Chapter 1 #3
My photographic memory is the only thing that seems to prove I’m actually related to my genius brothers.
I put the phone to sleep and slip it into my pocket without deleting the message.
Caleb gives me a look that says he clearly doesn’t like that move, but I just shrug.
Adrian is the brains of this operation, and I’d never outright defy him if I thought it would hurt us, but a wrong number text won’t be the thing that destroys our empire.
“Good plan,” Adrian says, business snapping back into place. “We have the Statton contract to wrap up, and Cassius you have that Michael loose end to contend with, but aside from that it should be a quiet Christmas.”
“Fuck,” Caleb mutters. “I forgot that Christmas is less than a month away.”
“Easy thing to do when we haven’t celebrated, ever, that I remember,” Atlas says.
“Eh, you got three good ones,” I tell him. Atlas always complains about his lack of good memories, especially ones that involve our mother, but I say he’s the luckiest of us all. Three when Mom died and only five when I slit Alaister’s throat. All he knows is his older brothers and Uncle Leven.
“I said that I remember. I don’t remember shit about Christmas one, two, and three,” Atlas says, his boots scuffing across the warehouse floor as he follows behind us, hands jammed in his coat pockets.
“Would you like to celebrate?” Adrian asks, turning toward the baby brother he can’t see.
“Did we stop after Mom or after Dad?” Caleb says before Atlas has a chance to answer.
“After Mom or I would’ve had five Christmases, dumbass,” Atlas fires back, rolling his eyes as he kicks a loose bolt across the concrete.
“If either of you think Dad would’ve given us Christmas on his own, you are both dumbasses,” Adrian answers.
“Back to the task at hand, would you like to celebrate this year?” Caleb asks.
“Wouldn’t that be weird after twenty years of acting like it’s just another day?” I ask. I know that in some ways Atlas is right in thinking he got the shit end of the stick. I do remember Mom, and holidays, and all the light she brought to our house, to our father.
“Fuck it,” Atlas says. “I want to celebrate. Maybe it will help us all be a little less…”
“Grumpy?” Adrian finishes for him.
“I was probably going to go with intense,” Atlas mutters, but his mouth twitches like he’s trying not to smile.
“How would we even go about having Christmas?” Caleb asks.
“Let’s sit back down if we’re going to plan out a whole-ass holiday,” I say and move back toward the now empty poker table. The chairs are neatly tucked in, for Adrian’s benefit, and I drag one out with my foot and drop into it with a low grunt.
We have all gotten in the habit of standing mostly still while talking because it makes Adrian more comfortable.
My brothers follow me, and in true Ashenheart fashion, Caleb pulls out his laptop from its bag and creates a new Excel spreadsheet.
I could give a shit about computers, but you won’t ever catch Adrian or Caleb without one.
We spend the next forty-five minutes planning a Christmas party.
What starts as a quiet brothers-only dinner evolves fast. Caleb’s fault, mostly. By the time we’re done, it’s a full-blown company-wide event with catering, custom invitations, and a twelve-foot tree no one’s figured out how to get through the damn doors yet.
Caleb designs invitations with Ashenheart wax seals like we’re hosting royalty.
Adrian’s on the phone with three different restaurants at once, barking about dietary restrictions and liquor licenses.
Atlas hijacks Caleb’s laptop and starts cold-calling every rental place in Vegas for lights, trees, and whatever else screams Christmas cheer.
I stay where I am, arms crossed, back pushing into the chair enough to tip up the front legs. No one gives me a job, but I don’t take it personally. Seeing as there’s no one to filet, that isn’t surprising.
Still, after a few minutes, I pull out my phone anyway.
Uncle Leven answers on the second ring. “Cass.”
“We’re doing Christmas this year,” I say. “Figured you should be there.”
A pause. “Since when do you give a shit about holidays?”
“I don’t,” I say. “But Atlas wants it. Caleb and Adrian too.”
Another beat of silence. Then, softer, “It’s been twenty years.”
Neither of us says her name. We don’t have to.
Uncle Leven says he’ll be there and hangs up without a goodbye.
I wouldn’t call us close in the sense that we talk a lot or spend quality time together.
