Three
Amelia
I got up early the next morning, throwing on another sundress in white, and got the heck out of the building way before anyone else would be up and about. I didn't really need to be at work early, but there was always something to do if you looked for it. Besides, even boring office work was better than having another run-in with Johnnie Allen. As it was, I had been tossing and turning all night. First, because he was loud as heck over in his apartment. It sounded like there was a party going on even though I knew he was alone. There was banging and shuffling and crashing. Then, of course, there was the blaring music that I was shocked old Aggy across the hall didn't pitch a fit about. If I let my TV go above a whisper, she was banging on my door. But also, second, because, well... I couldn't stop my brain from thinking about him.
I wondered about what had caused him to up and leave one day, never to look back. From what I understood, no one ever heard from him save for a call to his grandmother on her birthday each year (along with some sort of extravagant present, as if that could make up for his absence). I wanted to know what on Earth could have led him to a life of crime. He seemed relatively well adjusted, calm, laid back. That didn't exactly scream "killer", but that was exactly what he was. That was what he did. He killed people for money. And, seriously, what was with the scotch? Was he being ironic? Was it some kind of jab because Ben named him after a brand of scotch?
During all of this tossing and turning, there was not a single thought of how attractive he was. I didn't get a full-body shiver at the memory of him touching my cheek. I didn't feel a blush at remembering him saying that... pussy comment. I didn't wonder about how he earned his reputation with women; what he was capable of doing to them. Nope. Not me. I was not that messed up.
I let myself in through the back of the building, walking down the old stone hallways and opening my small, dark, windowless office. It really was one depressing place to work. Not even the stark white desk and light throw rug could warm the place up. I pushed the button for the coffee pot, not adding grounds because, well, I hated coffee. I brewed hot water for tea. Yes, hot tea... in August. See, not only was my office figuratively cold, it was also quite literally cold; I guess because it was buried in the basement. I dropped a teabag into a mug and walked back over to my desk, tidy to the way of compulsive. I liked things in order. Actually, I liked them not only to be in order, but color coordinated and alphabetically or numerically sorted. I was, and always had been, a bit of a control freak. I had a psych student once tell me that people who were crazy about orderliness were that way because it was the only thing in their life that they could control. It had been a comment that had been all-too true at the time. Of course, it wasn't that way anymore, but it was a habit I didn't even think about breaking.
Sometime around lunch time, I heard voices a floor above me. It wasn't unusual for that to be the case; people were in and out all day long. But what caught my attention was the fact that the voices sounded agitated and raised. I got up out of my chair and walked into the hallway, shamelessly trying to eavesdrop near the staircase. When the voices seemed to get even louder, I found myself moving up the stairs, worried that whoever was working upstairs might be in some kind of trouble.
I pushed the door open and walked into the front of the church with a pit in my stomach. Father Sanders was standing in the aisle between the front pews, holding his hands up like he was trying to silence who he was talking to (yelling at).
That person was... oh, lordy... Johnnie Allen. Of course. That was just my life.
"Are you raising your voice to a priest?" I heard myself ask as I moved further into the room.
Johnnie's smile was on his face before his eyes even lifted to find me. "Heya angel," he said, inclining his head at me.
"It's alright, Amelia," Father Sanders said in his rough voice that always kind of rubbed me the wrong way. He always seemed (because he was) dismissive of me.
I looked from him to Johnnie who was wearing another pair of black jeans, plain black creepers, and a white v-neck tee that showed a generous chunk of tattoos that were on his chest, thereby satisfying my inappropriate curiosity. "What's going on?" I asked him, ignoring Father Sanders' none-too-subtle dismissal of me.
"Father Sanders and I were just... discussing my father's arrangements," he supplied with a shrug.
"And that resulted in raised voices... why?" I asked, more than a little annoyed that someone like him, someone who didn't give a spit about Ben got to be the one to make his final arrangements.
"Amelia that is hardly..." Father Sanders started, but was cut off by Johnnie.
