Sustained (13 page)

“I’m sorry about dinner.”

“Don’t be.”

“Jake, I . . .” She licks her lips, shifts her feet indecisively. “I haven’t seen them in two months. I didn’t know . . .” She pauses again, then seems to find the words she wants to say. “Are you mad at me?”

And her eyes look so hopeful. So . . . vulnerable. My voice softens. “No, I’m not mad at you.”

Her douchebag friends, however—that’s another story.

“And you’re okay with this? Watching the kids for me?”

In trial law, you learn very quickly that words have meaning. Your questions, your answers, are posed carefully and with forethought, because so much of what is said could be open to interpretation. It’s made me very good at sidestepping—a useful skill at the moment.

“I planned on being here all night anyway.”

And then I think about that hamster wheel again. All the giving of herself she’s done, never taking. My hand reaches out, covering hers. “You should go out with your friends, Chelsea. Have fun.”
No matter how much I hate the idea.
“The kids and I will be fine.”

She smiles, like a weight has been lifted. And I feel just a little less miserable.

•  •  •

Robert and Rachel McQuaid’s bedroom is on the third floor of the house. The staircase to their room begins at the end of the second-floor hallway. Privacy was obviously important to them. And romance—they did have six fucking kids, after all. The room is huge: a sitting area, a spa-like bath, his-and-hers closets as big as some apartment kitchens. The walls are a tasteful red, the furniture dark wood. There’s a fireplace in the corner with their wedding portrait above it—they look happy and young, and so eager to start their lives together. On the dresser are pictures of their children—tender, candid shots of first baths, Christmas mornings, days at the beach, and sleeping cuddles.

The kids are quiet when they first walk in, almost like the room is a shrine. But after a few minutes, their natural exuberance and easy comfort with the space take over. They remind me of puppies in a box as they climb on their parents’ California-king bed—bumping into each other, lying over one another, until they’re all finally settled and comfortable. Riley holds Regan on her lap. Judging by the way Regan’s sucking her thumb and her far-off stare, she’ll be lucky if she’s awake past the opening credits. Raymond scoops Cousin It into his arms like a security blanket, and Rosaleen pats the empty space in the center of the bed.

“Come on, Jake, there’s room for you.”

I don’t know the rules about a grown man lying in bed with kids he’s not related to, but their collective, comfortably expectant expressions
puts my mind at ease. I slip the movie into the DVD player, grab the remote, and pounce on the mattress, making them all bounce and giggle.

Later, around the time the Goonies tell Troy and his bucket to go screw himself, Rosaleen asks, “Where did Aunt Chelsea go?”

I tense, thinking about exactly where Chelsea is—and who she’s gone there with.

“She went out with her friends,” I answer, trying to keep the scowl out of my voice.

“I didn’t like them,” Riley whispers, so as not to wake the sleeping bundle of two-year-old on her lap. “They were smoking weed in the backyard.”

“Is that what that smell was?” Rosaleen asks.

“Yep.”

My fists clench. Of all the selfish, irresponsible . . . I was young once too, but twenty-six isn’t
that
goddamn young. It’s too old to be an excuse for sheer fucking stupidity.

“They were dicks,” Rory offers.

I don’t even chastise him for the language, ’cause I couldn’t agree more.

Then we go back to watching the movie.

•  •  •

“That was awesome,” Raymond declares as Cyndi Lauper sings over the rolling credits.

“Is there a part two?” Riley asks.

“Nope.” I yawn. “In the eighties they knew not to mess with perfection.”

Rosaleen jumps on my lap, making me grunt. Then she grabs my face with both little hands, sliding one side down and pushing the other up. “You’re kinda like that Sloth guy, Jake. You’re big and loud.” She gazes down at me thoughtfully. “But you’re not as ugly as him.”

I’ll take what I can get. “Thanks,” I murmur though squashed lips.

The kids climb off the bed, stretching and bleary eyed. Rory asks, “Do we have to brush our teeth?”

I walk with them down the stairs to the second floor. “Nah, I think your teeth will survive one night without it. Just go to sleep.”

The boys head into their room, and Riley emerges from Regan’s after successfully laying her down. She pins me with her judgmental teenage stare, then gives me the smallest of smiles. “This was fun. Thanks.”

And a weird, warm feeling tingles in my chest. “It was. You’re welcome.”

