Everything for Us
Page 7
Immediately, he hauls Dad roughly out of his chair and toward the door, where he opens it and hands him off to another guard who’s waiting there. They disappear around the corner as another guard comes in, and he, along with the original one, order Cash and me to make our way to the exit.
Now.
“What the hell is going on?” I demand.
“Sir, all alarms in the prison are for the safety of prisoners as well as visitors. Keep moving.”
The two guards shuffle us quickly back the way we’d come less than thirty minutes earlier. Never once do they offer any information by way of explanation.
As we move from area to area, passing other visitors being herded to the exit just as we are, I see more than just flashing lights and hear more than just a deafening alarm. There are guards scrambling through barred doors, many of whom are dressed in black padded clothing and face shields. There are commands being shouted, something about cell blocks and lockdowns and weapons. One word stands out, though, and the fact that I hear it more than once gives me some clue as to what’s happening.
Riot. There’s a riot in the prison. And there’s a protocol that’s being followed. And our presence isn’t a desirable part of it. So they want us out. Right now.
Once Cash and I, along with a couple dozen other startled, disgruntled visitors, are back where we started at the main entrance, they push us past the last set of secured doors. I hear them click shut and lock behind us.
The guard who was sitting behind the sheet of glass near the front door is still sitting there. He still looks as old and unconcerned as he did when we arrived.
“What the hell is going on?” I repeat, not really expecting anything more from him than I’d gotten from Guard Number One.
He shrugs his thin shoulders. “Riot. Must’ve started down on D block. Those mean bastards have been a pain in the ass for almost a year now.” He chuckles like he said something funny. Which he didn’t. I expect to see more teeth than I can count on one hand. But I don’t. Looking at his frail frame and kinda-crazy eyes, it becomes clear that this is probably the only post an old fart like this guy can man. That and he’s probably related to the warden, because he’s got to be long past retirement age.
I nod to the old man and he smiles his nearly toothless grin at me. I turn back toward Cash and I hear him say, “Come back and see us.” And then he cackles.
I just shake my head as I walk past Cash toward the glass door that leads outside, out to freedom. I don’t look back to see if my brother is following me. I need air. I have to get out of here.
I step out into the sunshine and take several deep breaths. Even in the wide open space of the area in front of the prison, with only the parking lot and a long expanse of road in front of me, I feel trapped. By life.
My father’s words resonate in my head. He’s asking us to let it go, asking me to let it go. He’s asking me to forget about the people responsible for destroying my family, for destroying my life and the future I thought I had. And he’s asking it for my dead mother’s sake.
I run my fingers through my hair. I feel the tug of strands being pulled out from under the elastic band that keeps it neat at my nape, but I don’t care. I feel like pulling it all out, like screaming at the world, at the unfairness of it all.
He wants me to let it go!
I keep coming back to that. And to the fact that he’s right; it is what Mom would want. And on top of that, seeing Dad waste away in prison gives me a clear picture of the one thing that could be worse than living with the status quo—living in prison for the rest of my days.
So where does that leave me?
I pace back and forth across the short stretch of sidewalk. Curling my fingers into tight fists and relaxing them over and over, I pay no attention to the people around me, to what they think. I don’t give a shit. I haven’t given a shit about anybody or anything much in seven years, and I can’t imagine starting now.
Just the thought of watching everything I’ve ever planned, everything I’ve ever thought I knew vanish right before my eyes makes me feel impotent and exasperated and enraged and . . . lost. Trapped and lost.
I grit my teeth so hard my jaws ache and it’s all I can do not to turn around swinging when Cash grabs my arm.
“You ready, man, or you gonna stand here and act like a deranged lunatic for the rest of the day?”
I want to plant my fist in the middle of his smug face until I feel bones crunch beneath my knuckles. I want to hurt him, and I’m not really sure why. I just know that I do. I want to lash out at everybody.
But something in me feels deflated, like purpose has been stolen from me. And concern over that overrides my desire to inflict pain. For the moment, anyway.