"We simply don't see eye to eye on my part in the process."
"Your... part?"
"Yes, see... I plan on being the checkbook, honey," he explained calmly. "Father Sanders would like for me to be a pallbearer and to say something at the services. I apparently owe it to his memory to say some nice words."
"And the problem is?"
"Darlin' I don't have any nice words to say."
I let out a long breath, nodding my head. There was honesty there; he truly felt like he had nothing to say about his own father's existence. "Don't you think, Johnnie, that maybe it's time to... forgive him?"
His arm raised, rubbing across the back of his neck, a muscle ticking in his jaw in a seemingly uncharacteristic sign of anger. When his face rose to mine again, there was none of his humor, of his light-heartedness.
"Tell you what..." he started, his voice so low that I felt like I was straining to hear him. "When you spend your childhood choking on your own blood after having your baby teeth knocked down your throat, then you can tell me about how I need to forgive that son of a bitch, angelface."
His words landed like a kick to the stomach, pushing out all my air violently. There had been nothing but raw emotion in his words and, with a quick glance at Father Sanders who looked away uncomfortably, I knew they were the truth. Ben Allen had knocked out his son's teeth. I felt like the floor was giving away beneath my feet, like it was crumbling to dust.
"Hey," Johnnie's voice called, sounding concerned, but from far away. All I could hear was my swirling thoughts, the pounding of my heart, the whooshing of blood through my ears. "Amelia, hey," he said, sounding closer and my head jerked up to find him right in front of me. His hand moved out to grab my elbow, holding it hard, like he was trying to keep me from falling over. "Fuck. You alright, sweetheart?"
"Hardly cause for that kind of language," I heard Father Sanders say, but Johnnie ignored him so I did too.
"Come on, sit down," he said and he was pulling me down toward the pews and pushing me into the front row. He knelt down in front of me, his face set in worry lines. "You alright? I mean... I know my charm can make women feel positively light-headed, but this is all a bit much, don't you think?" he quipped, trying to ease the tension his words left in the air and in every molecule in my body.
"I think..." Father Sanders tried to break in again.
"That you should be going to get her a glass of water?" Johnnie supplied, his tone clipped. "Yeah, I think that's a good idea."
Father Sanders huffed but shuffled away.
"This is fitting," he said cryptically when we were alone.
"What?" I asked, taking a deep breath to try to ease the swirling inside my head.
"You being here."
"Why?"
"Because if there's one place an angel should be, it's at a church."
"That was... cheesy," I felt myself saying, my lips curving up.
"Yeah, but it finally got me a smile out of you, didn't it?" he asked, his eyes bright with his little victory. "What are you doing here?"
"I work here," I shrugged.
"You work at a church?" he asked, not understanding.
"Yes and no. I work at an outreach program that meets here."
"What kind of outreach program?"
"Alcoholics and narcotics anonymous."
He didn't jerk back in surprise and understanding like I had expected. He nodded slightly and had a ghost of a smile on his lips when he said, "There ain't nothing anonymous in a town this small."
"No and that is what makes recovery in small towns even harder. Everyone is watching you, placing bets on whether you fall off the wagon or not."
"You had a soft spot for my Pops," he half-asked, half-declared.
"Yes," I admitted, but the word felt poisonous on my tongue.
"I'm sorry I sprung that on you, honey," he said, squeezing my knees from his crouched position in front of me. "I didn't think it would be so surprising. It's no secret around here that my dad was a mean drunk."
"I knew him drunk," I found myself saying, needing to share. "He fixed my bathroom thingy when it broke. He could barely stand on two feet, but he came charging to the rescue."
He gave me a tight, empty smile. "Even drunk, he would never raise a hand to a face like this," he said, his hand cupping my cheek. A fluttering spread across my belly at his words and I tried my best to ignore it. "I wasn't trying to ruin your ideas about him, baby. I think you and me knew two different men who lived in the same skin, yeah?"
