Chapter Eighteen - Maddie & Tyler
MADDIE
Walking into Evan and Robert’s, Tyler heads straight for the windowed doors that open out to the pool. He slides them all the way apart, walks outside where he’s being simultaneously illuminated and cast in shadow by the beautiful landscape lights that pop on when it turns dark, and starts taking off his clothes.
“What are you doing?” I ask him.
He doesn’t answer, just kicks off his shoes, strips off his t-shirt, pulls off his pants, and stands there, naked, staring at me. The light and steam wafting off the heated pool encircle him and make him look sort of like a ghost. Some kind of lost spirit.
“What are you doing?” I repeat.
And then he jumps in the water. He drops down and then pops back up again, pushing his wet hair back and floating there, still looking at me. I smile because with his bare face and his damp hair, he looks like I remember him from a time many years ago. I think it was maybe a year or so before his mom died. It was summer. Barbara was about to start undergoing intense therapy for her cancer and my parents suggested that we all go out as a group one last time before they knew we probably wouldn’t be able to anymore.
They put it to the boys, Scotty, Evan, and Tyler, what they would want to do. All three of them agreed on a water park, so even though I don’t think any of the grownups thought that would be the most fun, they went along with it anyway.
I also remember Jack on that day. I mean, I must’ve been about seven, so I don’t think I could have put all the pieces together, but now, looking back... I have a vague recollection of thinking that he seemed different. He had always been a fairly gregarious guy. Not quite as fun or funny as Tyler’s mom – because no one was – but still, an OK guy to be around. But that day at the water park, I recall him being sullen. Withdrawn.
Every time I looked over at the grownups I’d see Mom and Dad, Evan’s parents, and Barbara all sitting and talking, but Jack would be off to the side with a grownup drink, just sitting by himself. I may just be making this up now – memory is a tricky thing – but I may have marched my little seven-year-old ass over to him and asked if he would want to go on a log flume or some shit. Because, I dunno, seeing people sad and alone used to really bum me out.
And he just kind of waved me off. Ignored me. And then he wandered back over to the bar. I think I shrugged and turned around to see what the boys were doing and that’s when I spotted Tyler popping out of the water, laughing and pushing his wet hair out of his face. Looking just the way he does now. And, again, in my memory, that was the moment my tiny little heart fell in love.
Or that could all be bullshit. Like I say... memory. But it feels real to me. Like it tells a story that makes sense. And honestly, if it feels real, then who’s to say it isn’t?
What I know for sure is that watching Tyler now, treading water and staring at me, my heart is full. I am in love. Still and again. And the guy I love is turning out to be the most surprising and at the same time exactly expected version of the guy I wanted him to be. And I can’t believe that this is my life. Because not so very long ago, it seemed pretty goddamned impossible to imagine.
I kick off my own shoes now, strip off my top, my jeans and my underwear, and stand there facing him. He doesn’t say anything, just continues treading water and staring at me. I walk to stand in the crossover to the outside, letting the tiny chill that’s now in the air tickle my skin and make me shiver. I walk over to the edge of the pool by where Tyler is floating and look down at him.
He swims to where I am, props his elbows by my feet and starts stroking my calves with his fingertips. The touch of his hands and the tiny drops of water from his fingers sliding down the backs of my legs causes my shoulder blades to tense up. In a fantastic way. I shudder a little bit and he leans down and kisses the tops of my feet. Then he stretches his neck and licks at my ankle. I close my eyes and throw my head back, letting out the tiniest of groans.
I kneel down, squatting into a sit, and plop myself on the concrete, sliding my legs forward and letting them dangle in the water. Tyler’s face is between my knees now and he stares up at me. He still hasn’t said a word since we walked in the house. He hasn’t had to. He runs his fingers up and down along my thighs as I hold his face in my hands and we look at each other.
His expression doesn’t change, and I’m pretty sure mine doesn’t either, but we are communicating crystal-clearly. I smile a small, diminutive smile. I hope it’s not a sad smile, but I’m sure there’s probably some of that in there. Not because I’m actually sad, but because my heart aches for this good, good man who’s trying to become an even better man, and with whom I am realizing that I can finally summit that damn mountain. All I needed was to be willing to accept a little help. A climbing buddy. Not because I couldn’t do it on my own, but because what the hell would it have even mattered if I had made it to the top alone?
Like I told him in the parking lot of Frank’s... I go where you go.
And looking in his eyes now, I see where he wants to take us in this moment, and, yeah, it’s definitely way better than going it alone.