“We’re not gonna let him stop us from pursuing this.”
It doesn’t really matter to me what Cash does. I’ll go my own way, regardless. I guess I just want him to ignore Dad’s advice, too. Make me feel better about holding on to the rage and vengeful spirit I’ve nurtured all these years.
“Hell no! I think his conscience is bothering him, seeing what your life is like now. I think it would make him feel better to be the martyr. But he’ll get over it. We need to see this through. We need to bring Mom’s killers to justice.”
“Good,” I say, more relieved than I care to admit. “I’m glad you’re not pussin’ out on me.”
“Look, Nash, just because we got off to a rough start and we approach this in two different ways doesn’t mean we both don’t want the same thing. Because we do. I wanna rip some heads off just as much as you. But I won’t. That would only make things worse. I’d feel great for about a second and then I’d spend my life either on the run, in a nonextradition country, or in prison. Or dead. I choose to take my revenge the smart way. The way you would’ve done it once upon a time.”
His chin tips up in challenge and I feel my hackles rise. “Maybe I’m not that guy anymore.”
“Yeah, you are. I can see it. You’ve just gotta dump this chip on your shoulder. Mark my words, it’ll ruin your life if you don’t.”
“My life is already ruined.”
“No, you just got your life back. What you choose to do with it from this point on is up to you. If you ruin it, you’ll have nobody to blame but yourself.”
I clench my teeth again. Mainly because I know he’s right. I can admit that. But only on the inside. Beneath all the anger.
And there’s a lot of that—anger.
TEN
Marissa
“I’m sure he’d do it if you need him to. He doesn’t hate you, Marissa.” She’s trying to persuade me to ask Cash to go with me to the fund-raiser.
I know that the look I send Olivia is full of all the skepticism I feel. “You’re so sweet for saying so, but you and I both know that’s just not true.”
“He doesn’t hate you,” she emphasizes.
“Okay, maybe hate is a strong word. Let’s just say he has trouble tolerating me. Does that go down a little easier?”
Olivia cocks her head. “I’m not having trouble swallowing anything. I just really don’t believe he hates you. You two had a . . . rough relationship. You were a different person then. And in a lot of ways, so was he. You just have to find a way to put all that behind you and move forward. As friends. Or at the very least friendly acquaintances.”
I stare into my cousin’s jewel-green eyes. She wants us to get along so badly. But why?
“I know this is probably not something I should bring up, but it bothers me wondering if it bothers you. I don’t want it to.”
“Wondering if what bothers me?”
I hesitate, giving myself one last opportunity to change the subject before I bring up something that could change her feelings toward me. But I need to clear the air. The time for being selfish is over. If I’m going to be this person, I have to take all the bumps and scrapes that go along with moving beyond my past. It’s time to grow up and pay the piper, all that jazz.
“The fact that Cash and I used to . . . date.”
Olivia shrugs. I don’t think she feels as casual about it as the gesture implies, but I don’t see any real distress on her face, either, which is the main thing.
“It’s not something I want to sit around and think about, but it’s not like it eats at me constantly, either. I know Cash loves me. And I know you both had your reasons for carrying on the relationship. Now, if you’d been in love, that would be different. But you weren’t. You each had a purpose for using the other. I can live with that. Because it’s over.”
You each had a purpose for using the other. How nasty that sounds. But, sadly, how true. We did use each other. And that makes me feel like a dirty whore. Which, by most definitions, I was. Technically. I had sex with someone who meant very little to me. He was a means to an end. Just because there was no money changing hands doesn’t alter the fact that I was with him for gain—to please my father. And that’s sick. Sick, sick, sick.
My smile is tremulous at best. I can feel it wavering and I try to bolster it. “I’m so glad. I don’t want something like that between us, bothering you. I wanted to make sure you knew it was nothing. And that it’s over.”
Her smile is genuine. “I do. And thank you for worrying about it.”