"He really broke your baby teeth?" I asked, feeling the water well up in my eyes and trying to blink it furiously away.
"It was a long time ago, angel. No need for this," he said, swiping the stray tear off my cheek.
"Here," Father Sanders' voice said gruffly, shoving a plastic cup of water into my hands and ending the moment between me and Johnnie. Which I was grateful for, or, at least, I was trying to convince myself I was grateful for.
"Thanks, Father," I said, bringing the cup up to my lips to take a sip. I wasn't thirsty and the water smelled heavily of bleach, but I needed something else to focus on other than the softness in Johnnie's eyes as he wiped away my tear.
"Johnnie, care to finish this conversation in my office?" Father Sanders asked, jerking his head at me.
"That's not necessary," he said, giving me one last long look before standing up and facing the priest. "If you're short on men, I'll be a pallbearer and I will..."
"You just said you weren't staying for the services," Father Sanders interrupted.
"Seems like I changed my mind," Johnnie said shrugging.
"So you'll say a few words?"
"No, but I think Miss. Alvarado here deserves that honor."
"What? No. That wouldn't be approp..." I started to object.
"Shush," he said, shaking his head. "Tell that shower story. People will eat that up."
"Johnnie I can't..."
"Do you really want there to be no one standing up there saying some parting words?"
"But he's not who I thought..."
"Baby, he was whoever he was. Everyone knows my side of this story. Everyone knows their own side. No one knows yours. I'm glad he was good to you. And they should know that too. So tell them."
I wanted to refuse, I really did. How could I get up there and say nice things about a man who, for most of his life, was not the man I knew and loved? Then again, what did that say about me? I was supposed to believe in second chances, in turning your life around. That was the job I was in; I helped people start over; I helped them repair the damage they created all the years they were using. It would be hypocritical of me to feel so differently about Ben now that I knew his sordid history. Because he did take his damage and try to set it to rights. I knew that because I knew how good he was to me. So I had to get up there and say those things. I needed people to know that Ben Allen left the Earth a different man than the one most of them had known most of his life. I owed him that for the years of friendship he gave to this lonely, prickly recluse.
"Okay," I said, nodding at the two men as I moved to stand.
"Then that's settled," Johnnie said to Father Sanders then turned to me. "So, it's time."
"Time?" I repeated, brows drawing together.
"Yeah. For lunch. Let's go."
"What? I have to..."
"Let me treat you to lunch," he finished for me, reaching for the cup in my hands and, no lie, pushing it into Father Sanders' hands. Then he reached down and wrapped my pinkie in his pinkie and started pulling me down the aisle toward the front door.
I was so frazzled by the gesture that I didn't think to object until we were already outside on the front steps. "I, ah, I need my purse," I tried dumbly.
"Not familiar with the concept of being treated to lunch, huh?" he asked, swinging our entwined hands between us as we walked down the street.
"Johnnie, I really don't think..."
"That there is anyone in the world you would rather share a meal with? I know. I'm pretty fucking phenomenal."
I felt myself smile, but shook my head at him. "That's really annoying, you know."
"My charm?" he asked, turning toward me with a wink.
"You cutting off my sentences," I corrected.
"But mine are a whole lot nicer than yours."
"How do you know that when you won't let me finish?"
"Because I know you are intrigued by me. You think I'm interesting. And I know you've thought about me naked." At that, I felt a blush creep up my cheeks and he smiled huge. "See? Now, because I know you feel that way, I also know you are going to do everything in your power to try to shut me down."
"And why would I do that?"
"Because you're smart," he said simply, opening the door to the diner for me and dropping my pinkie. I felt unreasonably sad for the loss of contact. I thought he was done speaking but he moved up behind me as we waited for the hostess (Carol, a sixty-plus year old woman who moved with the pace of a snail) to make her way up to us. His fingertips brushed my hip and his breath was warm on my ear, making a small shiver run through my body. "And smart girls know I am nothing but trouble. But let me tell you, angel, I am worth the risk."
