Stone Cold (An Iron Tornadoes MC Romance) (2 page)

I cradle Brian's face in my hands and wipe his tears away with my thumbs. His brown curls are all crushed, probably from the helmet he wore on his ride here; his incredible green eyes are red from the tears, and his chin is covered with two days' stubble. He looks like a mess, but in my eyes he's still the most handsome mess there is. He turns his head, kisses the palm of my hand, and then whispers, "Oh, Lisa, I still can't believe he's gone."

"I know. I want to believe that he's going to come up the stairs and barge into my room any second. When I heard you, for a moment I thought it was him," I say with a ragged breath, and then I smile as I whisper, "Boy, would he kick your ass if he found us like this."

"No," Brian says with a sad smile. "I think he'd be okay with this."

The leather of his weathered jacket is wet from my tears, and after wiping it off with the sleeve of my restaurant-uniform white shirt, I rest my head on his shoulder.

"What do you mean?" I ask.

"One night when we were roaring drunk, I confessed," he says.

I wish I had been a fly on the wall that day. David's always be extra protective of me. He felt he had to protect me as an elder brother and as a father. No one, not even his best friend and almost-cousin, was good enough for me.

"I told him I was your first and how clumsy and brief my single performance had been that night," Brian says, his tone almost light. "He laughed so hard he fell off his bar stool."

I close my eyes and imagine the two of them sitting at a bar and having this conversation. I can hear David's laughter. His laughter is—no, was—like a roar.

"How are we going to go on without him?" I ask.

"I don't know how, but for sure, life will continue, and you're going to be all right."

I'm not sure I believe him, but I don't say so because actually his presence has calmed me down.

He lays me down on my tiny bed and lies down next to me. The bed protests under our combined weight. Brian is no longer the skinny teenager he was the last time he lay next to me in this room.

That was so many years ago, just before David and he ran way to enlist. Army training filled out their arms and shoulders and sculpted the rest of their bodies; they were boys when they left and men when they returned.

I have wild fantasies about this man. I dream that now, since he's more experienced, it would be a stellar performance. Enough to erase the disaster of our first lovemaking session. It had been sweet but oh, so frustrating for me…

At any other time, having him holding me like he does now would be a dream come true.

But it's not a dream; it's a nightmare.

I can't rejoice at the warmth of his touch, at the tenderness of his voice, because David's dead.

"You need to get some sleep, babe," he says, stroking my hair. "The next days are gonna be very hard on you."

The sunlight wakes me up, and I'm disoriented. I become aware that I'm fully dressed in my restaurant uniform on my childhood bed, and reality hits me at full force. Better keep busy before I start thinking too much.

When I get out of my quick shower, the mirror shows me that my eyes are all puffy—I must have kept on crying in my sleep. I wet a washcloth and go downstairs to stick it in the freezer and get the coffee started. I run back up to comb and dry my hair, put it in a ponytail, get dressed, and come back down to the kitchen to drink my coffee and press my homemade ice pack against my eyes to reduce the swelling. I don't want to look like a wreck in front of my mother when I need to be strong enough for both of us—I'm the only one she has left now.

I think back to yesterday and wonder if Brian has any idea that he was not only my first but also, to this day, my only. Not that I didn't have opportunities. I'm not top-model quality, but I'm actually okay if you're into the very curvy dirty blond version of the girl next door.
 

When I started college, a few guys showed interest despite my being a plus size, but I couldn't be bothered. I had no time to fall in love. I needed to get top grades to get into a top law school while taking care of my mother, who was left in my sole care by my runaway brother.

And then Dave and Brian came back on a short leave, and I saw how they had turned into real men. They were so grown up and mature that they made all the guys I knew look like boring kids.
 

After that, I left for law school, and time just flew. They weren't kidding when they said the first two years of law school are marathon years. I got lost in my own world and barely took the time to speak to David… and now I'll never be able to speak to him again. I press my lips together to swallow the curses I want to scream. This is unfair. First my dad, and then my brother. What did my mother and I do to deserve that?

