Laurel’s laughing fit got the best of her and she gave up trying to paint my face so she could catch her breath. “Sorry. I got carried away.”
I smiled. “No need to apologize. I know how that goes. In fact, I should be the one apologizing.”
“For what?”
I tilted my head. “For the other day. For kissing you.”
She pressed her lips into a hard line and nodded. “Right. Well, now that that’s out of the way… How’s the treatment going?”
I chuckled at her desperate need to change the subject. “If I’m being honest, I don’t know. Some days I think it’s working like gangbusters. And some days I feel like… I guess I’m afraid I’m gonna start pushing everyone away again.”
She smiled at my admission. “Have you ever considered that they might fear they’re pushing you away, too?” She looked away quickly, before I could answer her question. “Maybe we should try the shooting range again.”
I handed her a clean rag so she could wipe the excess paint off her hands and face. “Are you sure you’re ready for that?”
She shrugged. “I can keep pushing the tough stuff further into the future, or I can just face it now and move on.”
I shook my head. “PTSD is not something you can cross off your to-do list,” I said, taking the paint-stained rag from her. “You need to be prepared that you might never be able to pick up a gun, and that’s totally okay. You shouldn’t push yourself if you’re not ready.”
“I’m ready.”
“How do you know that?”
She flashed me a gorgeous grin. “Because I’ll be there with you.”
Chapter 19
Jack
This was the last place I wanted to be on a Friday night, especially since it happened to be Laurel’s thirtieth birthday. Two hours into the police standoff at Brandon Huxley’s double-wide trailer in the Bonita Springs Trailer Park community, officers used stun grenade launchers to fire four flash bang grenades into his home. But Brandon must have taken cover, because he continued firing his weapon at police just seconds later.
E.T., the bomb disposal robot driven remotely by Officer Hodges — a rookie member of the SWAT team — was rolling toward the front door of the mobile home now, attempting to deliver a telephone to Brandon so he could communicate with crisis negotiators. We watched from a few hundred feet away, behind the press cordon. Nate’s brother Matt — my former bodyguard — and Sean flanked me, all three of us sporting bulletproof vests taken from Sean’s considerable arsenal.
So far, having my hoodie pulled over my head had allowed me to remain unrecognized. But as more news vans arrived, I knew I wouldn’t remain anonymous much longer. Still, I didn’t care how long this standoff dragged on. I wasn’t going anywhere until this was over and Brandon Huxley was either dead or in custody.
Bullets pinged off the metal robot as it maneuvered around the porch and began rolling up the steps. E.T., as the robot was nicknamed, had been manufactured to withstand the force of detonated explosives, and this idiot thought he could disable the robot with a few bullets. It was too bad the Boise PD didn’t have the funds for one of those new virtual-reality-controlled bomb disposal robots. I’d give both my arms to be able to go Terminator on Brandon Huxley.
As this thought occurred to me, a pang of guilt squeezed my insides. Whatever Brandon was, he was still Laurel’s brother. And part of me — the part of me that had clung to my humanity by a thread for the last two years — knew that Laurel, and her big heart, might mourn the loss of this sibling she never knew. The last thing I wanted to do was give her another reason to grieve.
I didn’t know if Brandon and Laurel were full-siblings or half-siblings. But I knew Laurel deserved to find that out for herself. Though, the thought of enduring a drawn out legal trial, and having to possibly go before a jury and describe the events of that night, was not something I wanted to put Laurel or myself through.
I wouldn’t shed a tear if this standoff ended with Brandon Huxley fatally wounded. Neither would I celebrate the death of a man who was obviously mentally ill. Whatever the outcome was, I had faith that Laurel and I would face the aftermath together. Stronger.
The crisis negotiator spoke to Brandon on the bullhorn. “Brandon, we need you unlock the front door to let the robot in. The robot is carrying a cell phone so we can communicate privately without the bullhorn. If you don’t open the door, we will have to use a mild explosive to blow off the lock. In that case, you’ll need to get at least fifteen feet away from the door so you’re out of the blast radius. Open the door, Brandon.”