"Johnnie!" Carol greeted him, ignoring me completely and, for once, I wasn't offended by it.
"Miss. Carol," Johnnie smiled disarmingly as he reached for her hand and brought it to her lips, making the mother of five and the grandmother of fifteen giggle like a darn schoolgirl. "You look lovely today."
"Oh, you," she smiled, swatting his arm as she moved to reach for menus. "Two?"
"Yes ma'am."
She led us across the half-full diner to a table in the center. "I'm so sorry about your daddy," she said as we sat and she placed the menus in front of us on the table.
"Thanks," was Johnnie's unusually clipped reply.
"Well, Jennie will be your waitress. Oh, it is so good to see you," she smiled, framing his face with her hands for a second before bustling away.
"What?" Johnnie asked over his menu when he saw my smirk.
"That thing you have. Apparently it works on females of all species, huh?"
"That... thing I have?" he repeated, knowing darn well what I meant.
"Yeah and I listened to her whine for an hour about her fight with Mindy Sue," a voice broke in from over Johnnie's shoulder, drawing my attention. It was a table of early-twenties-something guys, all in jeans and tees with baseball caps on. "Then that fucking bitch puts me in the friend zone?" he asked the group who exploded in support for their poor, sexless friend.
I felt the anger well up inside, making my skin feel itchy, making me want to reach over the table and slap the jock-jerk across the face. Not just for using the b-word, but for assuming that being a friend to a woman could possibly be a bad position to be in.
Johnnie's head cocked to the side while watching me before he suddenly scooted his chair back and turned it so his profile was toward the guys at the table behind us. He reached out and tapped the one who had been speaking on the shoulder, making him turn slightly in his chair to look at him.
"What?"
"Women don't trade pussy for kindness," he started. "Thinking you're owed something for not being an asshole, makes you an asshole. She ain't a bitch 'cause she doesn't want your dick, but you sure as fuck are a dick for calling her a bitch just because she has some standards that you obviously don't meet."
"What the fuck do you know about anything?" one of the braver guys at the table asked.
"Take it from someone who gets more pussy than the whole lot of you could ever handle, women can sense when all you see in them is spread legs and an open mouth. You're going to be spending a lot of time in that 'friend zone' of yours if you don't smarten up."
"Man, I don't know who the fuck you think you are..." the loud-mouth started, planting his hands on the table and moving to stand.
"Uh uh uh," Johnnie said, shaking his head at him. "You don't want to do that."
"Fuck you you little punk. I'm gonna fuck your shit up."
Oh, lordy. The guys were big. I mean Johnnie was no slouch, he was tall and had a wiry sort of strength, but the muscle-bound jerks had a good fifty pounds on him. Plus, there were four of them.
"Did you hear me you pussy?" he asked, rounding the table toward Johnnie, grabbing the back of his chair and hauling it backward on two legs.
I didn't see him so much as flinch at the sudden change of position and I swear his hand moved so fast toward his jeans then back upward that it blurred. It had to have blurred because one second it was just his bare hand, the next it was his hand wrapped around the handle of a big, silver gun that he had pressed into the underside of the jock's jaw. It was a gun I recognized. It was Ben's gun.
"Heard ya just fine. You hear me?" he asked, cocking the gun, seemingly completely unconcerned about the restaurant full of people.
"Yeah... yeah, man... I hear you," the jock nodded, sweat already beading across his brow.
"Thought you might. Now I suggest you get your stupid hillbilly asses out of here."
"Sure. Sure," the jock nodded, his friends already standing as he put Johnnie's chair back on four legs.
"Tip your waitress," Johnnie called, scooting his chair back to face me as he tucked his gun back from wherever it had been hiding before. He gave me a small smile, seemingly already forgetting about the incident.
Meanwhile, my insides felt like they were shaking. "What... what was that?" I asked, annoyed that my voice sounded small and scared.
"That was me teaching those idiots that they can't make anyone they want a victim."
