Chapter 25
Daisy
Somewhere out there, a chorus of crickets chirps.
It’s not a lot, but it’s more than I’d ever hear sitting in a courtyard in LA.
Growing up, you might hear one or two—just enough to make you think that if you found and caught the thing, silence would settle in, broken only by distant engines, a siren, a horn, or the occasional shouting match.
But here on the urban outskirts, those crickets form a full-blown chorus—and that feels oddly out of place.
Yes, I’m technically in the suburbs, but I’m still surrounded by concrete and asphalt. Out here on the balcony at night, the occasional vehicle rumbles by. A handful of stars shine bright against the night sky. And yet, there’s a chorus.
The mating calls likely stem from the nearby greenway and the adjacent park. It’s not something I’ve thought about since moving into this temporary location. Of course, I have spent little time out here by myself.
The chorus of crickets outside my temporary balcony should be soothing, but tonight even their mating calls feel like mockery. Another week gone by, and I’m drowning in this heavy, sinking feeling—a funky life-sucks emotion that makes me crave a cigarette for the first time since college.
Since our dinner, Phillip Sterling has checked in daily. Asking about progress. Reading me. And I’ve been making progress. It’s coming together. He’s pleased.
But in terms of an investigation? In terms of discovering anything new, anything we didn’t already know—nothing.
My phone screen lights up. I toe the phone, which is lying on the ground, turning it so I can read the name.
Mom.
With a heavy sigh, I lean forward and pick up the phone.
“Hey, Mom.”
“Hi, sweets.”
I pause. I haven’t asked about the callback—she’ll tell me if there’s good news.
But I’m betting there isn’t. It’ll shock the hell out of me if she ever hears from them.
If she had an agent, the agent could bug the shit out of them, but chances are hundreds of actors read for that part.
Which is why I should be so grateful I scored a lotto-level gig.
“You okay?” she asks.
“Yeah. Why?” She never asks me that.
“Hmm. Nothing. Look, I got a letter today. It was weird. Reed’s relative writing me and asking if I agreed with the inscription on his tombstone. She said that I knew him better than she did, and she wanted to check with me. But really, you knew him best.”
“She wrote a letter? Like with a stamp?”
“Yes.” Mom snickers and across the line it sounds like heavy, muffled breathing. “I’m guessing she’s elderly. The handwriting was a little shaky.”
“Wouldn’t it just be his name and the dates of his birth and death?” I ask, already wishing we weren’t having this conversation.
“That’s an option. But the package you purchased includes an engraved quote on the marker. You’ve already paid for it. You might as well say something.”
I don’t really want to think about this. My head falls back and my gaze rises to the ceiling and the spiderwebs in the corners. I should probably get a broom and knock those down. That’s gross.
“But you don’t have to,” Mom says, reminding me she’s still on the line.
“Let me think on it.” I squeeze my shoulder, digging my fingers into the sore muscle that’s been bothering me.
“You can just do—”
“He deserves something. Just… Is there a deadline?”
“She didn’t say, but…you know you paid for everything. The cemetery should communicate with you.”
“I don’t think it’s the cemetery. It’s the funeral home. I picked his coffin but asked them to contact his next of kin for other stuff.” There’d been a video and I can’t remember what else.
“Well, you’d think as his next of kin she’d ask about reimbursing you. But she didn’t.”
“I wanted to pay.” The only way to know Uncle Alvin would receive the burial he deserved was to pay for it. It gave me some control. He wasn’t my blood relative, but he was my family. The dad I didn’t have.
What would he think if he saw me now? Writing code for a questionable enterprise. He used to say doing right wasn’t supposed to be convenient.
“You know, I think I mentioned this, but he was a veteran. You may be entitled for a discount or reimbursement or—”
“It’s not a big deal, Mom.”
“Well, yeah, now it’s definitely not. Now that you’ve got so much money,” I tense, knowing from the change in her tone what’s coming.
“I am really overdue on headshots. You know, they can make or break you. And there’s this fantastic photographer.
I’ve never been able to afford her before, but she does—”
“Book her. I’ll pay.”
“Really? Oh, sweetie, thank you so much. That’s huge.”
She goes on and on, and I half-listen, waiting for the funk to lessen, but it doesn’t. I just feel like shit.
The door opens and Jake steps out, a glass of water in his hand, which he extends, offering it to me.
“Mom, I gotta go. I’ll talk to you later, okay?”
I set the phone beneath my thigh and take the glass from Jake, but then stand, pushing him backwards into the condo.
He gives me a questioning glance.
I kick the door closed behind me and set the glass down on the coffee table.
“What’s going on? You okay?”
Everybody wants to know if I’m okay.
But I really do not want to talk about it.
So I reach up and pull Jake’s mouth down to mine, and with my other hand, cup the seam of his jeans. He hardens beneath my probing fingers.
Yes, this is what I want.
“Daisy...”
I press my fingers to his lips.
“No talk.”
I push him back onto the sofa and straddle him, pulling at his shirt, wanting it off. All I want is to fuck. To not think. To get this icky feeling off my chest, away from my body, and these last few weeks with Jake have taught me one surefire way to forget everything but the physical.
I don’t miss the concern in Jake’s crinkled eyes, but I don’t want to see it, so I place my focus on the button and zipper. His large hands cover mine, stopping me, and I sit back on my calves, feeling like he just dumped a bucket of ice over me.
“What? You don’t want to?”
“Of course I want to.”
He brushes his thumb along my stomach, sliding my bra aside to tweak my nipple.
