CIRCE
Marca Crown hates me, I swear.
Fuck.
I have fifteen more steps before I reach the car, then I’m going to have to work out how to smile at the appropriate times.
Wyatt texted me while I was on the airplane that his mother wished to come along for the ride. She wanted to pick me up? I don’t understand what I’ve done to deserve this, but he said they’d had a good day today, and that no one had to sedate him.
Looking at the texts again, I read the emotion in his words.
Wyatt: Siren, just a head’s up. Mom wants to come with me to get you.
Me: Why? Did she say?
Wyatt: We talked today, about Dad, me and her, my future. It was civil.
Me: So why does she want to come with?
Wyatt: Turning a new leaf?
I’d already dreaded having to be in the same house as the she-demon for a whole week. Wyatt had warned me that I’d be involved in, or take the brunt of snide remarks, evil and wildly accusatory stares, and inappropriate half-laughs, but I thought I’d get a few minutes of alone time with Wyatt. I guess not. This is going be such a fun. Not.
Sauntering towards the exit, I find myself counting down the steps towards the inevitable. With my own history crushing me, the deep sadness that will be fought, I’ll be a fucking mess.
Nine.
Eight.
Fuck. Seven.
Today I left the lovely, yet exhausting dry air of Texas to feel the instant pressure of ocean humidity and dangerous pasts. Not only will I have to endure endless crazy family fights, the reading of a will that will change Wyatt’s life forever, possibly making our relationship stronger or destroy what we’re starting, but now I’ll look like I stuck my finger in an electrical socket.
Awesome red hair.
This is just more of the same shit I’ve avoided for close to ten years now—family drama. The crush of his awaiting disaster reminds me how close I am to my own past. I feel it as it seeps through the doorways, invading the cool of the airport. My family is in Malibu, and I’m fearful of running into that particular ghost.
Living abroad, I avoided sunny SoCal. Moving back into the States, I’ve stayed busy enough that I’m never in LA long enough to possibly run into anyone, or anything related to my family. Now? Pure hell awaits me outside those doors.
I’m moving toward it like a death sentence, with trepidation and disdain.
People mill around the exit doors, hugging and screaming their happiness at seeing loved ones, and I’ll smile because I have to. I’ll smile because it’s the right thing to do, and I’ll smile because the latter means I’m a stuck-up princess, sulking for not having time alone with my boyfriend.
Yes, I’m happy to see Wyatt. Hell, I’m happy to see Wyatt happy, especially when it pertains to his mother and their relationship. Having them speak civilly, smiling and joking, is something I never envisioned. But, if he says that’s what’s happened, then I’ll just have to slip on my big girl attitude and keep an open mind on the whole scenario, even if I feel terribly indifferent to her.
Seeing Wyatt across the arrivals, it’s apparent he’s in a good place. Standing a bit taller, holding a monster bouquet of white roses, he’s smiling ear to ear.
“Hi, handsome. Who are you?”
With a forlorn gaze, he looks from the roses to me, then grins dimple deep. “Hi yourself, Siren. What brings a girl like you here?” Pulling me tight, he sucks my breath away in a soul-searing kiss. Breaking away, gasping for breath, it’s easy to see how much he missed me. I love seeing this side of him. Am I amazed? Yep, you bet I am. But I’ll play along through it.
“My boyfriend should be here any minute, and he gets very jealous.” Bending down to place my coat on my travel bag, I feel seductively dangerous.
His pants are slightly tented, so he works his erection to the side, tucking it down, and I feel a bit naughty. Stroking the front of his pants, patting the bulge that awaits me when we’re alone, I taunt his resolve. I’ve never been adventurous in public, but there’s no time like the present.
Stopping my hand with a growl, he whispers close. “I’d love nothing more than to bend you over and fucking make you scream, but we have someone waiting.”
Shit. I forgot. I’m still unsure about this, but if he’s happy, I’m happy.
“How’s your mother?” I try my best to say it nicely, but it feels forced nonetheless. I decide to just roll with it. “So, why would your mother want to join you to get me?”
He doesn’t answer right away, but I feel his disappointment that I’m not happier about the circumstances. “It was a good day. Let’s take it a step at a time, Siren. It’s a work in progress.”
“So let me get this straight. You and your mother had a day of talking and laughing?” Falling behind me, she stops. “How much did it take to drug her into submission? Normally a hatchet, flame thrower, or bazooka is the only thing stopping you two from murder, from what you’ve said. Even a hardened motorcycle gang wouldn’t stop you two from killing each other.”
“Really, it’s all good, Siren.”
Walking out to the waiting, shiny, brilliantly expensive Bentley, my steps slow. It gleams like a beacon of extravagance, and my own shortcomings. Leaning against it, relaxed and calm, totally serene looking in a black catsuit is Marca Crown, with a wide grin on her face. I thought I’d never see such a sight in my presence. Honestly, I’m afraid to venture another step.
“Hello, Circe. Nice to see you.” Nice?
“Hi, Mrs. Crown.”
“Please, call me Marca. I’d like it very much if you’d call me that.” Her smile is genuine, clear, and lovely. The normal Linus cloud has lifted from her features, showcasing happiness.
“Okay. Hello, Marca.” Her smile reaches to every part of her face, which feels kinda creepy. I might not have been around her much, but talking to Wyatt, hearing from China, and seeing her in public the few times I have, this is not the woman I’m now meeting. I’m used to Mrs. Crown, the Jekyll to Mr. Hyde. Marca Crown, gleeful and happy, is not a person I know.