I never even asked David what had happened at the academy. How did Brian manage to get kicked out a few days before they were to graduate?
 

I thought for sure Brian had outgrown getting into trouble. As a kid, he always got caught, because he was really no good at being bad. It didn't change when he grew up. I'm sure David did all the same silly things Brian did. I'm sure he too smoked pot, got crazy drunk, and went skinny-dipping in the ocean, but David never got caught. He always flew through life with amazing luck. Nothing can touch him…
 

Nothing could touch him.

I swallow my coffee, and armed with my driver's license, a credit card, and my mother's keys, I lock the front and back doors of the house before going to the garage. I use to never do that since my mother never left the house.

One-half of the double garage is cluttered with David's bikes and biker stuff. The other, immaculate, is occupied by my mother's car. It's in pristine condition. It looks like no one has ever driven it despite the fact that it's at least ten years old.

I drive out and close the garage door behind me. Uncle Tony's car is in his driveway, and he's sitting on his front porch drinking coffee and reading the paper. That's what Dad and he used to do every day at seven. Now he does it on his own. Come hell or high water, I know I will find him on his porch every morning. It's kind of reassuring to know some things never change.

I wave at him and he waves back. Brian's ride is nowhere to be seen. I wonder where he lives now.

On my way to the hospital, I decide to delay the unavoidable. I drive to the beach instead. It's a pilgrimage of some sort. I kick off my shoes and walk under the pier. I want to go where we used to hide as kids. If there's an afterlife, I'm pretty sure that's where I'll find David's ghost sitting on an ethereal version of his cross-country bike.

There's no ghost but an empty bottle of David and Brian's poison of choice. I suspect Brian came here to mourn as well.

With my back to a post, I sit on the sand. This was my spot between David and Brian. How many times did we come here just to chill out and watch the waves?

"I miss you, brother," I say out loud to empty beach. The only answer I get is the sound of the surf and the distant squawks of the seagulls.

What did I think I was going to find here? Whatever I was looking for, it's not there. The place has lost its magic.

Back in the car I become responsible. Back in the driver seat I go where I should have gone in the first place.

The ride to Point Lookout's hospital is short. It's still early enough to get a parking spot right next to the main door. The receptionist lets me know my mother's room number. It's a semiprivate room divided in two by a curtain. In the first bed there's a woman with bandages over her face. She looks like someone has tried to turn her into a mummy and then given up halfway through. The color of the visible part of her face shouts “abuse victim.”

My mother is in the second bed, and Aunt Nancy is next to her in a reclining armchair. They're both fast asleep, but even in sleep Nancy seems more alive than my mom. Nancy's breath is loud, while my mother is perfectly silent. I touch Nancy's shoulder, and she opens her eyes and smiles at me. It's a genuine smile. She's happy to see me. But then her smile freezes. She remembers… David's dead.

She puts her finger to her lips, points to my mother, and then to the door. She gets up, and we step out of the room together. She hugs me.

"My poor baby," she says.
 

"We're going to be fine," I tell her. I'm lying through my teeth. I don't believe that I will ever be fine again. "Why don't you go home get some sleep? I can stay with her until she wakes up."

She looks at me and shrugs. "No, there's stuff to be done, like organizing the funeral, and deciding if you want the wake at your house or at the bar next to his squad." She tilts her head, studying my face. "Do you want me to do it? I could, if you'd rather stay by your mother." I can guess from her tone that she would rather not have me stay here. "You know the doctor told me he's knocked her out for at least twenty-four hours, so there's no use for you to stay here and watch her sleep."

"Fine. I'll take care of things. What should I do?" I really don't have a clue.

She pulls out a piece of paper from her back pocket and hands it to me.

"Here's the address of the closest funeral home, and then the name of the person you're to ask for when you retrieve David's stuff at the station. Captain Steven Williams. They'll probably have papers for you to fill out. Maybe you can find out how it happened. No one would tell me anything when I asked. Take care of that and don't worry about your mother. I'll get her home when she wakes up, but I need a favor."