"You pulled a gun on them in a public place," I said, feeling the fear slip away, leaving my body adrenaline-drunk with no good outlet but anger. "What if he didn't back right down? Were you really risking a scuffle with a loaded gun in the middle of a restaurant?"
"Honey, I know how to handle a gun," he said in a way that sounded like he was trying to smooth things over.
"Oh, I know all about how you handle guns," I said, sitting back in my chair and crossing my arms over my chest. How I had managed to forget, even for just ten minutes who he was, what he was... well... that was completely beyond me.
Johnnie's head cocked to the side, his brow raising. "What do you think you know?"
"I don't think I know anything. I just know, plain and simple. Your father told me all about your little job."
There was a pregnant pause, confusion masking his handsome features for a long minute before he pushed it away. "So you know I'm a sniper."
"Snipers are supposed to snipe for their country, to protect innocent citizens. You, Johnnie, don't romanticize it, you're a killer."
He didn't flinch. He didn't react at all. He was the most unflappable person I had ever met, a trait I both envied and resented in equal turns. "Snipe, huh?" he asked, sounding amused.
"It's the right word," I said, lifting my chin.
"Whatever you say, angelface."
"You're... impossible," I said, scooting my chair back to stand. But his hand snapped outward and covered mine, pressing it against the table top. "Let me go, Johnnie."
"Sit your pretty ass down and have some lunch and try to keep that temper under control."
"Who do you think you are to tell me what to do with my feelings?"
"Someone who understands them better than you," he said with a shrug.
"How could you possibly know my own feelings better than I do?"
"Because I'm not the one twisting everything into anger because it's easier."
"Easier?" I asked, feeling my body tense because he was right; he was so right.
"Sit," he said, slipping his fingers around my hand and squeezing before letting me go.
"Why should I?"
"Because, baby, you want to know what I have to say."
He wasn't wrong. As much as it bruised my pride to, I pulled my chair in and sat down on it.
"You were like... super good with that gun," Jennie, the eighteen year old, blond-haired, big blue eyed former cheerleader gushed as she moved to the end of our table in her awful yellow diner dress, a pad and pen poised in her hands.
My eyes went from Jennie's silly, girlish awe to Johnnie who was giving her a smile that made my belly do a flip-flop and he wasn't even directing it at me. "Thanks, pumpkin," he said. "I think I will have a sweet tea seeing as someone," he said pointedly, nodding the side of his head toward me, "made some yesterday and wouldn't let me have any."
Jennie's gaze fell to mine, utterly dismissing me. "And for you?"
"Hot tea. No milk," I clarified. It was hot as sin out, but I was feeling unsteady and tea always had a way of soothing my nerves.
"I'll be right back with that for you," she told Johnnie with a huge smile before she shuffled off, making sure her behind swayed provocatively as she did so even though Johnnie wasn't looking. I took an odd sort of pleasure in that. He wasn't watching her, because his eyes were on me.
"So who was it?" he asked, moving his menu to the edge of the table.
"Who was what?"
"Mom or dad with the booze?"
Geez. He was good. "Mom," I answered honestly.
"Really? I would have pegged it for daddy."
"Why's that?"
"Because, cupcake, you have 'daddy issues' written all over you."
"What? I do not!" I so, so did.
"Sure you do. It's why you clung so tight to my old man. It's why you feel like you need to keep a firm grip on what's going on with us."
"There is nothing going on with us," I objected.
"See? Right there," he smiled. "You know there's something here," he said, gesturing at the air between us. "And that scares the shit out of you so you try to be snippy and pick fights. It's easier for you to be angry with me, even if it is a superficial anger based on nothing, than admit that you want me."
"You think really highly of yourself," I said, clinging to the only part of his sentence that I could.
"Look me in the eye and tell me I'm wrong," he pressed.
My eyes raised defiantly to his and my mouth opened, but I couldn't push the words out. I wasn't a great liar, and that was exactly what I would be doing if I told him he was wrong.
Oh, hell. I was in for it.