stuffs a slip of paper in his book to hold the place, sets it on the chair, and ambles this way. "Crowe boys. Sheriff. What's up?"
Riley cracks a peanut open and tosses the halves in his mouth. "What'd you do that you owe Manny-boy a decade's worth of favors? His ass has clammed up."
Brian—all six-six and three hundred pounds of him—frowns at Riley. "You'd have to get me drunk to tell that story, and I don't drink."
"That's what Cole said," Riley says. "Never?"
"Let's just say the last time I got drunk, I decided to have an impromptu rodeo with my Uncle Roy's prize bull."
Riley snickers. "How'd that go?"
"Stayed on." He shrugs. "Had to rebuild half the barn, though."
"I…" Riley frowns, trying to picture what happened. "Um. What?"
Brian shakes his head. "Problem with an impromptu rodeo is that there wasn't no arena and there wasn't no clowns. If I'd'a let go, he'd've killed me. So I stayed my ass on while he tore up the fence, the chicken coop, flipped over the Gator, and wrecked most of the barn."
Riley blinks at him. "Jesus. And you survived?"
Brian just shrugs. "Got a hard head, I guess." He nods at Cole. “Ready when you are, boss, but no hurry. Lisa's at a girl's night with her cousins, so I got nothin' better to do."
Cole just nods back. "Thanks, Brian.”
When Brian goes back to his post, Riley bursts into laughter. "What the hell?"
Cole grins. "Brian's one of a kind. Was on a domestic call with him once, year or two back. Some ol' boy was whalin' on his woman, neighbors called it in, we show up thinkin' it'll go how most domestic calls go. Well, no, not exactly, it turns out. Motherfucker came at Brian with a Louisville Slugger. Cracked him clean across the back of the head. Brian didn't so much as flinch. I'm dead-ass for real. Bleeding like a stuck pig, that big motherfucker didn't so much as twitch. Clocked the bastard in the nose, dropped him, and hauled him off to jail for assaulting an officer. Sixteen stitches and a concussion. Woulda killed most people." He glances at Riley. “Reminds me of your boy Bear, actually. Just…less scary."
I grin, laughing. "No one is as scary as Bear." I shrug. "When he's pissed, at least."
Cole widens his eyes. "I'll never forget that call, man. I thought for sure I was rollin' up to a murder scene."
"If it wasn't for Noelle literally climbing him like a tree and making him stop, it would’ve been," I say. "That girl has some serious cajones."
Cole nods. "No shit. I was tryin' to figure out how I was gonna stop Bear without hurting him. I doubt a taser would do much."
Riley pulls out his phone. Dials. Puts it on speaker—Bear answers. "Yo, Rye. What's good?"
"Hey, Bear. You ever been tased by cops?" Rye asks.
Bear chuckles. "Hell yeah. Few times.”
"Did it drop you?"
He barks a laugh. "Hardly. Not gonna go so far as to say it tickled, but no, it definitely didn't drop me."
"Guess I'm gladder than ever that your girl was there that day, then," Cole says.
"That the Sheriff?" Bear asks.
“Yep," Riley answers. "That was it, buddy, thanks."
Bear is quiet for a second or two. "You'd'a had to shoot me, Sheriff. Trust me when I tell you nonlethal stuff don't work on me when I get like that."
"And trust me when I tell you I pray you never get like that again, Bear," Cole says, his voice earnest. "And I ain’t a prayin' man."
"You and me both, Sheriff," Bear rumbles. "And it won't, if Noelle's got anything to say about it."
After a bit more chitchat between Riley, Cole, and Bear, they end the call and we get back to crude jokes, increasingly ridiculous stories, and drinking way too much shitty domestic beer.
At some point in the night, Nyx vanishes with the bartender. Maybe an hour before close, Riley leaves the table and goes to mingle with the crowd on the dance floor, and Cole and I watch him flirt with and charm an absurdly hot girl in her early twenties. By the time the bartender hollers last call, those two are all but fucking on the dance floor, and when the lights come on, they bolt out the front door—Riley turning back in the doorway to shoot us a grin and double finger guns.
Cole and I trade glances.
"Your brother sure does have a way with the ladies," Cole says.