TYLER
I hadn’t planned on getting naked and jumping in the pool. I don’t know what happened exactly. I’ve kind of been on autopilot since leaving the diner. I just know that when I walked in the house I had the sudden urge to throw myself into the briny deep. And since we’re in the desert and ain’t no briny deep to be found, I figured a heated, Olympic-size, salt water pool would do the trick just fine.
I’m sure if I were smarter or more self-aware, I’d be able to unearth the hidden psychological bullshit that would compel me to do such a thing, but I don’t really care. All I know is that I needed to feel naked and wet. And now I am.
Looking up at Maddie staring down at me, I detect a tiny bit of sadness in her smile. I don’t bother to ask if she’s OK. I know the look. It’s the look of somebody with a huge heart who hates to see somebody they care about in pain. Which is a look I haven’t seen in a long, long time. Maybe from Evan on occasion, but this is different. Obvs.
I don’t bother to tell her that I’m not actually in pain. It’s something else. Ironically, for a long time I was in pain, but didn’t show it. What was actually pain got masked by shit that made it look different. On my best days it was just, like, ennui or lethargy or whatever. Just a listless kind of boredom that projected to the world that I didn’t care. Most of the time, it was just me looking like an asshole. But I never let the actual pain show through. Anger’s funny that way. It’s almost never a sincere emotion. It’s usually a secondary emotion. A defense mechanism that kicks in to cover fear, or sorrow, or pain, or anxiety. In my case, all of the above.
But now, whatever Maddie’s sensing in me isn’t any of those things. It’s whatever one feels when they’ve finished running a marathon. Backwards. On crutches. Fighting off a fucking zombie onslaught along the way. And then managed to cross the finish line but with the uneasy suspicion that as soon as they turn around, someone’s gonna say, “OK! Ready for the next race?”
But that’s life, ain’t it? There is no “there” there. And when all is said and done, isn’t that actually a good thing? How fucking boring would shit be if you had everything all figured out? I mean, hell, I dunno. As noted, I’m no philosopher. I’m just a naked dude in a pool with the sexiest, kindest, coolest woman I could ever hope to know sitting in front of me with her pussy inches from my tongue.
Yeah. I’m not in pain at all. I’m good.
Gesturing to her with two fingers, I signal her toward me. She wriggles herself forward until her ass is right on the curved edge of the pool before it drops into the water. Just exactly where I can put my face into her perfect softness. Pulling myself up along the wall, I slide forward and run my nose up along the crease between her legs. I nuzzle there, letting my lips and chin tickle at the tender skin. She moans out her agreement and I bring my hands up onto the inside of her thighs to spread her a little wider.
My thumbs find their way to her folds and I separate her opening so that I can embed my nose all the way inside her, drinking in her scent deeply before I tilt my head and allow my tongue to make its way inside next.
Her legs start kicking a little bit in the water behind me, and the soft splashing creates a rhythmic melody that lets me know what I’m doing is pleasing her. Slowly, probably unconsciously, she begins pushing her hips forward, driving herself deeper into my mouth. Which I love, but which is forcing me backwards. We’re near the deep end, so I now find myself having to tread water pretty forcefully while at the same time holding her legs just above my shoulders to keep from getting pushed underneath. This is a serious workout and I can feel it in my rib, which... I’m beginning to wonder if it’s ever going to heal.
She is now stretched out with her arms straight back and her hands gripping the coping, and I am straining to keep us both aloft. As my tongue does a quick, skittering tap dance across her clit, she arches at the waist, and when she crashes back down, she forces me under the water. I still have hold of her thighs, so I drag her down with me, pulling her off the ledge and underneath we both go.
The lights coming off the inside provide just enough visibility so that I can see the hilariously shocked look on her face. Her hand shoots up to her mouth in surprise and she starts laughing, little air bubbles punctuating her hiccupping glee. The smile that spreads across my face causes tiny bubbles to rise as well, and we grab each other tightly, pulling ourselves together. The kiss we share is longer and harder than it should conceivably be. But we are air, each for the other, like two living SCUBA masks. We breathe life into our shared beings.
Finally, we unlock our embrace and float above the surface, popping out, panting, smiling, shaking our heads because we can’t believe... Well, I don’t wanna speak for her, but I can’t believe that this is my life. Because not so very long ago, it seemed pretty goddamn impossible to imagine. I don’t know what she feels, but I’d like to think it’s something similar.
We rotate around now, and swim together the few feet back over to the edge of the pool where I prop myself up and she presses her legs against the wall on either side of me. I let my torso float up to meet her, and then she positions herself so that my cock can slide inside her. Gripping me around the waist, she pulls me up and into her over and over again, the water lapping and slapping against us as we make love.
