32. Slather Me to Death
SLATHER ME TO DEATH
brAXTON
Eyes and ears on the ground. It’s playing on repeat in my head. She’s reporting in. I’m sure she is. Why hadn’t I considered that the moment she showed up at my doorstep?
I’m all kinds of fool.
A week ago… hell, four days ago, I’d had no hint I’d fathered a child. Until yesterday, I’d had no idea I could love another human being so much. Enter Colt, and I see why parents get so fierce protecting their kids. I get it. Yet, I know I still have no clue.
I stand in the shower, hand fisted on the tiled wall, head bowed. Steam billows as the hot water beats against my skin like a sandblaster.
What the fuck am I going to do? I have to fight for him. Have to. But I can’t fight her. Fighting her sets me up to lose. And I can’t afford to lose.
My balls are in a vise, and my head is stuck in the perpetual catch-22.
Fight for him. Keep him. Raise him. Know my son.
Train him to ride a horse, throw a baseball, show him how to shave.
Raise him to be a man, after he learns to walk and eat solid food, of course.
Make sure he’s a Ranger in more than name.
The flip side is finding a way not to piss off Emberleigh. Not speak my mind or overstep where she will have ammo in the legal gunfight to come. I need to be nice. To the enemy. The woman who desires to make sure that everything I want for myself and for Colt unravels and never comes to pass.
I may have an MBA, but I’m no mental strategist in the ways of the devious. I don’t know how to play chess against Deep Blue.
Make no mistake, I know the Carringtons are definitely programmed to outplay me in this game.
I need Elias. I need Pop. I need Bright. I need a clear strategy around protecting my family. Family—a word I never expected to use at thirty-six—and certainly not about anything other than the clan I was born into.
I exit the shower. Thinking of Brighton or Finchley or even my pop, for that matter, kills a good shower.
At least I know that Colt is safe out there with Emberleigh.
The bitch is ever-present, but she only seems to care about Colt.
I don’t want to use him against her. I’m not that big of a dick, but he’s definitely a blind spot to her.
And, if she’s ears and eyes on me in this battle, I certainly am to her as well.
I’ll have to poke on that sore spot while pretending not to.
Me: Talk to me about money. And time.
Elias: Talk to me about complete sentences.
Fucker.
Me: I need a strategy around what to do with this situation. I know you’re on the team, but I need a coach, not another infielder. Talk to me about what I should be doing. And how much I need to put in a retainer for you.
The bubbles come and go and after a minute or two, I stop staring at my phone since there are other priorities. I dress in running shorts and a tee and am heading out when I get Elias’s reply.
Elias: Who else is on the team? What’s the real end goal?
I answer him on the first. My two brothers will have to sit this one out. Exton is in D.C. with the FBI, though I wish I had his skills here now. And Layton is in Florida in two-a-days.
Me: Let me think on the second.
I’ll get back to him, but I need to think of what a win looks like. And that may be different for me and for Colt. Unfortunately, I can’t think solely of myself in this. It would be so much easier for sure.
“Come on, little man,” I say, reaching for Colt. He whips his head around and shoves it into Emberleigh’s neck, rubbing his sleepy face back and forth against her shirt.
He’s not laughing or playing peek-a-boo. His rejection slices through my gut, but I know he’s known me for too little time for it to be his dismissal of me.
“He’s scared,” Emberleigh says simply.
“I won’t hurt him.”
“He doesn’t know that.” She lifts her eyes to mine and she looks exhausted. No, that’s not exactly right. She looks haunted. The bitch is gone. Also gone is the strong woman who has been my equal in this fight.
I reach for Colt again when I hear a simple, one-word request.
“Please.”
“Please, what?”
“Let him stay here with me today—or at least this morning. He’ll be safe.”
“I don’t doubt that,” I reply. “But he and I need a routine for when you leave.”
The panic in her eyes should piss me off. It should cement my argument. Instead, for too long a moment, it reveals vulnerability. She looks away as if I’ve seen too much.
“You have a job. Let me keep him this morning. That gives Colt some continuity and peace. If you want to take him after lunch, that will give me some time with my work too. It’s a win-win and, more importantly, it reduces Colt’s stress.”
Her furtive glance at me belies her desperation.
“Can I trust you?”
“To do what’s best for Colt? Always.”