I laugh, shaking my head. “Yeah, he does. Always has."
"Think he'll ever settle down?" Cole asks.
I shrug, hesitate, and then nod. "I think so, someday. It'd take a hell of a woman to tame him, though. He may be reformed somewhat, but he's still got a wild streak a mile wide and a mile deep."
Cole claps me on the shoulder, standing up unsteadily. "Well, buddy, time to get on."
I wobble to my feet, closing one eye as the world splits into two and three whirling versions of itself. "Oh, shit. I'm drunker than I thought."
"You and me both, Fee," Cole says. "C'mon. Bry! Help us get outta here, rookie."
Brian shoves his book in his back pocket and ambles over to us, hooking a big arm around each of us and helping us to the squad SUV.
I peer at Brian—or at the three of him. "How'd you get here?"
He snorts a laugh. "Wife dropped me off. Her cousin lives in the area."
"Well, I'm thankful, sir." I give him a salute that almost pulls me off balance.
"Yeah, yeah,” Brian says. “Just get home without barfing in the car and we'll be good."
“Imma do my best, but keep them window buttons handy," I say. I squint at Cole as we settle in the backseat, leaning against each other. "I know why I'm drunk. I know why Riley's drunk. Nyx is just a fuckin' animal. But you, Cole, my guy. I don't know about you." I clap him on the chest. "Whazzup with you, Shurrrrrif Mannix?"
Cole groans, shakes his head. "Ah, fuck. Don't ask me that."
“Too late. Already did."
Cole rests his head backward, letting it loll and roll with the movement of the vehicle. "I'm drinkin' about the one who got away, Felix."
I blink at him. "Whoozzat?"
His head moves side to side—it could be him shaking it, or it could be a loll as we go over a bump. "Nope. Not goin' there, man. Why d'you drink I'm thinkin' about her? Wait, no. That's not right. Why do you think I'm drinking about her?" he says, over-enunciating the last sentence.
"Alright, fine," I slur. "What the fuck ever, man. Keep your secrets."
"Don’t be mad, Fee. I just…I can't go there. Fuckin' hurts, you know?"
I look at my friend, and for a split second there's only one of him—golden-blond hair cut short and swept to one side, buzzed to the scalp on the sides, with a short neat beard and brown eyes. I happen to know quite a few of Three Rivers' female residents, married or otherwise, would sell an ovary to get Cole's attention, because the fucker is just that damn pretty. I mean, picture a Midwestern, all-American, down-home boy next door. Picture the swoony hero from a Hallmark romance movie. That's Cole Mannix. Clean cut, jacked, handsome, easy-going but with a firm grasp of his authority as county sheriff.
Back in high school, it was always Riley, Nyx, Cole, and me—Riley and Nyx were the black-haired bad boys, and Cole and I were the golden-haired good boys. Riley was the quarterback who slept with all of the attractive girls in our year and several from the years below us and most of the one older than us; Cole was the star running back with the captain of the cheer squad girlfriend; Nyx was the tight end party animal, and I was the wide receiver who was somewhere between Riley's cocky bad boy and Cole's white knight.
It's the four of us again, and it feels good to be among my guys again. Nyx is always just himself. Back in high school, Nyx was then as he is now—a party animal, the class clown, the one who'd jump off a roof into a pool for laughs and to get the attention of the girls, the one who rode a chopper he built himself to school; he’s the one who, unless you really know him well, you’d never suspect the hidden depths he hides behind the lunatic adrenaline-junkie facade.
God, I'm maudlin.
Thinking about high school sucks. Because it always and inevitably leads to thoughts of Amy.
Fuck.
No, no, no.
I’ve done so good tonight. Haven't thought about Ember or Amy even once.
But now I'm remembering the good old days, when it was Riley and whoever he was banging at the time, Cole and Lacey, me and Amy, and Nyx usually by himself. We'd take Cole's beat-up old GMC Savannah to Secret Beach, light a bonfire, and get wasted on beer purchased with Riley's fake ID from the corner store in the next town north. We'd all go skinny dipping, skin flashing in the moonlight, laughing as the firelight flickered on the night-still waters of Lake Michigan.