Rosaleen takes my hand and tugs me into her room. It’s pink and princessy, with a unicorn border and a rainbow, blue-skyed mural painted on the ceiling. She climbs into her four-poster bed. “Will you lay down with me, Jake?”

I shake my head. “No.”

Her teeth chatter dramatically and she pulls the covers up to her chin. “But what if One-Eyed Willie comes to get me?”

I scratch the back of my neck, debating. “Well . . . we can leave your door open and the hall light on?”

Nope—not good enough.

“And . . . I can sit outside your door until you fall asleep.” I brought my laptop to get some work done, and the floor suits me as well as a desk. I’m not picky.

“Okay.” She smiles. Then she waves me closer with her hand. I lean down and she raises her head off the pillow, pressing the softest kiss to my cheek.

And the weird, warm tingles surge with a vengeance.

“Good night, Jake. Sweet dreams.”

I watch her for a moment as she nestles under the covers, the very image of all things pure and good and innocent. And everything in me wants her to be able to stay just like that.

I shake my head at my sentimentality. Because I don’t fucking do sappy. Harsh, cynical, brutally honest, yes—but never sappy.

I turn off the light. “Good night, Rosaleen.”

•  •  •

Sometime later—thirty minutes or three hours—I wake up on the floor, my computer open on my lap, chin to chest, my neck aching and my ass totally numb. It’s disorienting at first; I’m not sure where I am or why I’m on the goddamn floor. I look around, inhaling deeply, and then I remember.
The Goonies
, Chelsea going out with her loser friends, the kids.

I close the laptop and rub my eyes, wondering what woke me up. Rosaleen’s still out cold and all is silent from the other three closed doors in the hall, including the baby’s room. I get to my feet and—

Thump.

A sound comes from downstairs, then indecipherable low voices.

What the hell?

My muscles tighten, expecting trouble. Maybe someone’s breaking in? I wonder if Chelsea ever moved that key from under the mat.

“Mmm . . . yeah . . .”

That was a male moan. A burglar wouldn’t be fucking moaning.

I creep down the stairs, ears straining. And the voices get clearer with each step.

“Lucas!” That was Chelsea.

“You’re so fucking hot, babe.”

My stomach twists and my fists clench. It’s not a burglar.

“I need you so bad,” he says.

“Lucas—”

Her voice is low, a harsh whisper because she’s thinking of the kids. She’s always thinking of the kids. But her words are clear.

“Lucas, get
off
.”

And so are his.

“Don’t be a bitch, Chels. I know you want it.”

“No.
Stop
, Lucas—no!”

“Shh, relax. Just let me—”

And I fucking lose it.

I round the corner into the living room. They’re on the couch, still fully clothed. He’s on top, grinding on her, covering her almost completely except for her legs.

Her twisting, kicking legs.

In one move, I pull him off Chelsea by the back of his shirt. I hold him suspended with one hand and punch him in the face with other. My fist makes contact with a satisfying crunch and I feel his nose crack under my knuckles. My vision is tinged white with rage, and my pulse pounds a murderous beat in my eardrums as I pull back and nail him again in the mouth. He raises his hands for protection, and I drop him to the floor.

Just so I can kick him. My boot catches him right under the rib, driving the breath from his lungs.

And I want more. I’m hungry for it—pain, blood, and fucking suffering.

He gasps and wheezes, trying to replace the air. But I don’t hear it. I don’t even see him, really. The only image playing behind my eyes is Chelsea—sweet and gentle, unwilling and struggling beneath him. Telling him no. Begging him to stop.

He didn’t. Why the fuck should I?

I yank him up by his arm and throw him against the wall.

“She said no, asshole! Are you
deaf
?” Then I wrap my hands around his throat.

It’s soft. Weak. So easily breakable.

And I squeeze.

His eyes bulge and he claws at my hands. But it’s as effective as the brush of a butterfly’s wings.

“Jake, please don’t.”

Chelsea’s hand is on my shoulder, and her voice is soft. Pleading. “Don’t, Jake. Please stop.”

She feels like a harbor, steady and calm amid churning dark, deadly waters.

And so I stop. Not because he deserves it.

Only because she asked.

I release him and the dickhead slides to the floor, coughing and bleeding. I pant, glaring down at him, my heart beating brutally in my chest. I grab his jacket from the chair—mindful enough to take the keys from the pocket, because he reeks like a brewery—before throwing it at him.