I hear what she doesn’t say. That I cannot trust her. That she would stab me in the back if it were best for Colt. Hard not to respect her. She’s not lying and she certainly isn’t promising a truce.
I smile, tight-lipped, and not because I’m happy. But a temporary cease-fire can only help me with my stop being an asshole attitude. If Emberleigh doesn’t push my buttons, maybe I can withhold my reactions a bit better.
I’m playing chess, I remind myself. It’s about strategy.
I turn for the door and say, “See you at lunch, Colt.” As I make my way out into the oppressive Texas heat, I recognize that battle was a stalemate, but the war is sure as fuck still raging.
When I got home at lunch, he’d just gone down for a nap.
I hit the ranch again—always more to do than time to do it.
I popped in again and scooped him into some wraparound sling contraption that Bright bought.
No doubt someone would’ve made a fortune videoing me tie myself up like a novice dominatrix, and then squeezing Colt into a hole with only enough room for one leg.
On take two, I got him wrapped up properly, only to discover that his body heat and mine in a dry, summer afternoon meant he was cocooned in an oven and covered in both our sweat.
That meant office work, my least favorite. Pushing paper is really close to my definition of hell. I never have sat still well, and being forced to do so, when there’s work to do and sunlight to do it in, is a punishment. But Colt needed AC, and the office had it, so that’s what we did.
Apparently, “work” also became a nap since I quickly discovered the office wasn’t child-proofed when I did the house, and because just about everything in there that could go in a baby’s mouth was gross.
Or dangerous. So I played with Colt, tickled him, rubbed his back, and eventually held him until his little breathing slowed.
And mine must’ve, too, because the sound of a cell phone camera shutter woke me up.
“Going to make that one my wallpaper,” Pop says. His smile wide; his height two inches taller with pride.
I wipe my mouth and glance down at Colt, who stirs but doesn’t wake.
“Sorry, Pop.”
“Nothing to be sorry about, Son.”
“Sleeping on the job isn’t my style.”
“Guessing you’re not sleeping much at night. Besides, we’re only a couple of days in. Call it paternity leave. Don’t go taking advantage.” His dimple winks at me from under day-old scruff.
“I own the joint.”
“Mostly. And I’m thankful for that. Means I get to be retired and do things like teach my grandson how to fish. You think it’s too soon?”
“It might be a bit early, but I’ll leave the fishing lessons to you.”
“You never were much good at sitting still. Or keeping quiet for that matter.”
“Yeah, yeah,” I reply, but have to smile. It’s the truth.
“How’s it going at home?”
“I want to say fine, but it’s too soon to tell. I’m trying to remember this should be about Colt. But more often than not, the selfish bastard I am forgets and is, well, the selfish bastard I am.”
Pop nods and rubs his whiskers sagely. He’s not usually introspective. He spits out the truth, usually plainly and painfully, and leaves it at that. He says nothing, but looks to me for permission while reaching for Colt.
Colt stirs and stretches and then settles into Pop’s chest. His meaty fists reach for Pop’s scruff and the brim of his well-worn hat.
He allows it all, all the while staring at Colt as if he were seeing an angel.
I consider moving to the desk to knock out some work, but can’t manage to take my eyes off my dad and my son.
Last week, this was an impossibility. Today it’s reality.
And the thought dawns on me that last week, Emerson was alive. Emberleigh’s impossibility versus reality involves death and loss, while mine is life and joy. That sobers me. It also reminds me that I owe Eli an answer to the question regarding my endgame.
“Pop, need some advice,” I begin.
Emberleigh
I hate running. Those people who say it’s a high and addictive are lying.
Em was a runner though. She did cross country in high school and kept up the questionable sport for the years since.
I wanted nothing to do with either. Naturally thin, I didn’t need it to maintain my weight or keep myself tan.
We could float in the pool for that. But those longer runs were where she worked out her demons.
She left Mom and Dad’s expectations of perfection out on those runs.
Her shoes took her far from the barrage of must-dos and should-haves we heard from the time we could walk until finishing school and then through college.
She left the world of expectations on the trail behind her with the miles she clocked.
Running was where she found peace. Running was where she could clear her head. Running was where Em could be Em without all the noise. And because I loved her and she was so serene during and after a run, I almost envied her.