"Anything you want, Nancy," I say, and I really mean it. I'm happy to know there's someone staying by my mother's side even if it's probably useless while she sleeps.

"On your way back home, stop at the pharmacy on Pier Alley to pick up your uncle's meds."

"Sure. Anything else you need?"

"No, I'm good. You know me—I always have enough in the house to face a major disaster, and I guess this qualifies," she adds under her breath. She looks at her watch, shrugs, and then says, "Come on, it's way too early to do any of that. Why don't you let me buy you the worst coffee of the entire Gold Coast at the cafeteria, and keep me company at breakfast?"

I walk with her to the hospital cafeteria and indeed taste one of the worst excuses for coffee I've ever had. She eats what looks like a very stale donut and makes me talk about law school, my finals, and my job, and for a moment, I forget why I'm here. When she's done, I throw out the coffee that I barely touched, and Nancy walks me to the main door.

Just as I'm about to go, she says, "There's one thing I have to tell you." She puts her hands on my shoulders and sighs. "You'll probably hear horrible things in the coming days. When you do, I want you to remember that no matter what, I'm here for you and your mother." She turns around abruptly and walks away.

What was she trying to tell me? I remain standing there for a moment then shrug it off as I walk out. I'm puzzled, but I refrain from running after her and asking what she's talking about. Bad news always arrives soon enough.

The funeral place is conveniently located next to the hospice section of the hospital. It makes me think of Lyv—she always says that in the restaurant business, the three first criteria are "location, location, and location." I guess the same holds true in the funeral business.

I have a long talk with the owner. He's so obsequious that I feel like slapping him. He's talking to me as if my brother's a member of his family, and he wants to share my loss. Do people fall for this type of crap?

He's very disappointed by my choice of coffin and my decision to have a reception at my mother's house after the funeral. I'm not sure what my mother's financial situation is, and I don't see the purpose of spending a fortune on a velvet-lined oak casket or a sophisticated parlor-room rental. Maybe it helps some people feel better, but I'm sure it won't do a thing for me, and my mother's going to be so out of it she won't know the difference.

When I'm done there, I drive to the police station. I introduce myself as David Mayfield's sister. The young officer at reception offers his sympathies and ushers me into a small, windowless room. It looks like an interrogation room. A minute later, an older man comes in and shakes my hand. He looks like a wrestler, and when he moves, I fear his suit is going to burst at the seams.

"Miss Mayfield, I'm very sorry for your loss," he says with a gruff voice. "Your brother was a fine young man. Let's go to my office so we can talk."

I follow him through a large room where a few men who have probably been my brother's colleagues are working, and then into a small office with a glass door. He invites me to sit in one of the chairs facing his desk. As he sits down in his armchair on the other side of the desk, I find the courage to ask him the question that has been torturing me since yesterday.

"How did my brother die?"

"He died a hero," the man answers. He suddenly looks very uncomfortable. I'm pretty sure he'd rather be breaking up a bar room brawl than talking to me right now, especially when I stare at him, daring him to give me more.

He runs his fingers through his salt-and-pepper hair and stares back at me with kind, sharp blue eyes. He's trying to decide what he should be telling me.

"You must know that right after the academy, your brother was asked to take part in a special task force to deal with a specific branch of organized crime." The man pauses, and I nod as if I had known, but the truth is that I'd had no idea what David was doing. On the few occasions I spoke to him during the past two academic years, he never talked about his work.

Picking his words with care, the man adds, "He got into the task force with his eyes wide open. He knew that his mission was very dangerous."

"Did he get shot?"

"Miss Mayfield, there are some things I cannot tell you about the specifics of your brother's work, and there are things you really don't want to know."

"Sir, please don't sugarcoat anything for me," I tell him. "I'm not a child. I'm a law student, and I want to be a D.A. when I graduate. Furthermore, I have a very vivid imagination, so what I imagine is probably worse than what really happened."