It’s my turn to shrug. I feel a little embarrassed. And very unworthy of her easy forgiveness. I feel the need to prove to her that her “investment” in me, her faith in me isn’t wasted.
“So now you know that I mean it when I say that if he needs to go with you, it’s totally fine,” she says.
I shake my head, more determined than ever to not do things that might make her uncomfortable. I’ve given her enough trouble already.
“Nope. I can go alone.”
“Go where alone?”
Chills break out down my arms at Nash’s voice. The strange thing is, I know it’s him without even turning toward the door. Even though he sounds almost exactly like his brother, I can tell the difference. His voice is a little harder, a little more gruff. Nothing too obvious. But something I recognize on a visceral level. And my reaction is instant.
I turn to see him standing in the doorway of my condo. His expression is similar to a scowl, much as it seems always to be. But I see something just beneath the surface, just beneath the angst and bitterness. I hope I’m not imagining it, that it’s really there and that there’s something inside him that’s worth saving, that’s worth the risk.
I roll my eyes and exaggerate the insignificance of the event with a wave of my hand. “Meh, just a fund-raiser my father is convinced that I must attend.”
“With Nash,” Olivia chimes in. “The Nash they know.”
“But he’ll get over it. He needs to get it through his head that the Nash he knew is no longer . . . with us. Or with me.”
I avoid Cash’s eyes when he pushes past Nash and heads toward Olivia. I cast my eyes down, examining my fingernails, which have suddenly become very interesting. From the corner of my eye, I see him bend to cup her face and kiss her. Like he’s eradicating the image of us from her mind. When I glance back up, my eyes crash into Nash’s dark ones.
“Well, if you’re that anxious to prove yourself to your father, then take me. If you’re brave enough, that is.” The challenge is there in his eyes. He doesn’t believe I’ll do it. That I can do it. But why should he? I’ve wondered the very same thing myself. Am I strong enough to go against everything and everyone I’ve ever known? To abandon the only life I’ve ever lived? To thumb my nose at some of the most powerful people in Georgia law?
At this moment, proving a point to them doesn’t feel nearly as important as proving a point to Nash. The doubt in his eyes, the expression that says he thinks I’m full of crap . . .
“That sounds like a great idea,” I say impulsively, my stomach turning a flip at the thought of what I just agreed to. By not showing up with the Davenport they might expect to see me with, I’m proving three things: To Olivia, I’m proving that I’ll put her comfort (even though she says it doesn’t bother her) above my own; to my father and practically everyone I know, I’m proving that I no longer put society and my father’s wants ahead of my own; and to myself, I’m proving that I’m strong. Stronger than I was. Strong enough to go against the grain.
“I’m sure the old Nash has something appropriate for the real Nash to wear, right?” he asks. His eyes stay locked on mine, even as he addresses his brother. Cash answers from my left.
“Yeah, but you can’t go as Nash. We need to keep things under wraps for a little while longer, until we can get this shit straightened out and get some bastards thrown in jail.”
“So what, go as Cash? Masquerade as the devil-may-care, wild-card owner of a nightclub? Out for a night with the decent folks, like a charity case, on the arm of his plastic trophy girlfriend? This should be fun.”
Although I know his venom stems from his inability to get past the life he feels like his brother stole, still, his words hurt. Does he really think I’m plastic? Or that I’m a trophy girlfriend? Some mindless piece of fluff?
“Don’t think that’s permission for you to go and make me into a spectacle. You still have to act like you’ve got some sense. Stirring up a public shitstorm won’t exactly do us any favors.”
“I’m not an idiot, brother. Hell, I’m even potty-trained. I won’t fu—screw it up,” he amends. He catches himself before he finishes the thought. I’ve noticed him doing that—curbing his colorful language. I can’t imagine why, but it seems almost in deference to the females in the room. Like a gentlemanly gesture. It’s incongruous, such thoughtful and nearly tender respect coming from someone who appears to be anything but thoughtful and tender. Against my will, another seed of hope takes root in my heart. No doubt it’s dangerous territory I’m in, but . . . I’m helpless to stop now. Helpless. “I won’t screw it up. Don’t forget I used to be the sensible, responsible one. Just because you—”
Now.