It feels frantic and urgent and necessary, but somehow, at the same time, something about being here in the water slows time down and draws out each moment. Or maybe it has nothing to do with the water. Maybe it’s just the way it feels when I’m with her.
Whatever it is, we stay locked together like this for what seems like hours. Back and forth. In and out. Tiny waves rippling along around us. A tidal force generated by the motion of our lovemaking.
We continue not to speak. Neither of us make much of a sound. We only stare into each other, holding tightly and trying not to let go.
And we won’t. I know this. I know this is true as much as I have ever known anything. Probably more. We will hold each other forever and then some.
We don’t have to say it. We don’t have to say a word. It simply is.
I love her.
She loves me.
And we will hold each other.
Now and always.
We will never let go.
“Where are you going?!” I ask, grabbing at her arm to keep her from getting out of the water.
“I have to pee.”
“No, don’t go. Just pee in the pool.”
“I’m not peeing in the pool.”
“Why? We just had sex in the pool for like two hours.”
“The fact that you see those two things as being somehow similar concerns me.”
“OK, fine.” I sulk, like the suddenly needy wheeze-box I have just become. “Go pee in the stupid bathroom like a decent, civilized human being. Whatever.”
She drops back down in the water and straddles me. “What? What’s wrong? Why is baby grumpy?” she asks in what can only be called a “patronizing and yet totally fucking sexy” way.
“I just want to keep you close,” I tell her.
“That’s sweet.”
“Yeah? You don’t think I’m a whiny bitch?”
“Sure, I do. But you’re a sweet whiny bitch.”
I roll my eyes and lift her off me. “Go pee, jackass.” She laughs and pulls herself out of the pool. I slap her on the ass as she goes. Water ricochets off her skin into the night air as my hand makes contact, and she squeals.
Once she’s gone, out of sight, I allow my head to lean back onto the coping, and, looking up at the stars in the sky, I let out a massive, massive sigh. It’s longer and from deeper in my lungs than I think I’ve ever sighed before. Because it’s filled with years of release. A lifetime.
I know that I cannot, in one long breath, let go of everything. I know that I can’t breathe out all the hurt, and guilt, and loss, and suffering on just one exhalation. I know that it will take hundreds, probably thousands more sighs to purge myself completely of the weight of friends lost and promises not kept. Of dreams unrealized and goals unfulfilled. I know that there will be demons still lingering in the shadows, and that there will remain mountains to climb and dragons to slay. But I’m good with that.
Because I’m not alone. Because the only person I have ever met in my life who stands a shot of understanding is with me. I told her back on Thanksgiving, when we were having sex in the Four Seasons, that I just wanted her to understand. She said that she wanted that too. And holy shit... she does. I didn’t think it was possible for anyone to, but she does.
Looking up at the night sky, I think about how lucky I am. And I laugh. Not because I am lucky, but because I can allow myself to recognize it. To feel it. That’s something I thought was gone forever. That feeling. That appreciation. That gratitude. And yet here it is. Filling me up and making me smile.
Ain’t that some shit?
New Year’s Eve is tomorrow. And then a whole new book starts getting written for us. I can’t wait to see what happens. Which is fucking incredible since for so long I just dreaded to see what was gonna happen. Man...
Nadir’s watch will be ready in a couple of days. Restored. Fixed. And when we find his family and return it, we will be able to know that with every second that it ticks off, it will mark a special, precious, bonus moment in time that Maddie and I will get to share. Moments that didn’t have to happen. Moments that all came so very close to never having the chance to be.
I look up into the inky mystery above my head and whisper out, “Thanks.”
We really should do something to mark the occasion, I suddenly think. Like, I dunno, maybe we should even get out of town. I know we’re gonna be going to the Middle East soon, but that’s less of a “vacation” and more of a “Tyler-and-Maddie-continue-to-put-their-lives-at-risk” kind of a getaway. So before that, maybe just something off the grid in a sweet, not war-zoney place. Just for a second.
It’s last-minute, but I could get us a flight to somewhere. Find some little B&B on a beach somewhere. Or maybe not a beach. We were just on a beach last week and I dunno if we’re far enough removed from that to really enjoy it. Might have Carlos and Logan flashbacks and shit.
Blech.
So maybe one of those treehouse hotels in the jungle. Yeah! That could be rad. Me Tarzan, you Jane and all that. Just running around in loincloths, and eating bananas, and petting monkeys and so forth. Yeah. Yeah, that could be fun. Just a total, wacky, silly change of pace from all that we’ve been dealing with. Shit, I’m gonna do it right now. Before she gets back from the bathroom. I’ll book something on my phone and surprise her. Just tell her to pack a loincloth and give no other hints about what we’re doing. That’s super-romantic. I’m fuckin’ great at this boyfriend shit. I—
“Did you get my texts?”
