Michele

The air here is thick. Even after years of living in Chicago under this ruse I find myself longing for the crisp open air of Tennessee. My outdoor space consists of a tiny balcony that is really the bridge to the fire escape. There isn’t even enough room for a chair.

I stand looking over to the building next door. I finished the mural on my wall the day before and the neighboring business has asked for something similar. At least it’s a way to earn my own money without everything being tied to Almanza.

I shouldn’t have painted the scene I painted. It’s too much of myself. Art works like that though. Somehow, no matter the emotions, the desperation, I can always find solace in pictures. Staring at the wall, all that came to mind was the lake with Jackson.

Knowing I’ll never be able to return to Tennessee, I guess this is my piece of home here in Chicago. Luckily, my handlers didn’t bother to question where the scene came from and simply assumed it was my southern spin on the Great Lakes. It’s not, but they’ll never know, nor will they care to seek out the truth behind the mural.

Javi and Antonio Almanza have been staying here at night randomly along with a few other of their associates. No one has been introduced to me. Antonio explained to keep me under wraps they would always call me Peony in front of their people. Whatever they feel they need to do so long as I don’t get tied up any more than I am. The whole thing makes me sick.

Where did everything go so wrong?

What once was so clear and vivid in my mind is muddled in doubts, facts emerging, and life passing me by. When we first got the news about Paul’s murder, I was raw. The pain cut deep. All the childhood memories of my brother playing tea parties just to make me happy or the many times he pretended to eat mud-pie after mud-pie flooded my mind. Then, Jackson was arrested and charged in Paul’s homicide.

I hit rock bottom.

I couldn’t see clearly. I couldn’t think beyond my grief. When the verdict came back with guilty everything was a blur. Left, right, up, down, my world started spinning out of control and has been a cyclone of one bad decision followed by another ever since.

Javi, Antonio, and their associates left about an hour ago to do who knows what. None of it is my business so I certainly won’t be looking into their whereabouts. It makes me anxious to have these men just a floor above me plotting whatever they may be plotting.

Compartmentalize.

Deciding I need to focus on myself, I think through what needs to be done today. What everyone else has going on is not my concern. I have the parcel service scheduled to pick up the wedding centerpieces. The buoys turned out beautifully and will fit their theme perfectly. I also have a canvas to ship for Antonio. I still don’t ask questions about what I attach to the work nor do I get paid for the work. At least now I don’t cover my rent, utilities, or have to buy food. Antonio has everything provided for me.

After those are retrieved, I suppose I should sketch my plans for the mural across the alley.

I hear movement below me and look down. There are two men standing below, one that has short black hair and broad shoulders while the other is just as tall, but a little leaner (not by much) with long sandy colored hair that is tucked into a man-bun.

The long-haired man is looking up at me.

I study his face.

My eyes lock onto his when he raises his sunglasses. All the air leaves my lungs in a whoosh and I swear the balcony teeters beneath me.

Realization hits me like a lead ball demolishing a building. Stumbling, I half tumble inside my apartment. Panic grips every particle of my being.

Jackson Presley is downstairs.

He has found me.

Those eyes. The same golden circles I looked into when I promised myself to him for better, for worse, until death do us part.

Marriage is a cycle of ups and downs, the best of times and the worst of times. Well, when things reached what people would call our worst of times, I couldn’t see clearly. Instead of clinging to the man I knew, the love we shared, I lashed out. With my judgment and loyalty clouded in grief, I believed the worst in the man I committed my life to.

The buzzer goes off before I can even begin to compose myself telling me someone is entering my gallery. It’s a set up so when I’m in my apartment on the second floor I can be alerted to a potential client below. Except I’m sure the person coming in isn’t a customer, but my husband instead.

I contemplate hiding. He saw me, will he push his way up the stairs? Crazy thoughts run through my mind. How did he find me? What will he do to me? Did my mother tell him? She wouldn’t do so willingly? Is she safe?

I know his conviction was overturned but only after he did his time. He was a free man, but one with a felony record. An up and coming attorney took on his case pro-bono just to make a name for himself. Seth Noble, Esquire has taken his old southern family money and earned himself an old-fashioned title for a lawyer which he does so with pride, signing his name with esq every chance he can.

My mom told me how it ripped her apart to have this man reopen the case on my brother’s murder. While no new charges have been brought up as to who the state now says did it, Jackson Presley is no longer a felon despite spending eight years in a state penitentiary.

