Cruise

I wore white for her. A white shirt, and I even tucked it into my jeans. I guess the black I usually wear intimidates people. That was kind of the point.

But for her family, I lightened my look. Second impressions, and all that. I kind of liked living our lives in seclusion, keeping the outside world at bay. After a week of rescheduling with her family, we were all available on the same night for dinner. It was probably best because last week I would’ve pummeled her brother into this week anyway. Dove is the only reason I’m calmer tonight.

I straighten the shirt when we get out of the car. I’m calmer now, but just a bit. I don’t know what bullshit they were fighting over. I only care about Clara’s wellbeing. I never would have hit Paige or Liz. However, I wouldn’t mind a few rounds with Fredrick, the fucking pussy.

This past week was busy, which I liked. Alex has me overseeing a new development project downtown and Clara has been busy with her student teaching and classes. We were so normal that she kept pointing it out with a huge grin on her face. She finds joy in the most mundane things.

I find joy in her.

Holding her hand, she leads me to the front door, a mixture of excitement and fear flickering across her delicate features. She knows me well enough to lay the warning down before we reach the door. “Please don’t judge us too harshly. I know we can come off as different, but it’s because of what we’ve lived through.”

“I wouldn’t judge you for that.”

She stops and turns toward me. With her hands on my chest, she looks up into my eyes. “I know. That’s one of the reasons I lo—care about you. I just want you to like my family.”

“I’m not going to lie. Your brother and I have business to discuss.”

“Please just let it slide.”

“I’m sorry, Dove. I can’t. But I will wait for another time if that will help you relax a little.”

Perking up, she hugs me to her, her lips pressed to mine. When she drops to her heels, she smiles. “Thank you. That’s all I ask.”

She knocks lightly before opening the door. Peeking in like a neighbor overstepping her welcome, she tiptoes in with me walking in behind her. Her mom is in the kitchen to the left, her brother watching TV.

The door closes and she announces, “We’re here.”

Her mom looks back over her shoulder. “Hi. I didn’t hear you come in. I was checking the roast.” She comes over to us with an apron wrapped over her shirt and jeans. I like that she’s casually dressed. My parents were never casual, not even around the house. She hugs her daughter and then smiles at me. “It’s so good to see you again, Cruise. Clara has said the most wonderful things about you.”

“Thank you. I hear the same about you, Mrs. Eckerd.”

Waving me off, she says, “It’s Johnson actually. Long story. Anyway, hope you’re hungry. Dinner will be served soon, but make yourself at home in the meantime. Can I get you something to drink?”

“Whatever Clara’s having is fine. Thank you, Mrs. Johnson.”

Clara says, “I want wine to calm my nerves. We have beer if you’d rather have that.”

“Wine’s fine.”

“I’ll get it, Mom. I know you’re busy. I can help you, too.”

“Thank you, sweetheart,” her mom replies and returns to the kitchen.

Clara sighs before leaving and looks between her brother and me. “Vaughn, you remember Cruise from the restaurant.”

Not a question. A statement.

His eyes dart to me and then back to the TV. “Yeah.”

Clara says, “All righty then. Wine it is.”

She heads into the kitchen and I’m not sure what she wants me to do. Stay here, follow her, or sit on the couch. I know I promised to lay off today, but the way he’s a grunting fucking teenager is already on one of my last nerves. I decide to make my presence known.

When I sit on the couch, I see her littlest brother playing with the clothes in a laundry basket. I didn’t see or hear him when I arrived, which is really strange, considering most babies are noisy as fuck.

He’s a cute kid, even if his father was fucking psycho. At least he won’t have to endure what his siblings did. Hopefully stars can just be stars for him.

“What are you watching?” I ask Vaughn, not looking at the TV but at him. He’s wearing a skate shirt that looks like it’s seen better days, some beat-up jeans with paint splatters near the ankles, and socks with holes in them. He doesn’t look like he belongs in this family, or perhaps Clara and her mother are better at keeping up appearances by the way they dress.

I glance toward the kitchen where the two women are talking quietly so we can’t hear. Clara’s holding the filled wine glasses but doesn’t look like she’s going to deliver them anytime soon.

Vaughn says, “What do you want with her?”

The sound of his voice is not what I expected. Puberty seems to have come and gone with him. The deep tone to his voice might alarm others. Not me. “What?”

“What do you want with my sister?”

The question in and of itself is odd. I want her. That doesn’t seem like the answer I can give her family since it can come off wrong. “We’re dating, so I care about her very much.”