But I love my uncle. My brothers, Uncle Leven, and his children are my family, and I’d do anything for them.
Once the spreadsheet has been emailed to each of us, we finally stand to leave.
I’m so exhausted I could probably sleep here in the flimsy folding chair.
None of us live too far, Atlas being the farthest. Caleb will drive him and Adrian home before heading to his own house.
As much as Caleb insists that he lives with Adrian since the accident, Adrian shut that down in the hospital the second he could speak for himself.
I push through the back door eager to get my ass on my Harley and back home.
A flash under the streetlight catches my eye, and there, under the flickering glow, stands a woman.
I would’ve noticed her had she been there before.
She’s like mist, a mere silhouette amidst the enigmatic play of light and shadow.
She’s standing so still, my own personal hallucination.
Her features are veiled in the night, making her out of place presence seem normal at this hour.
So much a part of the dark she should be invisible. She isn’t.
My feet start toward her of their own free will, but my brain quickly catches up realizing that I have to see what her face looks like.
It’s freezing, but my palms are sweating.
Who is this woman? I can’t even see her face, but the thought of approaching her knocks the wind out of me.
I’m never affected like this. Ever. No man or woman has ever made me gut-punched.
I step off the curb and slow my pace. If I run, like I want to, she’ll scream and that doesn’t work in my favor one bit. A car pulls up and I pick up my pace. She’s opening the passenger door and I want to yell and stop her, but what would I say? Hey you?
I don’t know her name. I never got a look at her face. But I know I’ll spend nights imagining both.
Two more breaths and she’s gone, disappearing into the night and leaving me no way to find her. She didn’t even really look at me. But something lived in the space between us. Recognition. Fate, if I believed in that kind of shit.
I can’t breathe right. I’d carve her name into my chest if I knew it. That’s how much it’s pressing on me. The aching need to know her.
By the time I’m home, showered, changed, and laid out on my bed, I’ve found a second wind. I should be passed the fuck out, but I can’t stop thinking about the woman under the streetlight. The burner pings on my nightstand, and I reach for it, hoping to God it’s not a job.
Unknown:
I never heard from you, so I wanted to make sure you saw that I’m not coming.
Well, shit. Whoever this is doesn’t want some other asshat sitting at a restaurant waiting for them. I hate waiting on people. Adrian is going to murder me for what I’m about to do. He could order me to murder myself… there’s a thought.
You have the wrong number.
Unknown:
Oh, no. You’re right. I was off by one digit. I apologize.
Off by one digit.
I apologize.
Who the fuck is this, a librarian?
Are you a librarian?
Unknown:
Close. An editor.
An editor. Interesting.
My brothers read all kinds of books, Adrian and Caleb about computers.
Atlas likes mysteries, probably because he can solve them before the end.
I read everything I can get my hands on.
I love to time travel, fight old wars, visit futures that will never arrive.
I love to escape, to disappear into someone who doesn’t extinguish the light in this world.
I don’t talk about it with anyone, reading. My brothers would laugh their asses off if they knew I liked books. To them, I’m the muscle, and I always have been. I doubt any of them think there’s much substance to me.
What’s your favorite book, editor?
I don’t know why I keep answering. The person knows that they need to contact someone else about their dinner.
I blame my second wind and boredom. I don’t have friends.
I don’t talk to anyone except my brothers and the guys who attend our monthly poker game.
This is the first interesting thing that’s happened to me in years and that’s pathetic.
Unknown:
I don’t know that I could choose. Do I know you?
Do you need to?
Unknown:
I’ve never found myself in the position of texting a stranger.
I’m Cassius.
Unknown:
That’s your name, but not who you are.
Do you not have a favorite book? Is that why you won’t answer?
Unknown:
These Is My Words by Nancy E. Turner. It’s not widely known but I read it at least once a year and have since I was young.
I close out of our messages and open . Her book is historical fiction. One of my favorite genres. I order the paperback before opening our message thread back up.
I just ordered it. What’s your name?
Unknown:
Melinda.
Melinda.
Now what, Lindy girl?
I can’t keep talking to her, can I? She could quit answering me. She hasn’t yet.
You wanna keep talking, Lindy girl?
Unknown:
About books?
About anything.