CHAPTER FOUR
CARTER
Wren and I are at Queen Elizabeth park. We’ve got one of those red and white rugs, champagne, strawberries, even the woven god-damn basket. The sky’s cerulean. Children play ahead of us with a kite.
I hold her cheek, the bubbles from the champagne continuing to pop on the surface of my tongue. I never knew something could be so soft. “You’re beautiful,” I tell her. I don’t need lines or fancy Shakespearian sonnets. Not now.
Something pulls at her, tugs her from my hand.
Panic fills her face. The sky turns sour, the children gone.
“Wren!” I shout, as she’s dragged further.
I try to move, but I’m glued into place. I’m paralyzed.
“Wren!” I call, harder still.
Something is laughing.
“Carter,” she shouts back, reaching for me.
The color that was so profuse only moments ago is swallowed up into an inky, all-consuming black.
She’s gone.
I’m alone.
I reach out my hand, my fingers brushing the cinder blocks that make up the wall of my cell.
“No!”
I sit up covered in a heavy sweat.
It’s one-twenty-five AM.
I look beside myself, but there’s no Wren. She took a taxi back to Vancouver hours ago.
It’s raining hard outside, drops chiming against the window pane.
I rub my face.
Something’s not right.
I stand and move to the window.
The rain’s so thick it’s hard to make anything out, but further up the road that leads down to the cabin I see angular, man-made lines, chrome—things that do not belong.
I stand and open the wardrobe, taking out the double-barreled shotgun I keep inside.
Slowly, I make my way into the main room of the cabin. Back against the wall, I peer through the front window.
There are two men outside approaching the house. One of them has a crowbar in his hand.
I draw in a breath.
Fuck.
I spin forwards and kick the door open, stepping out into the rain with the shotgun raised.
The men stop, the rain continuing to drum around us. It stings my eyes, runs down my chest in rivulets.
“Drop it,” I shout.
The two men exchange a look before the one on the left drops the crowbar.
“Hands, in the air, now.”
They lift their hands slowly skywards.
I come down the stairs and approach them keeping the shotgun level, moving in a wide circle around them. They’re wearing wife beaters, now translucent.
The big one on the left has a pistol shoved into the back of his pants. I remove it, shove it down the back of my own while holding the shotgun high.
I stand in front of them. “It’s a long hike from the highway for a robbery, isn’t it, boys?”
The one on the right, the uglier of the two, though that’s hardly saying much, speaks. “We weren’t sent here to rob you.”
So they were sent—lackies.
He makes a start forward. I place my finger on the trigger, aiming for his crotch. “You’ve got one dick, but I’ve got two barrels and plenty of shells. How long do you think it will take to bleed out, here in the rain?”
He backs off.
“Now,” I continue, “what the fuck are you here for?”
“To deliver a message,” says the other.
I shift the shotgun to him. “And what would that be?”
He looks down at the crowbar.
Makes sense.
“Who sent you?” I ask.
“Tommy,” the right one answers.
Fucking Tommy. “Tommy and I are square.”
“That’s not his understanding,” says the right one.
I keep my voice as firm as I can. “You tell Tommy if he wants to deliver me a message, he can fucking do it himself, because if I see you two here again, I don’t care if you’re picking fucking berries, you better bring two body bags with you.” I jerk the gun towards where they parked their truck. “Now get the fuck out of here.”
They back up with arms raised before breaking into a slow sprint.
I watch the truck reverse. They almost drive into a tree they’re in such a rush.
Once I’m sure they’re gone, I lower the shotgun, water running into my mouth, my eyes, my boxers soaked through.
I might be on the outside now, but I’m a long fucking way from freedom.
*
I’m not surprised by my next visitor early the following morning.
I hear the car approaching before I see it—a patrol car.
I walk outside and wait.
It pulls to a halt, Sherriff Lawson stepping out. His composition is a lot more donut-like than I remember, his gut sitting on top of his belt.
He tips his hat at me, keeping his distance, one hand resting on his revolver. “Carter,” he says.
“Sherriff.”
He spits to the ground, rubbing it in with his boot until it’s a dirty paste. “I’m not one for making house calls, my friend.”
“I remember. Did my father give you the heads up I was here? I know you guys were bum chums back in the day.”
The Sheriff smiles. “None of your god-damn business.” He pushes his cheek out with his tongue, still thinks he’s king shit around here, his tiny little kingdom of country bumpkins. “Bob up the road tells me he saw a suspicious truck around these parts last night.”
“Did he?”
“Don’t suppose you’d know anything about that?”
I shake my head. “No, sir.”
The Sheriff takes another step forward. “Look, Crusher. I’m going to make this real simple,” he says drawing out the ‘l’ in real. “You’re not welcome around these parts. Never were.”
“It’s a free country last time I checked.”
He nods, taking it in. “You’re right.”
He whistles, looking into the woods. “A lot of land here, plenty of undesirable characters — the sort of people you wouldn’t want to bump into in the middle of the night if you know what I’m saying.”
I give him my best pearly whites. “I can handle myself.”
The Sheriff puts a hand up, nodding. “I have no doubt, but should you come into any… trouble… Well, it’s a long way to come out. That’s all I’m saying.”
I keep smiling. “I hear you.”
He tips his hat again and turns to walk back to his car, pausing. “Oh, and one more thing, Crusher.”
“What’s that?” I call.
“Stay away from the girl.”
*
I busy myself with menial tasks. I chop firewood and fix the roof. I clean, straighten my bed—a hard habit to break coming from incarceration.
I’m outside in the drizzle when a broken twig sends me spinning around, my fists up ready for anything, but it’s only a deer, darting away back into the woods.
When I’m entirely sure I’ve run out of things to do, I sit inside at the dining table tossing my cell from hand to hand.
She’s not going to call again.
If I’m truthful, I would have given anything to have her stay over, to finally be with the woman I’ve been dreaming about.
Fuck David. He didn’t deserve that kind of perfection.
There was a moment last night, just after dessert, where I reached forward to swipe a spot of ice cream from her top lip. It was natural, a reflex, but I let the touch linger, my eyes boring into hers, the whole fucking universe compelling us together.
I started to move forward, her lips parting for me, the faintest hint of arousal hardening my cock to concrete, but I pulled away. I fucking drew back and looked to the roof like a fucking choir boy fresh from puberty who doesn’t know his dick from a doorbell.
I used to crush it. Back in the day I barely had to speak I was so deep in pussy. I’d slay them in the sack and send them packing with a story to tell.
And tell the tabloids they did.
You know she’s different.
You can say that again. The Wren I knew wasn’t like the girls that warmed my bed. She wouldn’t fuss over make-up or what happened on Glee the night before. She was sexy as fuck, but she never flaunted it, probably never noticed the way guys would wood up the moment she strolled past.
But David did.
And look what happened.
She was so close last night. Right. Fucking. There.
I could have shown her a good time, proved my worth between the sheets, that my fingers and mouth haven’t lost their Midas touch, that my python of a cock still knows how to get the space between a girl’s legs hot and wet before it’s even inside, but no.
One day, I tell myself. This is all going to be right. One day, and soon, Wren is going to be mine.