Because I’m reaching over for my discarded jeans that have my phone in the pocket, I don’t see anyone approaching from the indoor portion of the indoor/outdoor space. So that’s on me. But, in fairness, I wasn’t really expecting someone to show up so rudely, uninvited. Although, if I had to pick someone to expect it of... It would be him.
I stop reaching for my phone now, turn to face him, and say, as casually as I can...
“Hey, Logan.”
MADDIE
The toilets at Robert and Evan’s all have remote controls. It was very jarring the first time I attempted to use one. I was curious what all the little icons on the keypad did. A lot, as it turns out. One of them controls the electronic bidet wand that shoots water up your ass. And everywhere else. And once I figured out that you can control the temperature of the water that sprays up there... Well, now Evan and Robert’s bathrooms have become some of my happy places.
And as I’m washing my hands now, I look at myself in the mirror. There’s something in my eyes I don’t necessarily recognize. But I like it. I don’t know what it is. But I like it. It might be contentment. Which is almost as good as a Japanese toilet bidet wand.
Don’t get too comfortable, bitch.
Who the fuck was that?
It’s me.
Oh, fuck. It’s the devil. What the hell is he doing here now?
Whattayou want? I ask.
Nothing. Just to remind you that this ain’t your real fuckin’ life.
What? What do you mean?
All this shit? All this “comfort” and “generosity” and “nobility” and... “Love...” This ain’t you.
Why? Why not? Why the hell not? Why isn’t it me?
Because... That shit is for other people. People who can handle it.
What do you mean, “who can handle it?”
Mo’ money, mo’ problems, sweet cheeks. Mo’ responsibility, mo’ challenges. Mo’ happiness, way, way, way mo’ disappointment. And sadness. And pain. You think you can take it? You think you’ve got what it takes to handle the shit the world throws at you? Really? Like, really, really?
Yeah. I do. I think there’s plenty of evidence of that.
The devil cackles.
Oh, shit! That’s a good one! Ha! You think you’ve suffered and now you get to rest? Shit, chick. You have no idea what actual suffering looks like. No idea at all. Sorry, “Angel in Disguise.” He says it mockingly. Then adds, Hashtag RealTalk.
Fuck this.
Why are you doing this? Where is the angel?
Angel can’t help you tonight, pumpkin. Ain’t no shelter for you here.
What. The fuck. Are you talking about?
And that’s when I hear what sounds like a gunshot.
TYLER
I display as little surprise at seeing him as I possibly can. Which actually isn’t that hard because hell, nothing fucking surprises me anymore. So I don’t even bother to ask how he survived the fire, or how he found us, or how he got my number to text me, or any of that crap. Because, honestly? Shit don’t matter.
No, no, no. Instead of peppering him with dumb questions that won’t mean anything five minutes from now, I simply choose to say, “So funny. I was just thinking about you.”
“Yeah? What were you thinking?”
Man. He’s fucked up. Bad. It’s hard to tell just how bruised and battered his face is now, as compared to how it was, because it’s currently wrapped in a shitload of gauze. He’s limping as he approaches me, gun out, and it’s obvious it hurts him to walk. On the plus side for him, he’s wearing this, like, burgundy velour tracksuit, so at least he doesn’t have to worry about matching his belt to his shoes.
“Oh, y’know,” I start, wiping the water droplets off my face, “just about what a crappy time we had at your resort. You should give your cabaña boys towels instead of guns. Just a thought.”
I’m working very hard to stay calm even as my eyes dart around behind him to see if I can spy Maddie. If he’s done something to her, then it doesn’t really much matter what happens to me and I’m just gonna charge this asshole now. If she’s OK, then I have to be more tactical about how I handle things to make sure that she stays that way. Either way, things right now are far from ideal. Fuck.
“The wine at the hotel. That was you?” I ask.
He shrugs. Well, at least now I don’t feel so silly at being paranoid about not drinking it.
“Get out of the fuckin’ pool,” he says, gesturing with his pistol.
It’s weird. It’s weird for him to command me out of the water. As opposed to just shooting me in the fucking head, I mean. I should be used to the notion that dude is terrible at killing people by now – or at least at killing me – but I can’t help but wonder what it is he hopes to gain. I can only assume that it’s, I dunno, ego. Or something. Maybe dude thinks that because I’m naked in a pool I’m vulnerable? Maybe he thinks that he’ll shame me or some shit? Or hell, maybe he just wants to shoot me in the dick. That’d be so fucking lame. Which is so fucking Logan. So I can’t put it past him.