She opens the back passenger door. “Circe, would you mind taking the back seat? I’m sorry, but I get awfully car sick in the back.” This is when the clamps around my heart fasten their hold. This is when I normally collapse in on myself, turning to my own dramatic history. The sights, the sounds, the smell of the blood and the tang of it as it coated my nostrils all comes back. For that very reason, I avoid cars, and I especially avoid the backseat of anything.
Sunshine to a deep moonless night. Air to lack of. Can she see the seething fear as it creeps into every crevice of my body? The last thing I want to do is fall apart in the middle of the airport terminal with Marca Crown watching me disintegrate.
“Circe? Are you okay, dear?” I don’t see anything. I can only feel my blood rushing through my veins, heating me, making my heart rate soar.
“I got this, Mom,” Wyatt says. It seems like he’s so far away, like he’s screaming down a football field to me.
“Circe, sweetheart. I’m here.” His hands roam, moving up and down my back, attempting to soothe me. Thankfully, it helps a bit. “Honey, it’s me. I’m here, and you’ll be okay. I promise.”
His gentle ministrations back and forth, rocking me further into his embrace has a calming effect. The darkness of that day is consuming me. I could feel every cell of my soul as it turned in on itself, eating its pain, its fear. There’s an unending need to run from everyone—from Wyatt, his mother, and the surrounding atmosphere of the airport. Every motion, sound, and even the heaviness of the moist air is terribly uncomfortable.
Collapsing against the side of the car, pulling in as much air as I possibly can, I soak in the care from Wyatt. Faintly, I hear the fear in his voice, his need to help me, and his wavering timbre as it warbles against my hysterically heated soul.
“Breathe, Circe. It’s okay. Just breathe, sweetie. Everything will be fine.” Taking in the smog-filled air, I try to relax like he said, willing my body to calm down. I use every training exercise I’d been given. Every breathing technique, and every relaxation cue I could think of to release the pent-up pressure in my constricted soul.
Marca doesn’t know about Kiresa and Shelby, the accident, and nothing about my past that pertains to these soul-crushing moments.
It’s not her fault I’m like this right now either; it was a benign request.
Willing myself to concentrate on the present, to the point where I can be at ease once more, I feel the pressure leaving bit by bit. Fuck, I hate panic attacks.
“That’s it. That’s my girl. Relax, sweetheart.” Wyatt’s tender growly voice is becoming the anchor pulling me to shore. As he becomes clearer, I feel the pressure lessen. After a few more moments, I’m able to gather my control, feeling almost myself again. This, by far, has been one of the worst attacks I’ve had in ages. Taking another deep breath, easing myself up off the ground, I rest my hands on the surface of the smooth car until I’m standing.
“Thank you, Wyatt. I’m better now,” I say, even though it’s not totally true. “Sorry about that.”
The look on Marca’s face is that of incredulity. She’s completely befuddled about what just occurred. Honestly, if I didn’t know the story behind all my awkward and uncontrollable panic attacks, I’d probably look the same. It’s actually comical that Wyatt’s illness was dismissed and shuffled under the covers by his mother, but she’s worried about me? My panic was addressed, clinically assisted, and I still feel so out of place when someone asks me to go to the backseat of a car.
How does he truly cope? I sometimes wonder if he had never touched that bike as a kid, and hadn’t found an outlet in sexual promiscuity, would he be in an institution?
“Are you sure, dear?” She honestly cares for my well-being, and I never thought that would happen. Nodding, I try to smile. Wyatt looks me over, looking for the lie that I’m not okay, even though I say I am.
“Really. I’m okay, love.” It’s the first time I’ve called him that, and the look on his face shows it. I’ve held off on thinking something big could come of us. Grinning wildly, sweeping me up for a kiss, I feel awkward in front of his mother. Right now, the contact is what I need to get over the attack, and I need to know that he’s there, that this isn’t just a nightmare.
Clearing her throat, Marca smiles at us as when we break away. “You’re going in the front. No arguments, Circe.” Stating it emphatically, she opens the front passenger door. Thanking her, as I still try to calm my busy heart, I move to hop in the front.
Taking my bag, Wyatt places it in the back, before opening the rear door for his mother. Giving her his hand, gently and gentlemanly, he assists her into the back before closing the door.
Walking around to the other side, approaching the door, Wyatt asks, “You sure you’re okay, Siren?”
I will be. It’ll just take a few minutes more to be back to perfect.
“I’m good, really.” The best I can offer is a half-smile, but I give it anyways, knowing Wyatt doesn’t need strife on a day when things are going so well for him. He’ll be concerned about me instead of enjoying things.
“You’re a shit liar, Circe Maco. But I’ll let it go for now.” I am a shit liar, and even worse at hiding my emotions when they’re in turmoil. My face is readable—every pain, joy, and curse is presented in my reactions.
Shrugging, he pulls the door open and hops in. Pushing the button to start the car while we all put on our belts, he pulls away from the curb. Once we’re led into traffic, I feel a sudden sense of foreboding. This is the start of something different for all of us, a different point in all our relationships.
Will this be a breaking point, or a building block? Can this be what his Dad had hoped for when he created the will?
I guess we’ll find out.