Sean had his beefy arms crossed over his chest, shaking his head as he watched the scene. “Did you hear that last gunshot? It didn’t sound like it was coming out of the house toward the robot. Am I the only one that heard that?”
“You think there’s someone in there with him?” Matt asked, a bit too eagerly for my taste.
Sean continued shaking his head. “I can’t say for sure, but I think he took himself out. I haven’t heard any more noise coming from inside the house since that last gunshot.”
My stomach balled up like a fist as I suddenly found myself wishing that Sean was wrong. I didn’t want Brandon to die. I wanted him to live the rest of his miserable life tortured by the memories of the despicable things he’d done.
Most of all, I wanted Laurel to have the option to forgive him. That was a decision she should be able to make.
Before I could stop myself, I began running toward the armored SWAT vehicle where officers had taken cover.
“Get back there!” an officer in full tactical gear roared at me.
I stopped about thirty feet away from the SWAT vehicle and held up my hands. “Don’t shoot him. He’s my wife’s brother. Please don’t shoot him. Please.”
The back of the vehicle was open, and Officer Hodges could be seen looking at a bank of at least six screens with camera feeds from the robot. A sudden small explosion made my ears ring. A moment later, the color video feed cleared up as the dust settled.
“You need to go back there to the press area,” the officer repeated his command.
But my eyes were glued to the screen Hodges was watching. It didn’t take long for the lifeless body of Brandon Huxley to appear. He was sitting on the floor, his body slumped against a TV tray and wood-paneled wall.
“Suspect appears to be down,” Hodges relayed the grim news as he turned his attention to the infrared footage displayed in the top left screen. “Standby for confirmation.”
It took almost thirty minutes for Brandon to be confirmed deceased. When they rolled out the body bag on the gurney a couple of hours later, Detective Ava Robinson asked me if I wanted to see his face.
I started to nod my head, and Ava reached for the zipper on the body bag.
“No, I don’t want to see him,” I blurted out before she could unzip.
Her caramel skin gleamed in the shitty sodium light coming from the trailer home behind me. “You sure?”
I nodded. “I’m done with death. I have to get home to my wife.”
“I understand. If you don’t mind, I’ll need you to come in to the station any time between nine a.m. and six p.m. tomorrow to give a written witness statement before you leave for Portland.”
“Of course,” I replied, feeling so exhausted, it was a wonder I was still standing upright.
A tired smile flickered on her face. “Best of luck to you, Mr. Stratton.”
“Thanks. I’m definitely going to need it.”
I left Sean next to his cherry-red Porsche with a generous payment for his services, and a promise to return soon to grab a beer. “If I can ever do anything for you… or Rosie, you name it. She deserves justice, too.”
Sean flashed me a shrewd grin. “There’s a sound my brain made when I was at war with everyone and everything I thought was standing in the way of finding Rosie’s killer. It was a loud, screeching wail. Well, sometimes it was loud, sometimes it was faint, but it was always there.??
? He paused for a moment as he seemed to get a bit emotional. “It took me a long time to realize that it was Rosie, screaming at me, trying to tell me to let go of her.” He stood tall and nodded. “I made peace with not knowing a long time ago. You take care of yourself, Jack. I hope you never need my services again.”
I nodded. “Ditto.”
Chapter 20
Laurel
I didn’t sleep in on my birthday. Instead, I woke with my alarm at six a.m. I made a pot of coffee and sat down in my mother’s office — my new office — and began working on the Barley Legal Speakeasy app. But within a few minutes, I found myself wanting to work on the PTSD app I’d discussed with Isaac.
What the hell. It was my birthday. Today, I would indulge myself a few hours to work on something I cared about.
First, I had to download the app Isaac recommended. Once the app was on my phone, I began looking through it, and I couldn’t stop myself from getting emotional as I realized how great it was. Whoever created it obviously tried to make the best app they possibly could to help veterans heal. But they had forgotten the rest of us. Those of us who hadn’t gone to war, but were still fighting a losing battle with our memories.