Amy, an all-state swimmer, would be way ahead of everyone, and I'd be gamely trying to reach her. She'd let me, eventually, and we'd tread water and whisper to each other. Swim back to where we can touch bottom and make out. Find a spot on the beach away from the others and have sex.
Find our way back to the fire and keep drinking.
God, those were fun days.
"'Member the bonfires at Secret Beach, Cole?" I ask.
He groans. "Ah fuck, Fee. Don't talk about that shit." He covers his face. "I can still see Lacey stripping out of her shorts. That was the hottest thing I could imagine, back then. The hottest girl in Three Rivers shimmying her fine ass outta them tight little shorts, peeling off that shirt and lookin' at me like I'm dessert. Fuck." He rubs his face. "Goddammit, Fee. I hate you for bringing that up."
"I know. I hate myself."
"Still the hottest thing I can imagine," he mutters.
"Think we'll ever get over 'em?" I ask.
"Fuck if I know," he growls.
"This is you, Felix," I hear Brian say. "C'mon, I'll walk you in."
I paw at the door, forgetting I'm in the back of a police car. The door opens and I tumble out into Bryan's hands. He hauls me upright, sets me on my feet, and walks me with his hands on my shoulders to my front door. I wobble, topple forward against the storm door, and fumble my keys out of my pocket. Drop them. Brian retrieves them and unlocks my door.
I hold on to the door for balance and salute Brian. "I'm good. Thanks, buddy ol' pal."
Brian pats me on the shoulder. "Drink water. Take Tylenol. Sleep on your side."
"Not m'first rodeo," I mutter. "But I appreciate the advice."
When he's gone, I stagger into my kitchen and pour myself a big glass of water from the tap and spend a long time drinking. Throw back a few Tylenol and then take a few more and a full glass of water to my bedside table.
Even hammered, I can't sleep in clothes, so I struggle out of them. Collapse on my left side in my bed with the bathroom trashcan on the floor beside me, just in case.
The last thing I remember is my phone dinging with a text message, but I'm too close to passing out to read it.
I'm pretty sure it's from Ember.
Then, nothing.
* * *
I wake up dying of thirst. Groan as I try to sit up—my head is pounding and my mouth is a desert. I'm disoriented, still drunk.
"Here, let me help you," a soft, familiar female voice says.
Soft hands touch mine, help me put the glass to my lips, tip it. Fingers put a pill in my mouth and help me chase it down.
The world is spinning.
It's fun getting drunk, but it's not fun being drunk. Or maybe I'm getting too fucking old for this shit.
Wait…who's helping me?
I peer around my room and see a female figure perched on the edge of my bed. A familiar one.
A figure I couldn't forget no matter how drunk I am.
Long black hair glinting in the moonlight from my window. Olive skin from her Italian heritage. Long, slender legs bare beneath khaki shorts. A sleeveless V-neck top showing off her cleavage. Bare feet. Those damned eyes that I used to love staring into, brown and heated.
I stare, blinking. Surely I'm dreaming. "The fuck?"
"Hi, Fee." Her voice is different—a little lower, a little more grown-up.
"No. Uh-uh. I don't want this dream." I rub my face, grind my knuckles into my eyes. "Wake up, goddammit."
She touches my arm. “Hey, relax. You’re not dreaming." Her laugh is low and amused. “You are hammered, though."
"Not hammered enough." I cover my face, take a few deep breaths, and lower my hands—she's still here, in Three Rivers, in my house, on my bed.
Amy.
"Is it that bad to see me?" she asks with a little laugh. “Thought you'd be happier."
"Shit." I just look at her—I'm sober enough that I'm only seeing one of everything, at least. "You sure this is real?"
She's as beautiful as ever—maybe even more. She's still tall and svelte, but she's put on some curve in her hips and thighs. Her hair is expensively and expertly cut. Pin straight, jet black. Perfect makeup. Bright red lips—she always did like bold red lipstick. I used to have to wipe that shit off me all damn day ‘cause she was always kissing on me.
Fuck, fuck.
I stare at her, blinking—she's real. "Amy."
She smiles. "Hi."
"What—um. What are you—how?" I take another long drink of water. "I'm confused."