“What the hell is going on?” I demand.
“Sir, all alarms in the prison are for the safety of prisoners as well as visitors. Keep moving.”
The two guards shuffle us quickly back the way we’d come less than thirty minutes earlier. Never once do they offer any information by way of explanation.
As we move from area to area, passing other visitors being herded to the exit just as we are, I see more than just flashing lights and hear more than just a deafening alarm. There are guards scrambling through barred doors, many of whom are dressed in black padded clothing and face shields. There are commands being shouted, something about cell blocks and lockdowns and weapons. One word stands out, though, and the fact that I hear it more than once gives me some clue as to what’s happening.
Riot. There’s a riot in the prison. And there’s a protocol that’s being followed. And our presence isn’t a desirable part of it. So they want us out. Right now.
Once Cash and I, along with a couple dozen other startled, disgruntled visitors, are back where we started at the main entrance, they push us past the last set of secured doors. I hear them click shut and lock behind us.
The guard who was sitting behind the sheet of glass near the front door is still sitting there. He still looks as old and unconcerned as he did when we arrived.
“What the hell is going on?” I repeat, not really expecting anything more from him than I’d gotten from Guard Number One.
He shrugs his thin shoulders. “Riot. Must’ve started down on D block. Those mean bastards have been a pain in the ass for almost a year now.” He chuckles like he said something funny. Which he didn’t. I expect to see more teeth than I can count on one hand. But I don’t. Looking at his frail frame and kinda-crazy eyes, it becomes clear that this is probably the only post an old fart like this guy can man. That and he’s probably related to the warden, because he’s got to be long past retirement age.
I nod to the old man and he smiles his nearly toothless grin at me. I turn back toward Cash and I hear him say, “Come back and see us.” And then he cackles.
I just shake my head as I walk past Cash toward the glass door that leads outside, out to freedom. I don’t look back to see if my brother is following me. I need air. I have to get out of here.
I step out into the sunshine and take several deep breaths. Even in the wide open space of the area in front of the prison, with only the parking lot and a long expanse of road in front of me, I feel trapped. By life.
My father’s words resonate in my head. He’s asking us to let it go, asking me to let it go. He’s asking me to forget about the people responsible for destroying my family, for destroying my life and the future I thought I had. And he’s asking it for my dead mother’s sake.
I run my fingers through my hair. I feel the tug of strands being pulled out from under the elastic band that keeps it neat at my nape, but I don’t care. I feel like pulling it all out, like screaming at the world, at the unfairness of it all.
He wants me to let it go!
I keep coming back to that. And to the fact that he’s right; it is what Mom would want. And on top of that, seeing Dad waste away in prison gives me a clear picture of the one thing that could be worse than living with the status quo—living in prison for the rest of my days.
So where does that leave me?
I pace back and forth across the short stretch of sidewalk. Curling my fingers into tight fists and relaxing them over and over, I pay no attention to the people around me, to what they think. I don’t give a shit. I haven’t given a shit about anybody or anything much in seven years, and I can’t imagine starting now.
Just the thought of watching everything I’ve ever planned, everything I’ve ever thought I knew vanish right before my eyes makes me feel impotent and exasperated and enraged and . . . lost. Trapped and lost.
I grit my teeth so hard my jaws ache and it’s all I can do not to turn around swinging when Cash grabs my arm.
“You ready, man, or you gonna stand here and act like a deranged lunatic for the rest of the day?”
I want to plant my fist in the middle of his smug face until I feel bones crunch beneath my knuckles. I want to hurt him, and I’m not really sure why. I just know that I do. I want to lash out at everybody.
But something in me feels deflated, like purpose has been stolen from me. And concern over that overrides my desire to inflict pain. For the moment, anyway.
“We’re not gonna let him stop us from pursuing this.”
