Beautiful Elixir (Beautiful Oblivion #3) (6 page)

Kennedy is running scared. Her life, her body has been mapped out like the constellations in the cyber galaxy for all to see. Her head is a mess. At least that’s the version my ego, my heart demands to believe.

“We can take it slow.” The words escape me before I can assess them. I don’t want to take it slow. I just want the magic we had, the magic that we could have.

Her glowing eyes widen in fear before she takes off into the dark.

The sweet scent of lilacs lingers in her wake, and I writhe into it, inhaling her hard as if saving her for later.

Maybe I’ve misread this entire situation from the beginning. Maybe Kennedy was just never that into me.

I head back into the house and ransack the kitchen for that whiskey. I find a slender bottle of Grey Goose instead and take it with me out back. It’s time to sit under the stars and figure out what the fuck just happened.

I
n the morning
, I shoot Kennedy a text asking if we could meet for coffee to discuss the case. I would have invited her to the cabin, but, as it turns out, I’m deficient in both the makings for a decent cup of Joe and whiskey. I should probably rectify that, but, in truth, I prefer the Starbucks down the hill for one and the bar on the backside of Loveless for the other. I guess that makes me a social drinker.

But Kennedy doesn’t opt for the Starbucks down the hill, in fact, she doesn’t bother responding, or going anywhere with me for that matter, so I choose something far more close to home, all by my lonesome. The Corner Store is only a little more advanced than I remember. The sign out front is homemade, something just a little stiffer than cardboard with its red paint faded to brown in the sun. The uneven lettering lets you know right off the bat there’s a good chance they’re serving up a little listeria with their à la carte lunch menu

I head in, and the scent of apple pie and coffee lights up the air.

“McCarthy.” I hear my name shouted from the back of the café. It’s Gavin seated with Ace. I give a brief nod before putting in my order to a tall girl with unruly black hair piled on top of her head, her eyes glowing like high beams, sunk beneath circles upon circles of black eyeliner. It gives her a ghoulish effect, but she’s pretty enough even with the Halloween haunt she’s got decorating her features. Her crooked nametag reads
NEVA
.

“I’ll bring it to you,” she says, nodding toward Gavin’s table, so I head on over.

My head feels thick, still fogged up from the rejection Kennedy served up for dessert last night.

“What’s up?” I take a seat at the table. Gavin is wearing that signature ear-to-ear grin of his. It hasn’t left his face since the day he got Demi back in his life. It’s hard not to forget the heartache they went through,
she
went through with that psychotic stepmother of hers. But now it’s all been resolved, Gavin and Demi get their happily ever after, and they should. They deserve it. I glance to Ace. “So you’re Reese’s husband. I had dinner with Kennedy last night.”

Ace shakes his head. It’s clear what he’s disapproving of, and it’s not the fact Kennedy pan seared a fish for me. “Reese says Ken hired you. Is there anything we can do to help? You need me to kick Stearns’ ass?”

“No. I need his ass very much intact. In fact, speaking with him is at the top of my to-do list today.”

“He’s laying low.” Ace blows out a breath. “Rumor has it he’s thinking about dropping his own classes. It’s a real shit storm.”

“No kidding.” Gavin winces. “Why the hell would he put that shit out there? I get it. He’s pissed at Kennedy. Hell, even I’ve heard of the crap she’s heaped on him since their breakup. Stupid stuff that would piss anybody off, but this is beyond good taste. His naked ass is out there, too.”

“Kennedy says she didn’t do any of that crap to Keith,” I say just as Neva comes over with my coffee. I reach into my pocket and hand her a couple of bills for the effort.

“What’s this for?” She wrinkles the money in her hand.

“It’s for you. It’s a thank you.”

Her head cocks as if she’s still curious as to what she might have done to deserve it.

“It’s a tip, Neva.” I offer a simple smile, hoping I didn’t just piss her off with my measly monetary exchange.

“A real fucking tip?” She holds it out like it’s suddenly morphed into gold. “You see this?” She shakes her fist before Ace and Gavin. “You turkeys can learn a thing or two from this guy. You just made my day,” she says to me before sauntering back to her station.