“Yeah, OK,” I say, and push up on the edge of the wall.
I lift myself out of the pool slowly. Carefully. Keeping my eye on the gun the whole time. I’m not so arrogant to believe that I have anything even close to resembling an advantage right now, but, as with the very first time we met, Logan’s first instinct here is not to kill me. It’s to threaten me. To intimidate. And even though the odds definitely ain’t in my favor, it might just be enough.
Rising out of the water, move by careful move, I feel the night air on my skin. Against the pellets of moisture on my body, it causes my muscles to tense, and flex, and tighten. Which is fine by me because it makes me feel coiled. Ready for whatever is coming next.
As I turn to face him fully, the chill stiffens my neck and I twist it side to side, causing it to crack. Then I take a breath and level off my gaze to look him in the eye. His face is so covered with gauze that the white stands in stark contrast with his brown eyes, making it hard for him to mask where his glance is directed. And there’s a flash of a second where I detect something in his glare that I’m choosing to interpret as awe when he eyeballs my cock. It might also just be envy, though. Tough to call.
I suck at my teeth and say, “You’re a day early. New Year’s Eve is tomorrow.”
“Yeah, well,” he says, “turns out I’m leaving earlier than I thought.”
“Oh, yeah? Where you going? Someplace fun? I hope someplace with a good healthcare system, because it looks like whoever performed your nose job seriously overdid it, bro.”
He doesn’t say anything for a second. Just looks at me like he’s trying real, real hard not to pull the trigger. Which, again, is stupid on his part, and keeps giving me hope. Which may be foolish, but as I’ve said before, I’m a real cock-sucking optimist.
Also, and this is fucking nuts, I kind of feel bad for him. Just like I did the first time I kicked his and Ricky’s asses. I suppose it’s a weakness of mine, but seeing him all jacked-up-looking, wearing his dopey tracksuit and limping around like he is makes him seem so... I dunno. Like Fredo from The Godfather. Just an idiot who wants so much to be taken seriously. I mean, I’ll still kill him, but I’m gonna feel bad about it.
“This is gonna be hard for you to believe,” he says, “but I’m not here because you were working for the DEA, or because you and your bitch destroyed what represents years, and years, and years of hard work.” Calling her a bitch is the closest he’s come to really pissing me off. If he calls her anything like that again, I may just be forced to rip out this motherfucker’s spleen. He goes on, “It’s personal. I know, I know. That’s cliché and maybe stupid. I should be on a plane right this very second, getting the fuck off the continent. I know. But I just can’t. I can’t go on living in a world that I know you and that cunt whore of yours are living in too.”
Yep. That did it. That’s gonna cost him his lower intestine.
“Because,” he continues, “Carlos was my fucking uncle, and you killed him. He raised me. And you fucking killed him. And for that, you’ve gotta pay a goddamn price.”
I nod for a sec. Then, “So... were you adopted then? Because I’ve been trying to figure out—”
“Shut up! Just shut your fucking mouth.”
“Copy,” I tell him. And then I do shut up and look at him like, Well, go on.
“Come with me. Now,” he says.
He waves the gun to indicate that I should go ahead of him inside. Which I don’t like. Once you’re on the move to a second location, your odds of survival diminish substantially. And also, fuck this guy.
“Why?” I ask. “If you’re gonna fucking do something, do it here.”
“Oh, I’m gonna fucking do something all right. And you’re gonna watch it happen.”
And all of a sudden, I don’t feel so cocksucking optimistic.
“Fuck does that mean?”
“You’ll see. Let’s go.”
“Fuck you, dude.”
And then the quiet of the desert night is splintered by the sound of a gunshot.
MADDIE
I jump, splashing water everywhere as I do. What the fuck was that?
“Tyler?” I shout as I place my hand on the bathroom doorknob and turn. I yank the door—
And I yank the door—
And I yank the door—
Why the fuck can’t I open the fucking door?
It pulls back a couple of inches but that’s it. I peer through the open crack and it looks like there’s... a rope. Or something. Tied around the door handle. When I strain to see, it seems like the other end is tied around the base of this huge, marble credenza thing that sits in the hallway outside. This whole goddamn house is like a Restoration Hardware showroom, but nicer.
What the fuck is going on? Why is there a rope around—? What the fuck is going on?
“Tyler!” I scream.