The bell I have below rings letting me know someone downstairs needs my attention. Swallowing the lump that has formed in my throat, I decide I need to face my past.

The twenty-two steps that take me to the bottom floor feel like one hundred. It’s only twenty-two to pass beneath me. Yet, it could be five-hundred-twenty-two and I still would be ready to step down. I know who waits at the bottom for me.

Steeling my nerves, I make the last step and move out into the space of my gallery.

Four men stand with arms crossed over their chests in black leather vests, black t-shirts, and jeans. The shortest of them has wild spikey dark hair and a half smirk on his face. The man to the left of him stands the same height as Jackson who is six-feet even with short black hair and a five o’clock shadow on his face. Jackson stands beside him with his sandy brown hair pulled back with the man who was outside with him to his left. Having the two of them in front of me I see the other man is actually taller than Jackson and maybe closer to seven-feet tall.

The room buzzes with their energy or testosterone. I’m not sure which is stronger. The air inside suddenly feels as thick as the smog filled city. Their presence is intimidating to say the least.

“Hello,” my voice cracks. “How can I help you?”

Jackson steps forward and drops his hands to his sides. I see a patch that says ‘Rowdy’ but don’t question him. Instead, I do what any female in a dangerous situation should do … I play stupid.

Extending my hand, I fight the trembling. “Welcome to Peony Paints.”

He wraps his large hand over mine. The moment his fingertip touches my skin fire burns through my entire body shooting up my arm into my shoulder and spreading throughout.

“Don’t play games with me, Michele.” His voice is raspy and tense.

Tilting my chin ever so slowly, I look up into his eyes to see the hazel flecks dance with golden sparkles of heat, passion, and anger.

I open my mouth to speak but no words come out. He releases my hand only to reach out with both and pull me to him. Lips press to mine before I am even aware my husband is kissing me.

Like it was just yesterday he embraced me last, I give in.

If this is a daydream, then I don’t want to wake up. Relaxing, I find myself giving as much as he will take. Letting myself have this moment, I tremble when he pulls away harshly.

“You need to leave.” I instruct not thinking about anything but him leaving and not looking back. He needs to go. If Antonio or Javi find him here, I don’t know what they’ll do. Having him so close even after all this time has me confused and unable to process my emotions.

“Damn, Rowdy, this is your wife.” The shortest man of the group says before giving a whistle. “That’s one fine piece of ass, brother. She definitely has the magic pussy that makes lock up worth the bullshit.”

He drops his hands and I see a patch on him that reads ‘Trapper’. He steps closer to us but not where Jackson steps away from me.

“I’d willingly drop my soap on a rope just once to get a peek up those long legs, maybe a little taste.”

I gasp at his crudeness.

The gallery phone rings behind me and I jerk out of Jackson’s hold and rush to it.

“Hermosa,” Antonio greets. “Are those men bothering you?”

I don’t speak. I don’t know what to say.

“Sit tight, we’re on our way.”

He clicks off before I can tell him not to come or ask how he knows men are in my gallery.

I look to Jackson whose face is full of fury.

“You have to leave,” I say rolling my shoulders back. “Now!”

“My wife is dead but suddenly alive and you want me to leave.”

Panicking I spout off. “Meet me in the park two blocks down tomorrow one o’clock. It’s not safe for you or me right now, not here.”

“There’s nothing for you to be afraid of,” he tries to reassure me.

“Look, I don’t know what’s what anymore but I do know the men on their way here right now won’t think twice about killing any of you or me.”

He studies me and backs away. “Don’t play games with me, Michele.”

“Tomorrow, one.” I try to confirm. The pain inside me is overwhelming. My body physically aches knowing the damage done between us. “I know you can’t trust me,” my voice cracks as I say the words. The truth hurts and the truth between us is I turned my back on my husband. “Tomorrow,” I plead on a whisper.

Jackson stops and as if he is reading my thoughts, “I forgive you.”

He says the words and I feel like crumbling to the floor. My breath comes in deep but I still feel like I’m suffocating under the weight of the history between us. Until this very moment I never thought about how much I really needed to hear those words.

I betrayed him.

I never accepted that I didn’t believe in him until this moment when it’s all right here in front of me.

And with all the betrayal, the lies, the secrets, and even faking my death, he forgives me.