“It doesn’t take much to make the girls around here happy,” I muse before setting the coffee to my lips and burning myself.

“That’s my sister.” Ace says it flat. “And I wish she’d strive for something more than making coffee for tips. I wish it took more than a couple of bucks to make her day.”

“At least its decent work,” Gavin says it sober because his wife may have dabbled a little in prostitution before they met, and I mean a little. I believe Gavin was her only real customer. At least I’m hoping that to be true. Speaking of the truth.

“So tell me something about my new client. Is Kennedy an upstanding citizen? Is she known to be straight with people? Is she known to spin a tale or two?”

Gavin and Ace exchange a brief a glance before reverting their pissed expressions back on me.

“I get it.” I lift a finger. “She’s your friend. And that’s exactly why I’m relying on you to tell me that she’s the great person I believe she is.” Her words from last night haunt me.
You can lie to me a little if you like. I might have lied to you a little.

I did lie to her, and it wasn’t just a little.

“She’s good.” Ace is the first to vouch for Kennedy. “She’s solid. Kennedy doesn’t dick around. I’d trust her with my life. Reese says she’s the best sister—best friend—a girl can have.”

Gavin pipes up. “Kennedy is good people.” He glances past my shoulder with a faraway look in his eye.

“But?” I could feel it coming a mile away.

Gavin looks to Ace, then over his shoulder. “I’d better get going. Now that I’m down a man, I’ve got twice the work.” He gives Ace a friendly sock to the shoulder. “Demi is actually doing a few deliveries with me this afternoon.” He drains the rest of his coffee before getting up. “For what it’s worth, I’ll be hitting the Westfield’s.” He gives a brief wave before taking off.

“Let’s hear it.” Ace leans in. “What the hell has you so rattled about Kennedy?”

“I’m not rattled. This is big. Each minute there’s another sick fuck looking at her body. It makes me insane. I couldn’t sleep last night. I need to shut this down, and the worst part is I’m not sure I can.”

“Talk to Keith. Hell, kill Keith. If someone did that to Reese—” Ace grimaces. Warren wasn’t all that better to Reese, and Ace almost did kill him. “Look, I know you’re all about following the rules, but, sometimes, a little backstreet justice goes a long way.” His phone rings, and he gives it a quick inspection. “I’d better go. Let me know if you need anything. If you come down to Yeats, give me a call. I’ll help you track down the sleaze.” He takes his call and walks out the door.

All about the rules. I groan at the thought. I’m not sure I’ve ever been all about the rules.

I pull out my own phone and do a quick scan of the media coverage concerning my brother’s trial. I’ve only done this sparingly, but I’m desperate for a distraction. The coverage itself has been weak to non-existent, but it’s my only lifeline to Sol, and for now it’ll have to do. A few brief articles pop up.
Solomon McCarthy on Trial for the Murder of Cuba Sterling.
Cuba was a gangbanger that dealt meth. The ex-boyfriend of Sol’s girl. Solomon sold meth. Solomon is sleeping with the girl they were warring over, so the murderous math is simple. I don’t see anything new regarding the case, so I set my phone on the table.

I know for a fact my brother wasn’t at the scene of the crime. I know for a fact he wasn’t behind the wheel that day. His fucked up friends had no problem lying about it, placing him at ground zero. Of course, they didn’t offer up who was actually behind the wheel when Cuba’s body went flying fifty feet, his head exploding like a melon on impact, so that leaves a reasonable level of doubt in any jury’s mind.

I know where Solomon McCarthy, my kid brother who I’d die for, was the night Cuba Sterling met his maker.

Solomon was with me.

T
he truth
as defined by Webster is the state of real facts being authentic. I really did look that up. It really did sound like gibberish. The reason I looked it up in the first place is because it also happens to feel like gibberish to me—the truth always has. My brain is atrophied from years of listening to my mother, from years of believing that “little white lies” were no more hurtful than breathing—everybody did them, that sometimes they were necessary. I lied to mother on a regular basis. She trained me in the sport, it’s only fair she bears the brunt of the blame and, of course, the benefits. For instance, this morning, when my mother asked if her dress looked decent, I said yes. It looked great! She was stunning and she should wear that dress every single day! In truth, it looks like every other dress she ever drapes over her body, too short, too tight and too slutty. A repeat of a repeat. I know my mother would rather die than wear something for a second time. Most people have a laundry pile. She has a Goodwill pile so as not to run the risk of said repeat. It’s just one of her many, many beneficial tax write offs.

