The Hard Truth About Sunshine

  "You can turn around now, kid," I mutter to Connor, and he does.

  "Feel better?" I ask Barb, because honestly... for someone as volatile as Barb, peeing on a grave is kind of lame in my opinion.

  "Not quite yet." Her voice has a tinge of what I'd call mischievous malice.

  Bending over, she grabs her backpack, turns toward Jillian to shine the flashlight into it, and then she pulls out a hammer. When she looks up, I can see an evil glint in her eye from the glow of the flashlight.

  "What are you going to do?" Connor asks fearfully. He takes a step back, because really... why is she carrying around a hammer? I think he truly believes Barb may try to kill us or something.

  But not me. I just silently watch as she turns to the headstone and swings the pronged end of the hammer right at her uncle's name. Chips of concrete go flying, as this isn't any type of fancy marble stone. She swings the hammer again and again, hitting at the name and the dates, until they are completely obliterated from the tombstone. She doesn't try to gouge deep, just enough to erase the engraved grooves. It takes her several well-aimed strikes, but when she's finished--chest heaving from the exertion and sweat running down her face--her tone is unnaturally light, "There... now I feel better."

  Barb then coughs up a huge glob of spit and sends it flying at the mangled headstone. "Now you're nothing," she whispers with a smile on her face as her loogie slides down the front of the marker.

  She watches it a moment before turning to us. Jillian has the flashlight aimed at her, but only at chest height so she's not blinded. Still, there's enough light that I can see a wide smile on Barb's face.

  It's filled with vindication, joy, and accomplishment. Many would think this to have been a very cathartic event for her, but I know enough about that deep type of despair to realize there's probably no way she can ever shake that shit off completely.

  Chapter 10

  The neighborhood is perfect. Square lots that back up to one another, little to no fencing, and pretty much set in a grid pattern that will make navigation easy. I left my Suburban parked five blocks away, and we'll stay a good two blocks away from it in our pursuits tonight. The sidewalks are lined with large trees that help to filter out the streetlights, and the only real problem with exposure is from porch lights. Luckily for us, we won't be getting that close to the houses.

  "Okay, there's an etiquette to egging," I tell the group as we squat down behind a bush at the edge of our first target's yard. I can't squat down as far as the others because of my prosthesis, but I can get low enough that I'm part of the tight circle we've formed. Jillian on my left, Barb to my right, and Connor opposite of me. He looks at me with earnest dedication, as if I'm teaching him how to perform open-heart surgery.

  "First," I continue. "No houses that are completely dark. There's no risk in that, which means there's no fun in that. Try to aim for windows or storm doors, particularly ones where the occupants might be standing near. It helps to scare the shit out of them."

  Connor nods in understanding, committing this rule to memory. Barb rolls her eyes and Jillian tries to look censuring, but I can see the amusement in the tilt of her lips.

  "Second... we all throw together on my count. Once your egg makes contact with the structure, we run to our next designated point."

  "Why do you get to count?" Jillian asks.

  "Be quiet," I tell her with a stern look. "You're not participating so you have no say."

  She giggles in response and Christ... I like that sound. My scar pinches, which means I'm smiling, and I give into it.

  Turning back to Connor, I make sure he understands the most important rule. "Finally, don't panic if you're pursued. Ditch the rest of the eggs if you can without being seen. If you're caught, deny everything."

  Connor swallows hard but nods again, his eyes starting to sparkle with excitement.

  "Are we ready?" I ask the group.

  "Yes," Connor and Barb say together, palming the egg they'd pulled from their respective cartons. We're all traveling light right now... nothing but a carton in one hand and a single egg in the other. Jillian's holding onto the Suburban's keys, but I noted she put on tennis shoes tonight in case we have to run. I guess she's running with us, even though she's not participating.

  "Okay, our first target is this house," I say as I nod over my left shoulder to the small brick house on the other side of the bush. I do a quick scan of the street, see no one around and no cars coming, and then complete my instructions. "There's a woman at the window washing dishes. Try to aim there."