After thoroughly inspecting the app, and doing several of the exercises, I felt calmer and more determined than I had in ages. I made a list of topics I would need to study before I could even begin working on a PTSD app for civilians. I wanted to know everything there was to know about the subject, and everything the experts still didn’t know. If my app helped just one person deal with non-combat-related trauma, it will have been worth it. Whether it was a rape victim or a mother who’d found her son’s dead body, we all deserved every possible resource available to heal our shattered spirits.
After purchasing a ton of books on Amazon and subscribing to a dozen different medical journals, I felt satisfied that I was on the right path. For the first time in years, my life had purpose.
I worked on the Speakeasy app for a couple of hours, focusing my efforts on the mad lib game. Barley Legal Adult Mad Libs would be played with a group of friends who would each fill in the blanks of a mad lib describing a barely legal scenario. When finished, the app would scramble the mad libs so that each player had to read another player’s mad lib aloud. The first person to laugh had to take a sip of their drink. If the person reading the mad lib laughed, they had to finish their drink.
This app was definitely going to need a very prominent legal disclaimer: Barley Legal is not responsible for anything illegal, dangerous, unsafe, or downright embarrassing that may occur while playing Barley Legal Speakeasy. Drink and play responsibly.
Every time I ran the code through the compiler and got an error, a song would play in my head. It was a cynical little tune that Jack and I used to sing when we studied together during our last year at OSU. 186 bugs in the code. 186 bugs. Take one down, patch it around... 223 bugs in the code.
God, I missed him.
When I was done working, I took a very long, hot shower and took my time getting dressed and doing my hair and makeup. Drea, Barry, and Dylan would be here around six p.m. to take me out to dinner for my birthday. Then, we were coming back to my house to test out some classic drinking games to see which ones I could modernize for the Speakeasy app.
“That dinner was fabulous,” I said as Barry drove us back to my house from the restaurant. “I wish I’d gone to Renata sooner.”
“I can’t believe you live in Portland and you’ve never been there until now,” Dylan remarked.
I rounded on him in the back seat. “Uh, until a couple of months ago, I hadn’t lived in Portland for eight years. The waitress said the restaurant has only been open for four years. Cut me some slack, you fucking hipster.”
Drea cackled. “Oh, my word! And she’s only had one glass of wine,” she said through her laughter. “May God have mercy on us tonight, Dylan.”
“Good God, we are in for a show tonight,” he replied with a cheeky grin. “But I’ll get her back when we play Barley Legal adult charades.”
I shook my head as he made the universal pantomime for sucking cock. “You’re going down, brother. Down to Barley Legal Town.”
“We’ll see who’s going down after three or four drinks, Miss Hot Mess.”
“Are you three usually this delightful to each other?” Barry asked in his deep British accent; the accent that prompted Dylan to whisper in my ear at dinner, “Is this Denzel Washington’s British younger brother? Like, holy shit. Do you know any ugly people?”
When we got to the house, Barry and I prepared the drinks and snacks and laid them out on the dining table in the breakfast nook, while Dylan and Drea sat on the sofa, holding my birthday gifts and whispering to each other in between fits of laughter.
“Your wife is going to steal my new best friend,” I told Barry as I grabbed a couple of wine glasses and a cold bottle of prosecco for Drea and me.
“Speaking of friends, did Drea mention to you that I had lunch with Jack recently?” he asked very casually, as if Barry and I talked about Jack all the time.
I set the frosty bottle down on the table. “No, she didn’t mention it,” I said, trying not to sound too bitter. “So… how did it go? I mean, is he okay? I… I mean, it’s none of my business. Just forget I asked.”
The corners of his mouth turned up in a soft, almost pitiful smile. “You have every right to ask about how your husband is doing. He is still your husband, isn’t he?”
I flashed him a stiff grin. “Barry, I’m turning thirty today and Jack is nowhere to be found. I haven’t received a measly text or email from him in weeks. You tell me, is he still my husband?” I replied.
Judging by the shock on Barry’s face, I had successfully conveyed the message that this little conversation about Jack was over. Tonight, Jack was a footnote. It was my party and I would pretend Jack didn’t exist if I wanted to.