“Get out,” I growl, sounding as savage as I feel.

He wipes his bleeding face with his jacket and glares up at me with hateful, unrepentant eyes. “I need my keys,” he rasps.

Dumb fuck.

“No. You can sleep in your car. When you’re sober in the morning, then you can take your sorry ass elsewhere.”

He actually opens his mouth to argue, but I don’t let him.

“Two choices. Sleep in the goddamn car, or end up unconscious in the hospital. I know which one I’d prefer.”

And it’s not the car.

He looks over my shoulder at Chelsea, and I bristle that even his gaze is touching her.

“Do what he says, Lucas. Nikki and Kevin will be up in a few hours. Then you can all go.”

With a final glare, he walks, hunched over, out the door. Which I slam behind him.

•  •  •

I turn the lock and the bolt to make sure he stays the fuck out. Or maybe to make sure I don’t go out and kill him. My hands shake, my
whole body still vibrating with barely restrained fury—and something else that I don’t want to put a name to.

From behind me, Chelsea’s voice trembles. “I can’t believe Lucas tried—”

I whirl around like a roving volcano and erupt all over her.

“Of course he fucking tried! What the hell did you expect? You thought he flew across the country for a hug and a peck on the cheek?”

Arms hug her waist tighter. Her voice goes quieter. “I thought he was my friend.”

“The naïve thing is cute, Chelsea—being a goddamn idiot is not.”

She rears back like I’ve raised my hand to strike her. “Excuse me?”

Unfamiliar feelings bubble inside me like black tar, coating my insides, thick and clinging.

And ugly.

“Your friend?” I laugh. And drag my eyes up and down her body. “You dress like that for all your friends?” I click my tongue. “Lucky guys.”

Her voice rises an octave. “There’s nothing wrong with how I’m dressed.”

My questions slice through the air. Sharp and cutting. “Are you drunk?”

“No.”

“Are you high?”

“No!”

“Have you fucked him before?”

“That’s none of your business!”

My mouth twists. “That’s a yes.”

“Don’t cross-examine me!”

“Do you know what could’ve happened to you if I wasn’t here?” I yell, forgetting about the six sleeping children upstairs.

Because that’s the core of it, what has me craving murder. What makes me want to put my fist through the wall—or, more accurately,
makes me want to grab that worthless piece of shit outside and put my fist through him. It’s the unspeakable things that might’ve happened to her if I anyone but me had been here.

I’ve looked into survivors’ eyes. I’ve seen the aftermath. And, sure, maybe they move on. And maybe they get past it. But they never forget.

And they’re never, ever the same.

“Yes, I’m well aware, Jake. Contrary to what you think, I’m not stupid. I’m grateful that you were here.” Her voice goes from flat to cold. “And now you can go.”

I point at the door. “I’m not fucking going anywhere as long as he’s outside.”

“Fine. Enjoy the couch.”

Then I’m dismissed. Chelsea turns around, her back as straight as a soldier’s, and walks toward the hallway. After three steps she looks back, and her words hit me like a wrecking ball. “I see now why you’re such a successful defense lawyer, Jake. You’re so very good at blaming the victim.”

For a second I just stand there. Too stunned—maybe too ashamed—to reply.

She walks up the stairs, and I’m alone. With the echo of all the things I shouldn’t have said ringing in my ears.

F
ive minutes later I’m in the kitchen, rummaging through cabinets and drawers like an addict who’s forgotten where he hid his stash.

And I’m muttering to Chelsea’s dead brother.

“Come on, Robert, I’ve met your kids.” I check the back of the fridge, moving aside a jug of almond milk, a block of tofu, and a bag of organic pears. “There’s no fucking way you don’t have alcohol somewhere in this house.”

At this point I’d settle for a bottle of NyQuil.

I burrow in the freezer. And there, below containers of frozen spaghetti sauce, I hit liquid gold. A bottle of Southern Comfort.

I gaze at the label, already tasting relief on my tongue. “Attaboy, Robbie. My kind of guy.”

I unscrew the cap and take a swig, too eager to wait for a glass. The cold liquid burns a pleasant, numbing trail down my throat. Before closing the freezer, I grab a bag of frozen peas for my screaming knuckles. Then I take a glass from the cabinet and fill it halfway with the amber-colored alcohol. As I swirl it in the glass, the pitter-patter of sock-covered feet comes down the back staircase.