"My husband had one too many affairs, so I left him. My girls are with their grandparents in Florida for the summer while Greg and I figure things out."
"Oh." I have no idea what to say, what to think, what to feel—other than confused and drunk.
"I kept tabs on you over the years," she says, tracing a fingertip across my knuckles, from knuckle to dip, knuckle to dip. "No wife, no girlfriend, huh?"
I shake my head. "Nope."
"Is that my fault?"
I frown at her—god, she's gorgeous. Age has refined her beauty. Age, and clean, expensive living. "Fuck, Amy, are we really going there right now?"
“It’s been over a decade. We never talked about it. " She shrugs. "May as well, right?"
"Well then, yeah, it is your fault." I close my eyes and sigh. “But then…no it's not. It's mine."
"I should've given you a chance."
"Yeah."
"But, Fee…" She moves her hand from my hand to my thigh. "I was just so shocked and hurt. I never thought you'd do that."
"I'm too drunk for this," I mutter. "Or not drunk enough."
"I drove almost four hours to be here. To see you." She pushes her fingers into my hair. "I thought about you a lot over the years."
"You're all I thought about." I stare at her, because it's so surreal that she's here like this, so suddenly, so unexpectedly. "I was so young, Amy. So dumb. So drunk. She…I—"I shake my head. "Sounds stupid to even say it, but I thought it was you. That's how wasted I was. Fucking Cassie Miller."
Amy groans. "Cassie Miller. She always did want you, and she hated me for having you." She frowns at me. "She came on to you?"
I shake my head. "No. She…I was almost passed out. All I really remember is…" I close my eyes and for the first time in years I go back to that night in my mind. "Dark hair, hands, being kissed. Being touched. Jacked off. It felt good, and I was drunk. Couldn't see straight—could barely fuckin' move. It's honestly shocking that my dick even worked. But she was like, ‘c’mon Fee, it’s me. Don’t you want me?’”
She closes her eyes, wincing. "She really said that? It's me?"
I nod. “Yeah. Black hair, similar skin color." I cover my face. "She…she did everything. I couldn't even sit up. When she finished, she got off and leaned down to kiss me. And then I…" I scrub my face, wishing to hell I was sober for this. "I realized who it was. Who I’d just fucked. That it wasn't you."
" Everyone saw, Fee." She says it in a whisper. "I saw. I watched it all happen."
"You did?" I shake my head. "I didn't know that. Why didn't you say anything? Do anything?"
“I was across the field with Becky, Rachel, and Fiona. I didn't understand what was happening at first, and then when I did I was so stunned I couldn't move. And you…you went with it. That's what I saw—you laying there letting another girl put her hands all over you, letting her fuck you. That's what I saw."
I nod, guilt and regret burning in my belly. "I…Amy, I…I'm sorry. It was dark and I was so goddamn drunk, and I thought she was you."
"I never let you get two words in," she whispers. "I've regretted that every single day since. I should've let you explain. I knew how drunk you were. I knew how Cassie felt about you, and how much she hated me. I knew she'd do anything to get you. I just…I was so shocked and hurt that I never…I couldn't think straight."
"I've hated myself ever since," I whisper. "That I did that to you. That I let that happen." I fight nausea at the memory. "I haven't been that drunk until now." I laugh. "Except for the year after you left. I was a colossal mess for a while."
She laughs bitterly. "Me too. I went boy crazy in college. Slept with every guy I could, trying to erase you from my system."
"Did it work?" I ask. "I mean, I guess it did. You got married and had kids."
Her laugh is not just bitter, now, it's…whatever is uglier and angrier than mere bitterness. "That was more of the same, babe. Greg was…everything you're not, in both good ways and bad. He was the right choice, on paper. Smart. Successful. Rich. Stable. Attractive. Sensible."
I bark a wry, sarcastic laugh. "All the things I'm not, huh?"
She shrugs a slender shoulder. "He was also egotistical, narcissistic, chauvinistic, self-centered, vain, and a totally elitist snob."
"More things I'm not, eh?" I say, snickering.