I can work my hand through the open crack in the door, but to do that I have to pull on the rope, which makes it taut. And making it taut keeps the slipknot that’s tied in it too tight to unravel. I push the door closed a bit to see if I can create some slack, but there’s not enough to work the knot free.
“Tyler!”
I tried to tell you, the devil says, but some people don’t wanna listen. Good luck, girlie. You’re on your own. And he disappears.
“TYLER!” I scream.
My brain now starts a violent volley with itself between confusion and a terrified suspicion that I know exactly what is going on. The feeling of dread I’ve been having. The feeling of foreboding. It hasn’t been unfounded at all. It hasn’t been strong enough.
I yank at the door harder, but I can’t get it pulled open beyond a sliver. I decide to see if I can squeeze through. Or, I don’t actually “decide” anything. There’s no space in my thoughts for decision making. I’m just reacting.
Pressing on the other side of the door, I try to wedge it open enough that I can slide past. I do all the things you do that don’t make any sense but feel like they might help. I hold my breath, I stand on my tip-toes to make myself longer and leaner, I pull my shoulders back to see if I can draw my breasts in and flatten my body out. All stupid. And none work.
And so I just start jerking on the handle. Jerking, and jerking, and jerking. Nothing. Nothing works. I am trapped. Something is going on outside of this room, something horrible—and I am trapped.
And there is nothing worse in the whole world than feeling trapped.
TYLER
So you know the thing about getting shot? It hurts. It, no question, stings a little. But more than that, the shit is just fucking surprising. There really is a moment that transcends fear, or pain, or any of that shit, and it’s that moment of “Holy fuck! I just got shot!” In addition to being punched, blown up, stabbed, and one time having a Humvee run over my foot (Stupid. My fault), I have been shot, I think, twice. Once in the shoulder and once in the side. Both totally non-lethal wounds. So, it’s not like I’m an expert in being shot or anything, but I’m pretty sure that I’ll never get used to it. Probably be kinda fucked up if I did.
The bullet that hits me now – the one from Logan’s gun – smashes right into my thigh. The thigh is a real tricky area of the body. There’s all kinds of shit in the thigh that, while not necessary to sustain life per se, when violated, can really expedite the ending of a life. My only hope, as my legs give out from under me and I fall to the concrete, is that Unlucky Logan managed to miss any of Unlucky Tyler’s major arteries or anything like that. If I’ve caught a break, it will be that it just hit muscle or whatever and didn’t fuck up my femoral artery. When I look down, the blood doesn’t appear to be spurting out like I’ve seen it do when that artery is hit, but fuck do I know? I ain’t no doctor.
Logan comes over to me where I am now bent down growling and trying to put some pressure on the wound. “You wanna know what it means, pretty boy?” he whispers. “Here’s what it means. It means that you’re gonna come with me and sit there and watch while I finally, finally get to find out what Maddie’s sweet pussy tastes like. You’re probably gonna want to do something about it, but that hole in your leg is just the first one you’re gonna get. So, while Maddie gets to find out what it feels like to have my tongue inside her and my cock in her ass, she’ll also know that you’re dying in front of her the whole time. And then after you’re good and gone, I’ll finish up and send Maddie off to join you. Yeah, I’m gonna let you two burn in Hell together, because that’s the kind of generous soul I am. Now let’s. Fucking. Go.”
He has the gun right at my temple and his mouth is right by my ear.
And being close enough to me that I can get my hands on him is his first mistake.
His second mistake is letting me know that, at least at present, Maddie’s OK. I don’t know where she is inside, and I don’t know if he has hurt her in some way, but based on what he just said, I know that she’s at least alive.
And when you put those two mistakes together, you get what happens next.
“Please,” I plead. “Please, please, please. Do whatever the fuck you want to me, but just please don’t hurt Maddie.” I can’t imagine he’s stupid enough to believe this horseshit, but then again... Yeah. I can.
And when he reaches down to pull me up and drag me with him, I take him by the arm and yank him as hard as I can, smashing his bandaged and fucked-up face into the concrete. He screams. Loud. There’s no other houses around, so nobody can hear him scream, nobody can hear the gunshot, and nobody can hear everything that pops off next. Nobody to get in the way and get hurt, but nobody to call for help either.
Which could be a good thing or a bad thing, but right now... it just is.
And all I can think is that it’s probably for the best because shit’s about to get real, real bloody out here.
And I hope to fucking Christ that Maddie is OK.
Please be OK, Maddie.
Please be OK.
MADDIE
I hear a scream. A loud scream. A scream of pain.
And I lose my shit.
I’m kicking the door, and pulling at the handle, and looking around like maybe there’s another way out of here even though I know there isn’t. No window, no other exit. This is it. I have to get the fuck out of here. I have to.