My mind drifts a moment as I steady my gaze over the lake. I’m seated at the landing dock in front of my mother’s overgrown luxury cabin. She made sure when she married again that she married well. Chuck came with two benefits, an entire cache of good green bills and a sizable retirement on the horizon. My mother loves to travel, and she is more than ready for the next phase of her extravagant life to begin.

My feet swing over the icy lake, numb and burning from the frozen sting. The water is a good three feet below me, but I like the pretense of dangling my bare feet over the glistening water. A part of me wants to believe it’s still summer. I’m still with Keith— and what my face might look like as I’m about to climax is still a very private matter. In the event one is wondering, I look like an ass. My mouth does this crazy open and close maneuver as if someone is suspending a hotdog just out of reach, and I’m crazed to have it. Speaking of hotdogs, Keith should have shot himself at a better angle. I had no idea he was sporting said hot dog between his legs, literally—and that is far from a compliment.

I did wonder if he was lacking. I mean he was my first. But after perusing some of the other videos nestled in the same scary categories as mine, I was quickly apprised of the fact that, yes, Keith Stearns does in fact have a microscopic penis.

An audible grunt escapes me because in a very small way, Keith was lying to me about the status of his pecker, trying to pass it off as a perfectly good pickle when all he really had was a baby dill.

Keith. Just the thought of him makes me physically want to spit. I’m the last person to engage in this unladylike activity. And, not to be crude in other ways, but I swallowed for that bastard.

I close my eyes a moment trying to banish him from my thoughts, but Keith presses in, messy, like a worm between the pages of my mind. He’s cemented himself, all of the agony he’s caused, right over my existence and left an etching, giant FU right over my heart. He’s a cheat, and I hate cheats more than I hate just about anything. My father was a cheat. He brutally ripped apart our happy family because he couldn’t keep it in his pants. He drove my mother to do things. He made me stoop lower than hell to do things for my mother. I hate him for it. And mostly I hate that my last statement still feels like a lie.

But Keith… the first time Keith cheated on me, I saw it with my own eyes. It was a lake party much like the other night. I was hanging out with Reese and Warren because I couldn’t find Keith. I started asking around—before I knew it I found them behind the McCarthy’s boathouse. He had his hands up Sienna Jane’s top. I could make out his fingers under her shirt, groping her breasts and her loving every groan-worthy minute. I ran back to the house and cried. I cried like a baby, like a sissy, like a girl with no backbone—but mostly I cried like a person with a broken heart. That’s when my mother stepped into the room. She told me that boys were foolish at my age, not to take it so seriously
.
I can’t believe anybody would do that to you, Kennedy. You are a strong woman. You will figure out the best way to get through this. I bet he’ll live to regret this. I bet he’ll wish he never met that other girl.

I thought that was odd advice from the woman who eviscerated her own husband in court just years before. I thought it was odd because she used me to eviscerate him as well. As soon as she left the room all of the hurt, the sadness, melted away. That was my mother after all, and if I was anything, I was a biological copy of her. She was my vindictive blueprint from which all of my vileness would come to bloom. Her words were saying one thing, but, her eyes, that wild vapid look was the same one she wore when she learned my father was screwing his eighteen-year-old intern. I was able to read between the lines that night. My mother was saying words, but they were simply lies. It was our private language, our own secret code
.
What she was really saying was,
nobody does that to you, Kennedy. You are a strong woman. You will figure out the best way to get through this.
I bet he’ll live to regret this. Make that bastard wish he never met you.

I’m betting right about now Keith Stearns is regretting his wandering ways.

I bet he wishes he never even met me.

“Ken!”

I glance over to find Brylee Peters and Neva headed this way, so I jump up and slip back into my flip-flops, my feet slipping and squeaking.