She nods. "It was a horrible marriage. I gave up my career to have his kids and raise them. And once he had the two kids to show off at the country club and the church and bring your kids to work days, he wasn't interested in me at all. He left me at home to raise the girls and take care of the house like a good little wifey while he went golfing and fucked every secretary and assistant and temp he could get his hands on while if I so much as looked in the direction of another male, he'd lose his shit."
"He hit you?" I ask.
She shakes her head. "No, just mental and emotional abuse, abandonment, neglect, entrapment…you know, the standard stuff."
"That shit ain't standard, Amy."
She snorts. "You'd be surprised, Felix."
"Why are you here?" I ask.
"Here in Three Rivers or here in your house?"
"Well, let's start with in my house at…" I check the clock on my bedside table, "three-forty-five in the morning."
"I had a nasty argument with Greg about custody. He thinks he's getting full custody, but I have all sorts of evidence of his infidelity, as well as recordings of him screaming obscenities at me, threatening to hurt me, talking about framing me for drug possession…I lost my shit, got in the car, and drove away. I ended up here."
"But…how'd you find my house?" I ask.
She grins. "Well, when I finally realized that I had to leave Greg, I had to start getting money of my own, since in usual abuser fashion, he controlled the finances. So I reached out to a friend of mine who's a private investigator, and she hired me to be an online investigator. I'd dig up everything I could find on social media and the internet about her targets. I got good at it. Which meant it was pretty damned easy to find your address."
I nod. “Okay, but…you just sorta came in?"
She grins sheepishly, shrugging. “Your door was wide open and the lights were on."
I frown. "My door was open?"
She nods. "Front door was wide open."
I groan, laughing. "Wow, thanks for looking out for me, Brian. Jesus."
“Brian?”
I shrug. "Friend of a friend who drove me home and helped me inside."
She pats my legs. "I was worried, so I called out but you didn't answer. I came in to make sure everything was okay and found you passed out. I wasn't here more than two minutes before you woke up to get a drink."
I shake my head. "It's so surreal that you're here."
"It's surreal to be here with you, to be honest."
"But…at four in the morning?"
She shrugs. "I was just gonna drive by so I knew where it was, but then I saw your door open."
Silence.
"I missed you, Fee."
"Amy," I whisper. "You have the worst fucking timing."
"Why?" She asks. "You're with someone?"
"Um, sort of."
Her grin is actually sort of cocky. "Well, sort of isn't yes, is it?" The cocky grin fades. "I am sorry, Felix. I'm sorry for…not letting you explain. For derailing both of our lives over something that wasn't even your fault."
"It was, though. I should've known."
She's somehow closer, smelling of expensive perfume and radiating warmth. Her hand slides higher on my thigh—the blankets are around my knees, and I'm wearing nothing but a pair of black boxer briefs. "It's not your fault, Fee. It's Cassie's. She took advantage of you. You were drunk and couldn't consent.”
My heart lurches—I've fantasized about almost exactly this situation happening countless times over the years. Amy appearing like a ghost from the past but real, apologizing, taking the guilt away, wanting me again, making everything okay.
I'm woozy. Disoriented, confused. It hurts—she hurts to be near. Her hand on my thigh is like fire…and I'm not sure it's the good kind of fire.
"Amy, I—"
She's leaning in. "Fee, c'mon. You have to have thought about this. Wanted this. I'm here. I want to…I want you." Her hand is centimeters from my junk. Her lips are ghosting across mine as she whispers. "I've never stopped wanting you. I…I imagined you every time Greg and I had sex. It was always you."
I hear something, somewhere in the house.
My stomach twists, and my heart protests; my body tingles, aches. "Amy…"I grab her wrist. "Hold on."
Her lips halt, her hand freezes. "Fee, I thought—"
"Now not, Amy. Not like this. I…fuck." It's like a nightmare flashback. My heart hammers in my chest, my breath coming short. I'm back in that field, a teenager again, so stupidly drunk I barely know my own name, about to make the biggest mistake of my life. "I can't. Not—not now. Not like this."
"Fee," Another voice says from the hallway outside my room. "I'm back. I hope you don't mind I let myself…in." Ember—her voice pierces my very soul. The hurt. The shock. The confusion. "I see."
I hear feet on the floor, the door slam.