  Connor, Barb, and I all stand from our squatting positions and cock our arms back. Jillian gives a long-suffering sigh, but stands as well.

  "And on three... two... one," I murmur to my squad. "Go!"

  The three of us throw the eggs, mine and Connor's hitting the kitchen window. Barb's hit just to the right of it on the brick, but the splatting egg was so startling the woman washing dishes shrieks in fear and ducks down low out of sight, I'm sure thinking she was being shot at or something.

  Snickering, I turn and take off running down the darkened sidewalk. I'd worn my running blade tonight, which is a special carbon-fiber reinforced polymer prosthetic that helps with spring and balance. I'd received this through the Veteran's Administration along with my C-leg prosthetic, but I hardly ever use it. Haven't been that into running since my injury.

  But tonight, as I find I'm able to move fairly quickly for a dude with only one leg, I feel a surge of adrenaline and perhaps personal challenge rise within me. Why am I not running again? I was good at it when I was in the Marine Corps, sometimes running five to eight miles, several times a week.

  Connor, Barb, and Jillian all run behind me, any of the three probably able to overtake me with nominal effort, but they don't. Instead, they follow me down one block, and south down another two where I scout out another house. By the time the woman washing dishes figures out what hit her house, she won't be able to find us.

  Now, she might call the cops and that does up the risk factor a bit, so I intend for us to unload our cartons quickly.

  "Okay," I say, dismayed at how out of breath I am from that run. I really need to start exercising again, and, of course, the smoking hasn't helped. But proudly, I haven't had a cigarette since Jillian laid down her challenge. I was jonesing for one when we were at the cemetery, but right now, I'm high on adrenaline and fun and have no desire for a smoke. "Next target is that house, then see the other one three down across the street? With the white truck in the driveway? We're going to hit that as we're running by."

  "Got it," Connor says. Barb doesn't respond, but she pulls two eggs out of her carton and Connor follows suit. Jillian just smirks and shakes her head, amused by how juvenile we are.

  I get two eggs out and tuck my carton under my left arm, holding one egg in that hand. I'm right-hand dominant, so I take the other egg easily between the three digits remaining on that hand and count my group down again. Cocking my arm, I murmur, "In three... two--"

  "Hey," a deep man's voice filled with anger comes from behind us. "You fucking kids hit my house with eggs?"

  I don't even bother looking over my shoulder. I just drop the eggs, grabbing Jillian's wrist with what's left of my right hand. She doesn't hesitate, actually sliding her hand down and clasping her palm to mine.

  We take off running down the side of the house we were getting ready to egg, right into their dark backyard. I think Barb and Connor took off down the block toward our next targeted house, and I can hear the man call out again, "Stop, you little bastards."

  A quick look over my shoulder as I run with Jillian in tow, and I can see we're not being pursued. Just as we hit the back of the house of the yard we're cutting through, a floodlight goes on and that makes me run faster. I go deep into the backyard, beyond the harsh glare of the floodlight, where a line of tall bushes mark the property boundary, and then pull Jillian behind a thick one that can hide us. The light doesn't touch out here, but it filters in
enough through the leaves that I can see Jillian beside me as she peers through the branches.

  I listen intently, but can't hear anything except for the sound of our heavy breathing. It's not that we ran far but because that dude scared the shit out of us.

  "Damn, that was close," I whisper as my heart rate starts to slow down.

  Jillian lets out a nervous laugh and then claps a hand over her mouth. I look down at her, her face speckled with light and the shadows of leaves, but I can see her eyes shining with excitement and humor. She releases my mangled hand but before I can even think that I might miss her touch, she turns into me and puts both hands on my chest.

  She peers up at me and her voice is girlish, almost giddy. Her expression bears the mark of someone loving the thrill of adventure. "Christopher... that was the scariest but most fun thing I've ever done."

  I take in her words, but they don't really resonate. And that's because my brain is going into meltdown over the fact that Jillian has pressed in closer to me and her palms are warm against my chest. I can see a flickering in her eyes, and I don't know what it means.