It doesn’t really matter to me what Cash does. I’ll go my own way, regardless. I guess I just want him to ignore Dad’s advice, too. Make me feel better about holding on to the rage and vengeful spirit I’ve nurtured all these years.
“Hell no! I think his conscience is bothering him, seeing what your life is like now. I think it would make him feel better to be the martyr. But he’ll get over it. We need to see this through. We need to bring Mom’s killers to justice.”
“Good,” I say, more relieved than I care to admit. “I’m glad you’re not pussin’ out on me.”
“Look, Nash, just because we got off to a rough start and we approach this in two different ways doesn’t mean we both don’t want the same thing. Because we do. I wanna rip some heads off just as much as you. But I won’t. That would only make things worse. I’d feel great for about a second and then I’d spend my life either on the run, in a nonextradition country, or in prison. Or dead. I choose to take my revenge the smart way. The way you would’ve done it once upon a time.”
His chin tips up in challenge and I feel my hackles rise. “Maybe I’m not that guy anymore.”
“Yeah, you are. I can see it. You’ve just gotta dump this chip on your shoulder. Mark my words, it’ll ruin your life if you don’t.”
“My life is already ruined.”
“No, you just got your life back. What you choose to do with it from this point on is up to you. If you ruin it, you’ll have nobody to blame but yourself.”
I clench my teeth again. Mainly because I know he’s right. I can admit that. But only on the inside. Beneath all the anger.
And there’s a lot of that—anger.
TEN
Marissa
“I’m sure he’d do it if you need him to. He doesn’t hate you, Marissa.” She’s trying to persuade me to ask Cash to go with me to the fund-raiser.
I know that the look I send Olivia is full of all the skepticism I feel. “You’re so sweet for saying so, but you and I both know that’s just not true.”
“He doesn’t hate you,” she emphasizes.
“Okay, maybe hate is a strong word. Let’s just say he has trouble tolerating me. Does that go down a little easier?”
Olivia cocks her head. “I’m not having trouble swallowing anything. I just really don’t believe he hates you. You two had a . . . rough relationship. You were a different person then. And in a lot of ways, so was he. You just have to find a way to put all that behind you and move forward. As friends. Or at the very least friendly acquaintances.”
I stare into my cousin’s jewel-green eyes. She wants us to get along so badly. But why?
“I know this is probably not something I should bring up, but it bothers me wondering if it bothers you. I don’t want it to.”
“Wondering if what bothers me?”
I hesitate, giving myself one last opportunity to change the subject before I bring up something that could change her feelings toward me. But I need to clear the air. The time for being selfish is over. If I’m going to be this person, I have to take all the bumps and scrapes that go along with moving beyond my past. It’s time to grow up and pay the piper, all that jazz.
“The fact that Cash and I used to . . . date.”
Olivia shrugs. I don’t think she feels as casual about it as the gesture implies, but I don’t see any real distress on her face, either, which is the main thing.
“It’s not something I want to sit around and think about, but it’s not like it eats at me constantly, either. I know Cash loves me. And I know you both had your reasons for carrying on the relationship. Now, if you’d been in love, that would be different. But you weren’t. You each had a purpose for using the other. I can live with that. Because it’s over.”
You each had a purpose for using the other. How nasty that sounds. But, sadly, how true. We did use each other. And that makes me feel like a dirty whore. Which, by most definitions, I was. Technically. I had sex with someone who meant very little to me. He was a means to an end. Just because there was no money changing hands doesn’t alter the fact that I was with him for gain—to please my father. And that’s sick. Sick, sick, sick.
My smile is tremulous at best. I can feel it wavering and I try to bolster it. “I’m so glad. I don’t want something like that between us, bothering you. I wanted to make sure you knew it was nothing. And that it’s over.”
Her smile is genuine. “I do. And thank you for worrying about it.”
It’s my turn to shrug. I feel a little embarrassed. And very unworthy of her easy forgiveness. I feel the need to prove to her that her “investment” in me, her faith in me isn’t wasted.