“What’s up?” I pat the back of my jeans as I make my way to the house.

“We’re planning an anniversary party for Reese and Ace in a couple weeks.” She shakes her blonde curls into the autumn air. An arctic breeze blows by, ironically warming my numb feet. It’s as if I’m walking on stumps. “You in?”

“Party planning? Sure it’ll help take my mind off things.” Like that will ever happen.

“I’m sorry about all that crap.” Neva butts her shoulder into mine. “It’s a real shit storm coming down on you right now.”

“Did you guys—you know, watch?” I can’t find it in me to look at them when I ask. This is voyeuristic porn at its most sadistic—particularly because it contains moving images of my most intimate parts.

Another gush of wind roars past us as if cushioning me from the blow.

“Sorry.” Brylee is the first to fess up with her wary shrug. “It’s everywhere. Even my old dorm sisters are hooked like it’s the best new Netflix series. It’s pretty bad.”

“It’s
really
bad if you ask me.” Neva swallows a dark laugh. “That was fucked-up. How is Keith Stearns even alive after that? I’d knife A.J. in his sleep if he ever showed the shit we did together.”

“You didn’t!” Brylee squeals like it’s the juiciest bit of gossip.

“Just once. And don’t either of you think of telling Ace. My brother won’t wait until that crap hits the net. He’ll kill on sight as soon as he hears the news.” Her eyes dart to the Corner Store. “Anyway, my break is over. I’d better head back. You want to come with me?” Neva raises an overdrawn brow. “That cute attorney was in there when I left. Saw him talking to Ace and Gavin.”

“No thanks.” My stomach sours when Neva calls him cute. Neva and I don’t exactly see eye to eye when it comes to our taste in men. Just the thought of her thinking Caleb is cute only confirms my theory—he’s swoon worthy across all stereotypical male standards. There’s not a woman on this planet who’s willing to turn Caleb McCarthy down. Except me.
Lie
. But it’s what needs to be done.
Unfortunate truth.

Brylee clucks her tongue. “He’s your attorney, Ken. You should be thrilled to see him. Hell, you should be hugging his leg as he tries to make his escape. He’s the one who’s going to help you nail Keith to a wall—no pun intended.”

“I don’t really need him to do that.” A dull smile rides on my lips, but I snuff it out like a flame. “Are you headed back to Yeats?” I look over at Brylee, hopeful she’ll say yes.

“Leaving in the morning. I’ve only got two classes this semester, Tuesdays and Thursdays, so I’m doing the commuting thing. Do you need me to do anything for you?”

“Yes.” I pause at the sight of the Corner Store. If Caleb is in there, I want to steer clear. “I want you to tell my sisters I’ll be coming down for a special sit down this Thursday.” Thursday’s are the new Friday since the university doesn’t hold classes on that day anymore. “And I want my sisters good and relaxed, perhaps even good and drunk for what I have planned for them.”

“Sure thing. You throwing a little party of your own?” Brylee looks genuinely worried for me as if even she understands what poor taste that might be given the salacious circumstances.

“Sort of. I’m going to try and get to the bottom of all this bullshit that’s been going down in my life.”

“Cool.” Bry shrugs as if I just told her I was hosting the next big campus kegger. “I’ll stick around and give you a ride back up the mountain. My first class is at ten so be ready by seven. You’re my ticket to the carpool lane!” She sings as she jogs backward. No matter what the circumstance, Brylee is Little Miss Sunshine. Neva, on the other hand, is darkness dipped in misery. It’s sort of nice the way they balance each other out.

“Seven,” I whisper under my breath. “That’s going to hurt.” I’ve been living it up without an alarm all summer and now even into the fall. Not that I’m getting all that much sleep. Sleep once came easy to me, but that was before my parents started stabbing each other with the shears of justice, or injustice as it were. And now the things I’m dabbling in have me wide awake, seeing darkness even where there is light.

“You know what’s really going to hurt?” Neva has her gaze set on the entry to the Corner Store. Through the oversized picture window we watch as Zoey slings her arms around Caleb’s shoulder, giggling into his neck. “Losing him to her.”