“Should I open my gifts now?” I called out to Drea and Dylan.
“I think mine would be best opened after a few more drinks,” Drea said, which made her and Dylan almost keel over with laughter.
I shook my head. “All right. Three drinks, then I get to open my presents.”
After two rounds of adult mad libs, Drea, Dylan, and I were three glasses of prosecco into a good buzz, while Barry — the designated driver — had consumed two cans of Coke Zero. But Drea and Dylan, not being the seasoned alcoholic that I was becoming, were far more drunk than I was.
Drea wrapped an arm around Dylan’s shoulders and pulled him close so she could give him a loud kiss on the cheek. “I love this man, Laurel. I’m going to steal him from you. I’m going to stuff him in the trunk of our car and take him home with me.”
Dylan turned his face at the same time Drea did, so that their foreheads were resting against one another as they looked into each other’s eyes. “Dylan and Drea,” he said, sounding very serious. “Dylan and Drea. Double-D.”
Drea cackled madly. “If Dylan and Drea are Double-D, and Barry is the designated driver, then the three of us are Quadruple-D!”
“Quadruple-D?” Barry remarked. “Hold my Coke. I’m going in!”
Then, he smashed his face into Drea’s bosom and shook his head as if he were motor-boating her. It took a few minutes for us to stop laughing long enough to catch our breath.
Finally, I took another sip of prosecco, but I was still wearing an unrelenting grin. “Double-D is the perfect nickname for a couple of big boobs such as yourselves.”
Dylan shook his head. “This reminds me of something my mom used to say when someone did something really stupid. ‘Somewhere, there’s a shed missing a tool.’”
Drea gasped. “Speaking of tools. You have to open your presents.”
I laughed. “Did you get me a toolbox or something?”
She and Dylan exchanged a look. “Well, it is a tool and it can be kept in a box.”
I rolled my eyes as I realized she’d probably gotten me a vibrator. Still, I was very excited
to open the silver gift box, which seemed much too heavy to contain a regular vibrator. And when I lifted the lid, I understood why.
It wasn’t a vibrator. It was a six-pack of twelve-inch dildos, intricately tied together with white satin ribbon. I should have laughed, but all I could think of was the ribbon I’d worn in my hair on my wedding day.
“Oh, darling, I’m so sorry,” Drea said, getting up from her chair and coming over to stand behind my chair as she wrapped her arms around me. “I did get you a real gift, too. A gift card that’s going to be emailed to you later tonight. I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to hurt your feelings.”
I laughed through my tears. “It’s not that. You didn’t hurt my feelings. I swear I love the gift. It’s just… It’s the ribbon… It reminds me of my wedding day.”
I couldn’t see Drea’s face because she was standing behind me, but Barry flashed her a split-second look of significance, followed by a tiny, almost imperceptible smile. Did they plan the gift that way, to remind me of my wedding? But… I didn’t meet Drea and Barry until after I got married.
I didn’t know what was going on. Either I was imagining the significance of the birthday gifts I’d received from Drea and Houston and Rory, or I was caught in some kind of conspiracy to make sure I didn’t get over Jack.
“I’m so fucked,” I said, feeling utterly defeated by my longing for him.
“You’re not fucked,” Dylan insisted emphatically.
“It’s true. I’m floundering,” I replied, suddenly feeling as if I had to get everything out in the open before the alcohol wore off and I tried to run from my emotions again. “I’m floundering and I don’t know how to make it stop. I don’t know how to catch my fucking breath. I want to convince myself it’s over. I want to believe it’s time to move on. But my heart keeps telling me it can’t be over. It can’t possibly be over when I still feel so much. When I still love him so much. I... I feel like an addict who’s been forced to quit cold turkey. And the only way to get my fix is to remember.” I took the paper towel Drea handed me and used it to wipe my tears. “My memories of Jack and Junior and my mom are like hits from a crack pipe. They keep me going for just a while longer. Problem is… I feel like I’m becoming lost in my memories and I don’t know how to make it stop. I need help.”