“So now you know that I mean it when I say that if he needs to go with you, it’s totally fine,” she says.
I shake my head, more determined than ever to not do things that might make her uncomfortable. I’ve given her enough trouble already.
“Nope. I can go alone.”
“Go where alone?”
Chills break out down my arms at Nash’s voice. The strange thing is, I know it’s him without even turning toward the door. Even though he sounds almost exactly like his brother, I can tell the difference. His voice is a little harder, a little more gruff. Nothing too obvious. But something I recognize on a visceral level. And my reaction is instant.
I turn to see him standing in the doorway of my condo. His expression is similar to a scowl, much as it seems always to be. But I see something just beneath the surface, just beneath the angst and bitterness. I hope I’m not imagining it, that it’s really there and that there’s something inside him that’s worth saving, that’s worth the risk.
I roll my eyes and exaggerate the insignificance of the event with a wave of my hand. “Meh, just a fund-raiser my father is convinced that I must attend.”
“With Nash,” Olivia chimes in. “The Nash they know.”
“But he’ll get over it. He needs to get it through his head that the Nash he knew is no longer . . . with us. Or with me.”
I avoid Cash’s eyes when he pushes past Nash and heads toward Olivia. I cast my eyes down, examining my fingernails, which have suddenly become very interesting. From the corner of my eye, I see him bend to cup her face and kiss her. Like he’s eradicating the image of us from her mind. When I glance back up, my eyes crash into Nash’s dark ones.
“Well, if you’re that anxious to prove yourself to your father, then take me. If you’re brave enough, that is.” The challenge is there in his eyes. He doesn’t believe I’ll do it. That I can do it. But why should he? I’ve wondered the very same thing myself. Am I strong enough to go against everything and everyone I’ve ever known? To abandon the only life I’ve ever lived? To thumb my nose at some of the most powerful people in Georgia law?
At this moment, proving a point to them doesn’t feel nearly as important as proving a point to Nash. The doubt in his eyes, the expression that says he thinks I’m full of crap . . .
“That sounds like a great idea,” I say impulsively, my stomach turning a flip at the thought of what I just agreed to. By not showing up with the Davenport they might expect to see me with, I’m proving three things: To Olivia, I’m proving that I’ll put her comfort (even though she says it doesn’t bother her) above my own; to my father and practically everyone I know, I’m proving that I no longer put society and my father’s wants ahead of my own; and to myself, I’m proving that I’m strong. Stronger than I was. Strong enough to go against the grain.
“I’m sure the old Nash has something appropriate for the real Nash to wear, right?” he asks. His eyes stay locked on mine, even as he addresses his brother. Cash answers from my left.
“Yeah, but you can’t go as Nash. We need to keep things under wraps for a little while longer, until we can get this shit straightened out and get some bastards thrown in jail.”
“So what, go as Cash? Masquerade as the devil-may-care, wild-card owner of a nightclub? Out for a night with the decent folks, like a charity case, on the arm of his plastic trophy girlfriend? This should be fun.”
Although I know his venom stems from his inability to get past the life he feels like his brother stole, still, his words hurt. Does he really think I’m plastic? Or that I’m a trophy girlfriend? Some mindless piece of fluff?
“Don’t think that’s permission for you to go and make me into a spectacle. You still have to act like you’ve got some sense. Stirring up a public shitstorm won’t exactly do us any favors.”
“I’m not an idiot, brother. Hell, I’m even potty-trained. I won’t fu—screw it up,” he amends. He catches himself before he finishes the thought. I’ve noticed him doing that—curbing his colorful language. I can’t imagine why, but it seems almost in deference to the females in the room. Like a gentlemanly gesture. It’s incongruous, such thoughtful and nearly tender respect coming from someone who appears to be anything but thoughtful and tender. Against my will, another seed of hope takes root in my heart. No doubt it’s dangerous territory I’m in, but . . . I’m helpless to stop now. Helpless. “I won’t screw it up. Don’t forget I used to be the sensible, responsible one. Just because you—”