Opening the drawers to the vanity, I’m looking for something. Anything. I don’t know what. A chainsaw would be helpful, but I’m not seeing one. I kick the door one more time and my foot accidentally hits the handle. And it shakes.
It kind of bounces. Like maybe it can be loosened. Or dislodged. Or knocked the hell off. And if it can, then the rope will fall with it. It’s not so much a long shot as it is something that is gonna fucking hurt.
But... I know I can shoulder pain.
So fuck it.
I rear back and kick it again and this time I miss the handle with my heel and the soft, fleshy part of my foot makes full contact.
“Motherfucker!”
I’m limping around in circles, trying to shake it off. It’s the kind of jarring, stabbing pain that runs all the way up the leg and feels like it ends in your hair. But oh, well.
I kick at it again, this time landing squarely on the knob with my heel. It is equally as painful, but just in a different way. The pain is also mitigated by the fact that the knob now seems to be jangling loose. It’s wobbly. I pull at it to see if I can tug it off.
Not quite. Shit.
I’m going to have to go all in one more time. I’m sure I’m in more pain than I can realize, but right now I’m just grateful that adrenaline works the way it does. I put one hand on the sink basin, one hand on the wall on the other side, glance over at myself in the mirror, and, addressing the devil, say aloud...
“You’re wrong, asshole. I’m a bitch who can handle anything.”
And then I turn, and with all my might, I level my foot at the knob and that motherfucker snaps right off the stem and goes ricocheting off the wall. I actually have to duck to keep from getting beaned in the head.
I scream out, half in pain, half in victory, and push out the remaining stem that holds the front of the handle with the rope on it. The latch is still in position, but I can slide my finger in the hole where the stem was and draw it back far enough to yank the door open and free myself. I take off down the hall, unconcerned with what’s waiting for me outside, and with only one thought in my head...
I hope to fucking Christ that Tyler is OK.
Please be OK, Tyler.
Please be OK.
TYLER
Even though Logan is wailing and moaning, he manages to keep his grip on the gun. I go to wrest it from him, but he manages to kick me off him, nailing me hard right in my still-healing rib.
“Motherfucker!” I let out, as I fall backwards and see the blood pumping harder from the wound in my leg. He’s holding his face now, trying to turn and aim at me again. And all I can think is, You stupid fuck. This is why you don’t give someone a second chance. Oh, well.
I lurch toward him and the searing pain in both my side and leg are making it hard for me to see clearly. Everything’s kinda fuzzy and hazy, but I can see shapes, and I charge straight for the douchebag-shaped asshole I can make out in front of me. Hammering towards him in my naked, scarred, and bloody state, I wonder what this would look like if someone did happen upon it. A guy with a mummy face in a burgundy velour tracksuit and a bleeding, naked dude mixing it up poolside in a ridiculous mansion in the desert. They’d probably think, Look, Gertrude! They’re making a movie! And despite everything, that makes me smile for the tiniest measure of time.
I lunge into Logan to keep him from leveling his weapon at me, and of course...
We both careen backwards into the fucking pool.
The blood from my leg fans out in thin ribbons through the water. And now we’re grasping and poking and punching at each other, the weight of our struggle pulling us toward the bottom. We’re at the deep end. Deep enough that the surface is just above our heads.
At this point, I’m still more worried about getting the gun out of his hand than I am about drowning or bleeding out or any shit like that. I don’t think I’m gonna bleed out, and I really don’t think I’m gonna drown. I was in the fuckin’ Navy. And even though most of my work was terrestrial, I had plenty of water training and I know that my lung capacity is solid and more or less how long I can struggle under water before I’ll need to take in air. I’m sure I can outlast this cocksucker.
I’m sure I can.
So, at present, my strategy – if you can call it a fucking strategy – is just to keep him pinned down so that the gun isn’t pointed my way and so that he can’t get out from underneath me until his fucking chest fills with water and he goes to sleep. Then I’ll crawl out of here, find Maddie, make sure she’s OK, and then get us to a goddamn motherfucking treehouse where nobody can find us! Fuck!
At least, that’s my plan until he knees me in the ribs again, and when I yelp, I take in a whole, big-ass mouthful of water and swallow it down. Shit. Well, so much for outlasting him. Fuck me.
OK.
Plan B.
MADDIE
Ow. It fucking hurts to walk. So good thing I’m not walking. I’m in a full sprint, running naked through the house to get to the pool. I tear down the hallway and make it to the indoor portion of the indoor/outdoor space. Looking out onto the deck, I don’t see anything right away. No Tyler. No nothing. Which worries me.