“So I hear. I’m just not sure why.”

“I’m not sure what there is that you’re not getting.” Leaning forward, I rest my arms on my legs and stare at him.

“She’s never dated anyone. She’s fucked-up.” What the actual fuck?

Narrowing my eyes at him, I can’t believe he said that. This jackass has balls the size of the Grand Canyon. “Don’t ever talk about her like that again.”

“Or what?” he asks, sitting forward. A fire’s been lit in his eyes, an excitement that shouldn’t exist. Clara’s right. I’ve seen people lit by drugs, and I think he’s high as a kite, or he’s out of his fucking mind. Either way, he’s a danger to my girl, and I need to make sure he’s kept away.

I lower my voice and reply, “If you talk about her like that or touch her in any way ever again, I’ll kill you. Do you understand me?”

“You talk like you have experience in the matter. Should I see if you can back that threat?”

Clara’s voice comes from behind me. “Vaughn, shut up.”

We turn to find her standing behind the couch staring daggers at her brother.

He shrugs, then stands. “Fuck, I’m starving.” We watch as he leaves the room for the kitchen, thumping his brother on the head on the way.

Her baby brother starts to cry, so she sets the glasses down and rushes to pick him up. “Shhhhh,” she tries to soothe him, and then kisses his head. “It’s okay.”

She’s sweet to him, the love she has is clear by the way she treats him. They’re kind of cute together. I stand and start to walk over to meet the little guy but a family portrait on the mantle catches my eyes. The photo is of Clara, Vaughn, the baby, her mom . . . and her father. Her father. The one that abused them, raped her, beat them. Why the fuck would they have a photo of him anywhere in this house?

As if reading my mind, she frantic to explain, “We have it for pretenses, to hide our secrets that we don’t want the world to know.” Bumping against my arm, she gently pinches me to get my attention back on her. “My mom puts it out when people come by.” Reaching for it, she lies it face down. “I guess she thought she needed to for you. I haven’t told her that you know about him.”

Something doesn’t sit right, a conversation we once had is triggered.

“Chad was killed.”

“My father was killed.”

Lifting the photo up, I look into the eyes of the devil himself. My gaze bounces from his chin to his nose, his hair to the heavy lines on his face. I land back on his eyes, staring deep until the full picture of his features come into focus and I realize I know him.

“It’s Johnson actually. Long story.”

I fucking know him.

“How did you say your father was killed?”

She hesitates, and I almost expect to hear donut come from her lips, but it doesn’t. “I didn’t.”

The sharp response makes me look her way. She’s bouncing the baby on her hip, but stops when she looks at me.

The sleeping couple didn’t draw my eyes, the baby in the crib by the window did. I stand over the baby, staring down. We’re about to murder someone, but not just any someone. Someone’s father.

We did the research before coming here. We knew this fucker had a family—a wife, a teenage son, a college-age daughter.

Holy shit!

We never saw a baby in the records. There were no signs they had another child, but here it is—a girl or boy, I have no idea—but it sleeps peacefully, sucking a pacifier, not realizing its father is about to be taken out.

This fucker and his partner are responsible for Chad’s death and Sara Jane being shot. I look at the bed and then to King holding the gun in front of him. If he pulls that trigger, the fucker’s dead on the spot.

Jason stands behind him with his gun in hand at his side.

I’m more than a lookout on this mission. I’m backup, but I can’t stop thinking about this baby. Staring at him is like seeing a reflection of myself. My own life altered around this same age when I lost my birth parents, or they gave me away.

King’s not a killer.

He wants revenge.

So do I, but is this the way to go about it?

Before that gun is fired, they should know that there’s more than the fucker’s wife in this room. I click my tongue, getting my friend’s attention. They both look my way and I signal to the crib.

King comes over and looks down. “Fuck,” is uttered under his breath.

I’m not here to make decisions. I’ll leave that burden to bear on their shoulders. The last death was his reaction. I would have done the same. This death is a choice I’m not sure my best friend should make under these circumstances.

He returns to the end of the bed and raises his arm. I’m here however he needs me, but my gut is twisted wondering if this is the right thing to do.

I’m already going to hell for all the hell we’ve raised. What’s one more mark added to the tally? I wait by the window, making sure it’s clear and that no one starts snooping around my car.

The gun is lowered, and he nods toward our exit. I jump out, my feet hitting the grass just as a shot rings out and the screaming inside that bedroom escapes the window and echoes in the night.

. . . Whispering to Clara, I say, “We need to talk.”