“I’m losing, Caleb.” I swallow hard, watching as Zoey runs her finger down his ear, her teeth grazing seductively over him. “I don’t really want him.”

I speed back to the house, and all the way there my heart shouts
liarliarliar.

F
all in Loveless
is a sight to behold. October is the most enchanting month to be on the lake. If I had my way, time would cease in this dark, full-mooned, Halloween-themed, leaf-dropping month. This is cozy sweater season, brand new leather boots weather—the thick buttery cable knit scarves and smoke rising from chimney stacks time of year. All of Loveless is pumpkin spiced—the heavy scent of cinnamon floats through the air. There isn’t anything that I dislike about fall, not even football. I head out on the exaggeratingly large wood deck on the second level of my mother’s chalet. The fresh scent of the pines in the morning has the power to intoxicate me, give me a happy buzz far more efficient and dizzying than vodka can ever do. I take in lungful after lungful as a thin veil of paranoid thoughts pass through me.
Can I go to prison for what I’ve done? Aren’t I already in a prison of my own making?
These are the thoughts that plague me. I suppose they would anyone else given my history.

The lights are on next door in the Nicholson’s old house. I picture Caleb, showering—the water beading off that perfect, tight, hard-as-granite body, those biceps like tree trunks, water funneling down the hard V just below his abs, him slicking his hair back one last time before twisting off the pipes—one last fountain of water pluming from his lips.

My thighs quiver just imagining what perfection Caleb McCarthy is silently withholding from the world. He’s called me all week, and all week I’ve avoided him. He’s let me know that he has his “guy,” whoever this mystery man is, working on my behalf. It’s odd how my life’s worst nightmare can be reduced to such nonchalant language. It almost sounds like code. Keith has done something terribly wrong and now he would have to pay. But I, too, have done something terribly wrong, and I wonder what lengths I’m willing to go to keep the lid on my acrid secret. I thought I buried it in the lake long ago, and, now, I watch in horror as it slowly bubbles back to the surface like foaming vomit. I thought I put a lid on it and watched as my lies sunk to the bottom of this algae-riddled basin, but now I’m wondering if the lid has rusted, if Keith, who I’ve whispered all of my earthly truths to under the cover of night during that pornographic season of our lives, is now so ripely pissed, he’s about to unleash the big one. The day the videos were released, I’m sure the world thought that was it, the big finale, but Keith and I both know better. There is so much more that can destroy far more people than simply just me. Just one more act of revenge on my part will most likely be enough to knock him over the edge and, then,
boom
—out comes the bile, the foaming vomit, eating away my world like acid.

My mother once told me that little lies are all but sanitized—that they were far from a sin in God’s eyes. But if that’s accurate why do I feel so corroded inside? Those little lies have never felt so
little
to me. In fact, they tower over me like the shadow of this granite mountain, hard to bare and heavy over my shoulders.

“Morning.” A deep rumble of a voice echoes from my right, and then I see him.

Caleb McCarthy is stunning with the seven a.m. sun kissing his features, casting him a pale shade of salmon. His hair is wet and slicked to perfection just as I envisioned. He doesn’t withhold his smile, nor that determined lust in his eyes that’s just as ripe in the morning as it seems to be at night. Keith’s lust never burned this bright for me. He never wanted me half as bad as Caleb does. It’s a pity Caleb couldn’t have stayed on this damn mountain all those years ago. I wouldn’t be here contemplating a leap onto the driveway below, and he wouldn’t be compiling evidence against my ex in a sexual harassment suit that spans every inch of my naked body. Five hundred thousand views and counting. I finally have those 15 minutes of fame Andy Warhol promised the world. Lucky me.

“Morning.” Our eyes lock in one of those uncomfortable, oh-God-what-now-I-can’t-move moments. Caleb’s eyes are quicksand. I should know; I’ve fallen into them more than my fair share. His jaw tightens, popping the muscles on either side, his eyes remain unblinking, determined, set on unholy intention, and, truthfully, I would not mind his unholy intention one bit, but deep down I think Caleb might actually deserve better.