  I haven't been this close to a woman in a long goddamn time, and I'm just not sure what it fucking means.

  Before I can rationalize, reason with my sanity, or talk myself out of it, I bring my left hand up to Jillian's face, pressing my palm to her cheek. I don't want her to feel the lumpy skin or gnarled bones of my damaged hand against her skin.

  Her eyelids, which are always perpetually droopy, drop just a little lower and her lips curve into a smile. Still not sure what any of this means, I watch as her gaze slowly slides down and focuses on my mouth.

  Or is it my scar she's looking at?

  What in the fuck does she want and what in the fuck do I do?

  "Christopher," Jillian whispers, and then she takes all the uncertainty away. "Are you going to kiss me?"

  I'd like to tell you I have no hesitation, but a million reasons why I shouldn't hit me all at once. I'm deformed, half a man, a total asshole, and she's way too good for the likes of me. I'm bitter, angry, a lame-ass loser who can't seem to get over my bad circumstances, and I don't deserve to kiss one of the bravest people I've met who's facing some serious medical shit.

  "Maybe I should say," Jillian murmurs, "that I'd like you to kiss me."

  Those doubts still remain and I'm hesitant scared as fuck, but they're overwhelmingly overshadowed by a sudden and complete desire to give Jillian just what she asked for.

  So I bend down and touch my lips to hers very gently, with some uncertainty in myself, but mostly because I want this to be good for her.

  Jillian sighs contentedly into my mouth, and my head spins.

  It's the first time I've kissed a woman in... well, fuck... almost two and a half years if the total time I was deployed before I was injured is counted, along with the time since then. Maria was the last woman I'd kissed.

  Made love to.

  Loved.

  It's been so damn long, and I don't remember it being like this.

  I don't remember it being so stirring, and I'm not talking about my dick.

  I'm talking about something much deeper than that.

  "Once I catch you little assholes..." a man's voice filters through the night air again. I can hear multiple sets of feet pounding the concrete sidewalk to the right of us. I pull back from Jillian and turn my head toward the sound.

  "He's going after Barb and Connor," Jillian says fearfully as her hands grasp onto my t-shirt reflexively.

  "I know," I growl in frustration as I drop my hand from her face and pull away from her, heading into the next yard. Jillian follows behind me, and we cut through one more additional yard before we're at the other side of the block. Across the street, I can see Barb and Connor huddled behind some garbage cans at the curb, and a big, burly dude stomping toward them but not actually seeing where they are.

  When the man is five paces from the cans, Barb decides to flee and takes off running. Connor stands up, but he hesitated too long. The man grabs him by the back of his shirt collar. "I got you, you little fucker."

  Without thinking, I break into a trot toward them, Jillian right behind me. But to my surprise, Barb comes to a skidding halt and whips back around.

  She's closest to the man holding Connor and charges at him like a little mini-bull. He doesn't see her coming though, concentrating on holding Connor, who is squirming like a snake as he tries to break the man's grasp.

  "Leave him alone," Barb yells as she pushes the man right in the chest. He doesn't budge an inch, turning a face blazing with anger at Barb before he makes a grab for her shirt too.

  She's quick, though, and jumps backward.

  "Let him go," I call out to the man as I approach him aggressively... hand and a half bunched into fists and long, springy steps from my running blade.

  The man turns his head to look at me, and I watch as he braces for my attack. We're about the same height, but he's got probably forty pounds of muscle that I don't by the looks of it.

  Guess that doesn't matter since he's got a hold of Connor.

  Guess it also doesn't matter that I've already been convicted of assault, which is what landed me in group therapy and led me to this exact moment.

  "Wait a minute," Jillian cries out. She rushes past me in a blur, positioning herself between my enemy and me. She holds both hands out, one palm facing each of us. "Please... don't fight."

  "I don't want to fight," the man growls. "But you assholes egged my house a few blocks over and someone's going to go clean that shit up or I'm calling the cops."

  "We didn't do it," Barb tells the man with a glare, spouting the party line like I told her.

  Deny, deny, deny. Good job, Barb.

