Page 17 of Stolen Love

Even in this shit show, my smile widens at his discomfort. “No, you’re not.”

“Fuck.” He groans, but he climbs in the passenger seat.

Riot slides into the back. The lighter in his hand clicks over and over next to my ear. That sound echoes in my skull and makes my anxiety spike. I start the truck and creep the Range Rover out of the garage.

A group of photographers and reporters with their cameras and their press IDs are gathered on the pavement. Their flashes would be blinding if not for the heavy tint on the vehicle. They knock on the windows to try and talk to us. Call out their questions.

“At least this time there’s no paint being thrown,” I say as half of them rush toward their own transport.

As soon as I get clear of the ones still hovering around the car, I slip into traffic. When I see an opening, I floor it. They’ll try to catch up. For a few minutes, at least, they will probably succeed, but I’m not going to make it easy on them.

Forty-five minutes later, I’ve lost the paps and we’re parked in the driveway of the home Marty grew up in. Two car doors slam behind me as I stare at the older home with its peaked roof, light gray cladding, and four panel, shaker style front door.

“You could have called,” Rebel grouches.

“We both know he would have hung up on us,” I say.

“The yard is still as flawless as I remember. This grass always looked so soft and springy and inviting when I was high.” Riot touches his toe to the immaculate edge of the grass then practically jumps back as though expecting Martin Kendall, Marty’s namesake and grandfather, to come barging out onto the vast porch with his baseball bat perched on his shoulder.

God, it brings back memories. “He’d march right down those stairs as he threatened to take that bat to our knees if we didn’t get off his goddamn grass.”

“He took a swing at my head with that bat the first time he caught Marty and me kissing.” Rebel rubs a thumb along his bottom lip. “Swore he’d take out both my knees with it if I ever touched her below the waist.”

“As if you two weren’t all over each other all the time.” Riot rolls his eyes.

They’d been so close until they weren’t. Until Marty sold us out for her career. A career Martin had always encouraged her to chase as hard as she possibly could. It was pretty obvious he never thought my brother was good enough for her. That Riot and I weren’t good enough for her to associate with.

Even when things turned around for us he didn’t think Rebel and Marty were good for each other. And he was right. Seeing Rebel with Summer really highlights that fact. The way they push each other to be better. They care for each other on a level we had no idea about until Summer and Ivy came into our lives.

“That was a long time ago.” Rebel rubs a hand over his hair as a light turns on inside the house. “Another life.”

The porch light shines brightly over the emerald lawn as Martin Kendall steps out onto the decking in his robe. His baseball bat is perched on his shoulder. “If you don’t get off my property—”

“Hey, Martin.” I take a step toward him. My memories of his lawn might be accurate, but the man in front of me… where used to stand a giant black man with a tight afro and too many tattoos to count… has shrunken. His brown hair has started to gray. There are more lines worn into his face. How old would he be now? In his mid-sixties, from memory. “It’s been a long time.”

“Seven years.” He sighs and his shoulders drop. “I thought I was done with you hell raisers. And you… get off my lawn.”

I glance at Riot who is still pressing the toe of his boot to the springy grass. “Can you not?”

“Yep.” He shoves his hands in the pockets of his jacket and draws his shoulders to his ears.

“Do you think we could come inside?” Rebel stomps up the steps. “You don’t want us here. We don’t want to be here. And none of us want the neighbors to post pictures of the three of us on your front lawn right now.”

“It’s about Marty,” I say, grounding the conversation where it needs to be and not on their mutual animosity.

Martin scans the street as though expecting a bus full of shutterbugs to come barrelling along the road. “Come on in then.”

He makes tea in a kitchen that is too small for four men. He lives alone so it’s ample space under normal circumstances. Even when Marty was here it was only the two of them.

When we did drop in to spend time with our favorite girl, I don’t remember ever taking up this much space, though. It’s cramped. At least he couldn’t spin the bat at us in the confined space, even if he does keep it propped against the cupboard in front of him while he pours steaming hot water into a cup from a stainless steel urn on the counter. “Do you boys want one?”

“No, we’re good.” It feels like we’re wasting time. Every second Marty is missing things become more dire. Not just for me and Ivy, but for her. “Have you heard from her?”

“What did you assholes get my grandbaby involved in now?”

“You know Marty never needed our help to get herself into trouble,” Rebel says, low and bitter. “You encouraged her, if I’m not mistaken. Told her to follow her instincts no matter the consequences.”

The dark shadows under the old man’s eyes get darker. The lines on his face, deeper. His eyes flash with anger. “You can leave. All of you. Now.”

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