“I always want you,” he repeats softly. “But something’s going on, baby. If you need to use my body, fine by me—trust me, I’m game—but I feel like you’re hurting.”
My fingers wrap around his wrist, and there’s something about the messy intimacy, his pants half done, the tip of his erection peeking out of the band of his briefs, his hand on my half-exposed breast, and him slowing me down to check on me that has my eyes burning.
I’m not a crier. I don’t cry. I just don’t. Yet here I am, blinking back tears that shouldn’t even exist. What the hell is going on in my brain?
“I’m just in a funk,” I say, huffing out an exhale and immediately breathing in to try to stop the out-of-place, illogical tears.
Just fuck me is on the tip of my tongue, but I hold it back because I know if I utter those words a watershed of tears is going to follow.
“Hey,” he says in a deep, comforting rumble. He pulls me in against his chest, tucking my head against his shoulder. “Come here, baby.”
“You don’t want to fuck me.” Jesus, I sound like such a whiner.
His chest shakes hard twice, and his lips press to my forehead and he pulls me back so he’s stretched out on the sofa and I’m in his arms, pulled into his side.
“Like I said, I always want you, but you’re on the verge of tears. And if I’m right about why, making love isn’t really going to make it better.”
Making love. Did he have to use those words? What a subliminal scold for my choice of words.
I twirl the golden chest hairs mixed with caramel brown scattered across his broad, muscular chest.
“This isn’t really what they’re paying you for, is it? Comforting me when I’m having some kind of breakdown.”
“Darlin’, I’ve seen breakdowns, and this isn’t one.
But let’s see, where to start.” His chest vibrates beneath my fingers when he speaks, and I like the sensation, the warmth emanating from his body.
“Whether it’s a breakdown or just a bad day—this is where I’d want to be, and not because anyone is paying me. ”
His fingers glide back and forth across my arm, ever so slowly. Maybe that’s the difference between us. For him, intimacy is connection. For me, sex is escape. Love asks for honesty, and right now, that feels terrifying.
“You got that?”
“I suppose.”
“Hey.”
His gruff tone could mean many things, but he cups my jaw and shifts until I can’t avoid his gaze. “You got that?”
“You’re too good of a guy to do something solely for money. I got it.”
And yes, I sound like such a spoiled whiny bitch and, again, I hate it. I should just shut my mouth.
“I think I know what this is.” He shifts back on the sofa, a smug smile on his lips.
I don’t see how that’s possible, as I’m not clear at all why I’m so emotional. When is my period due? Maybe I’m getting hormonal.
“I’m not going to tell you what to do, but I’ve always felt like the only real way to be happy is for your head and your heart to be in the same place.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Is he going on about us? About sex?
“You know why soldiers can endure hell and still feel good about themselves? Because their actions align with their beliefs. But when your head and heart are in different places...” He lets the implication hang.
“You ever wondered how you could have two sides at war, and both sides feeling good about what they’re doing?
Like to the point they’re willing to die for their side?
You know how that happens? Each side believes in themselves, believes what they’re doing is right.
” His fingers trace my arms. The light touch soothes.
“Like the Iranians…or Iraqis…or let’s go all the way back to the Nazis…
I’m not talking about who’s right or wrong.
I’m just saying that all those soldiers, they had conviction.
Life’s pretty shitty when you’re at war, food rationed, sometimes cold, hot, tired, but the men are usually in a pretty good headspace because each day their actions mesh with what they feel they should do.
Serving a larger purpose. There are studies on it.
“I’ve seen men who took jobs outside of the military for the paycheck and sometimes…depending on what they’re tasked with…they go to a pretty dark place. A paycheck is a paycheck, and there’s no doubt you gotta have it. But you gotta feel good about what you’re doing.”
“Well, yeah, especially if you’re killing people.”
“Even if you’re coding.”
My palm flattens across his chest. His heart thumps beneath his sternum, rock steady.
His story, his words, slowly weave their way through. He’s making a point about me, saying that I don’t believe in what I’m doing… But I’m writing code to track the markets. There’s no believing in that. He’s making a comparison that’s not warranted.
“Are you judging me?” How dare he? Not all of us are soldiers.
“Come on now,” he drawls, accentuating his accent. “You’re smarter than that.”
The tip of his finger taps against my temple.
“Do I look like someone who would judge somebody? I spent years as a male whore. More than that, when I served, I racked up a sizeable body count. Worse, if it were up to me, I’d still be serving and adding to it.”
If it were up to him?
“We haven’t talked about what’s going on between us. But maybe you need to hear it. I’m on your team. I’ve got your six.”
I push up on my elbow, shifting so I can see his face.
“Military lingo? You’re telling me you’ve got my back?”
“That’s exactly what I’m saying. I’m not the enemy. I’m the one in your corner. No need to attack me. I’m here for you.”
Attack him?
“I’m being bitchy, aren’t I?”
“A mite. But I get it. You’ve got a big heart and a big brain, and you’ve got to sort through it all.”
That big hand of his caresses my hip, and my butt, and I relax against him, resting my head back down on his big bear chest, willing all the emotions bubbling up to go away.
The side of my ear presses against him, and I allow myself to focus on the rhythmic thuds, alleviating my cluttered mind. No words. I close my eyelids, lost in the absence of light, of place.
Thud thud. Thud thud.
His heartbeat anchors me to this moment, to this truth I’ve been avoiding. I know exactly why I feel like shit. I know exactly what’s eating at me from the inside. I’m becoming everything I’ve always hated. And worse yet—I’m good at it.