And then I see something that worries me more.
There’s little slivers of dark color in the water being illuminated by the lights from inside the pool. And the water itself is churning and splashing. Just underneath I can see two bodies. Tyler and someone who I can’t make out to determine for certain, but who is one hundred percent undoubtedly Logan.
I just know it.
When I asked Tyler if he was sure that Logan had died in the fire, he assured me that he had to have. And right then and there I knew, I just felt it in my gut, that we would see him again. I didn’t say anything because I was hoping against hope that I was just being nervous and shell-shocked. But inside, intuitively... I knew.
The fight I see happening is bizarre. I can’t really make everything out. Just enough to see that Tyler is on top and that it looks like... he’s winning? Maybe? It’s impossible to know. It’s also impossible to know where the blood is coming from. Who’s bleeding, I mean. But the one thing I do know is that I’m not just going to stand here debating with myself about it.
And as I’m at the edge of the pool, about to jump in...
I hear the shot.
TYLER
I struggle with my left hand to pull the gun from his right. But he’s fighting me, boy. He’s hanging on for dear life, that’s for sure. Cockroaches and Logan. Hard to friggin’ kill. Son of a bitch.
And now things are starting to get dark. Which I mean literally. My vision is really getting cloudy. I don’t know if it’s loss of blood, oxygen, or probably a combination of both, but the lights are going out at Casa Tyler. Fuck me. Is this really how I’m going to die? Seriously? Drowning? Not getting shot, or blown up, or burned up, or anything like that, but in almost the exact opposite way? Man. Ain’t that some shit?
And with the last bit of energy I have left, I open my mouth once more and howl a muted and strangled cry of rage and desperation, taking in what feels like a river of anger into my lungs, and I wrench the gun from Logan’s weakening hand, point the barrel towards his chest, and fire.
The muffled cough of the bullet leaving the pistol thuds in the water as the slug pierces Logan’s breastplate. It’s hard to tell immediately if it did in fact make the contact that I think it did, because the burgundy of the tracksuit masks the emerging stream of blood. But quickly, it becomes clear that it did find its target, because Logan stops fighting and his eyes stay open in an expression of terminal shock.
Sorry, Logan.
No. That’s a lie. I’m not sorry. We all make choices in life.
And Logan made his.
And now I see the trickle of blood seeping out from the wet velour, and I realize... he’s gone. He’s really, really gone. There will be no mistake this time. No uncertainty. No last-minute surprises. He’s gone.
Fuck you, Logan. Fuck you straight to hell.
But, as with all things in life, there is a cost for this moment. Nothing, and I mean nothing, happens without sacrifice. And as the darkness now comes over me fully, and I can no longer pretend that I’m going to climb out of here and go with Maddie to a treehouse someplace, I have only two thoughts in my mind.
And if you had asked me to tell you what my final thoughts would be when the time came, there’s no way I would’ve picked these weirdo ones in a million years, but...
I think, one: Fuck. Now I’ll never find out Logan’s story. Like was his mother Carlos’s sister, or...?
And two: Shit. This is way worse than Maddie peeing in the pool.
MADDIE
The water acts as kind of a silencer, so it’s not like the one I heard from the bathroom, but it’s loud enough to make me stop me in my tracks for a second. My entire body freezes.
And then the worst thing that can happen does. The thrashing stops. The struggling abates. As activated as the violent frenzy of the fight I was just witnessing made me, the contrasting stillness is numbing. And now the tiny streaks of blood I saw turn into a full, rich pool. A pool inside a pool. A pool I jump into screaming, “NO!” as I leap.
I swim down and wrap my arms around the heavy, scarred, lifeless frame of Tyler Morgan and begin trying to pull him to the surface. It’s hard. Because he’s big. And dead weight is heavy to lift.
Dead weight.
The words echo inside my head as I struggle and lift, trying to draw him out. I strain, and tug, and as I get to the edge and almost have him up, he slips from my grip and goes floating back down to the bottom. Shit! I don’t know if I can do it. I’m out of breath, and he’s heavy, and if I can’t get him up... What do I do then?
I think about how he didn’t want me to go to the bathroom before. How he wanted me to stay here with him. And how cute it was, and how we gave each other shit.
And it makes me sad.
I go where you go, Ty. Wherever that takes us.
It runs through my head, over and over and over again.
I go where you go.
And that’s the thought that propels me to kick off the wall and swim back down to the bottom. And try again.
Because I don’t care what happens to me.
I only care what happens to us.
I go where you go, Tyler Hudson Morgan.
I go where you go.