  "I just saw you with the eggs," the man yells in frustration. "You dropped them and ran."

  "Doesn't mean we threw them," Barb insists as she crosses her arms over her chest defensively, her eyes flicking over to Connor. The kid is now sort of hanging in the man's grasp like a limp ragdoll, his pitiful amount of energy expended.

  "You threw them," the man returns confidently. With a big, meaty hand that moves to Connor's neck, he turns and starts marching him down the sidewalk. "This one's going to clean it up. You three can come if you want."

  "Please let him go," Jillian implores as she runs to catch up to the man, laying a hand lightly on his free arm. Barb and I follow along. "He's sick."

  The man stops and looks at Jillian. "Sick?"

  "Cancer," Jillian says softly. "Alveolar rhabdomyosarcoma. He's terminal."

  The man immediately releases Connor and turns to look at him with a shrewd eye. "That true?"

  "Yes, sir," Connor says. "And I'm sorry. It was a bucket-list thing--"

  "I threw the eggs," I say loudly, talking right over Connor. "I'll clean your house up."

  The man looks at me again, and this time his gaze travels down, pinning on my prosthetic. When his gaze lifts back to mine, there's an even harder glint in them that goes beyond mere frustration at some hoodlums egging his house.

  "You in the military?" he asks.

  This catches me totally off guard as there's nothing about me to indicate I was a marine. I'm wearing an old West Virginia Mountaineers t-shirt and my hair is longish, hanging an inch or so past my ears and collar.

  "Marine Corps," I say.

  "Army," he answers gruffly. "Lost a lot of good friends over there."

  I don't respond because I don't want to bond with this turd who thinks we have some affinity because we were both in the military. He came back with all his parts as far as I can tell. He stares at me a moment longer before turning to Jillian.

  "What is this?" he asks as he waves his hand in a sweeping gesture to include our entire motley group. He can see at a glance we don't belong together, but he's keen enough to know there's some bond there.

  "We're all in group therapy together," Jillian explains, and I think she lays it on a little thick to be honest. "I'm going progress
ively blind, Connor's dying, Barb keeps trying to die, and well... Christopher lost part of his leg and hand. We're taking a cross-country trip so Connor can see the Pacific Ocean before he... well, you know..."

  The man's eyes round in sympathy and fuck if I don't even see a sheen of tears forming. Most people would have called bullshit on our story, even though it's true, but he's apparently bought it hook, line, and sinker.

  "How old are you kids?" the guy asks.

  Jillian provides the information, because she apparently pays attention to everything in group. "I'm twenty-one, Christopher is twenty-six, Barb is twenty-four, and Connor is eighteen."

  I'm surprised by her little white lie about Connor, but it was smart to do so he wouldn't ask questions why a minor was with us.

  "I'm Keith," the guy says, then gives a chuckle. "You scared the shit out of Cammie, my wife. You all come back to my house, you can rinse the eggs off, and we'll have a beer."

  "Really?" Connor asks in complete stunned amazement that this is even going down like this. I'm half suspecting he wanted to be arrested or something, which would be a much cooler accomplishment for his bucket list.

  "Yeah," Keith says in resignation. "You can even have a beer too, seeing as you're dying and all."

  "Cool," Connor says, and then he starts to follow Keith as he leads the way back to his house.

  This trip is definitely nothing like I thought it would be.

  Chapter 11

  As we walk back to the house, Keith and Connor keep up a running dialogue. While I know he was pissed as hell we egged his house, I can see he's highly intrigued by our group. And I'll also have to just go with my hunch he's a guy with a good heart, because most people would certainly not invite a bunch of criminal twerps into their home for a beer.

  Barb follows right behind Keith and Connor. Jillian and I take up the rear, walking awkwardly side by side.

  We went from a heart-pounding but brief kiss to cleaning eggs off a brick house. I'm not sure where we stand. Was Jillian just caught up in the exhilaration of the moment, perhaps the thrill of being chased and caught causing her to be daring and reckless? Or did she really want me to kiss her?