Page 118 of Hell Hath No Fury

She gets me situated in the tub, and I watch as she scurries around. I’m happy we have almost everything we need on hand, so she doesn’t have to leave my sight. I’m not ready for that yet. I may never be ready.

She returns with a bottle of water, uncaps it, and holds it out in front of me. I take it gratefully, swigging down half the bottle before handing it back to her. She drinks some, recaps it, and sets it on the tub’s edge. Then she climbs in, sitting in front of me, lying back against my chest with a sigh.

After a while, her words cut through the silence. “Thank you.”

Unsure of how much discussion we should have about it at this point, I mutter, “Don’t mention it. Anytime.”

She laughs, which immediately makes me laugh, and then I shake my head, knowing that the discussion we need to have doesn’t have to be had now.

So, I wrap my arms around her, pulling her more fully against me so I’m pressing my face into her neck, smiling at the giant hickey I left there as I allow myself to embrace the rush of relief that tries to overwhelm me.

Sighing, I place a soft kiss just behind her ear and then whisper, “I love you.”

She wiggles back against me, turning her head slightly toward me as she replies, “I know.”

Bonus Epilogue Two

A Final Encore

Declan

“Yousureyouwannado this?”

Issa has asked me this same question a dozen times since the beginning of tonight’s concert. She’s staring at me expectantly, her expression that of a wife long used to humoring her sometimes impulsive husband.

Smiling brightly, I nod, then bend down and place my lips firmly against hers. She barely has a moment to kiss me back before I straighten, lifting my guitar strap over my head and adjusting it exactly how I like it. I’m not meeting her eyes directly, but I see them narrow, her head cocking to the sideas she examines me closely. Then one of her hands moves to her hip, the other coming up so she can point at me. “Declan Hughes, you better not—”

“Gotta go,” I interrupt, my hand raised to pull back the curtain blocking me from the stage. I grip the thick fabric, pausing to glance back at her over my shoulder as I add, “You should probably get your mic ready.”

“Goddamn it, Declan,” she huffs, but I’m already on the other side of the curtain, her loud cursing fading as the roar of the crowd pulses through the arena.

I step up to the mic, tapping on it as I always do, even though I know it’s on and works just fine. The loud noise riles the crowd, many of them frequent flyers who expect this type of behavior.

“Are we having a good time, or are we having a good time?”

The decibel level of the crowd increases exponentially, and I laugh, truly happy to be on this stage at this moment.

“I’m rich, you know,” I state nonchalantly, not at all surprised when the din of the crowd lessens slightly. I wait for them to quiet down, and then they stand there, staring up at me expectantly.

Because they know I’m gonna do something.

“Do you know how much revenue the average arena concert series generates?”

Various answers are shouted from the crowd, some comical, some angry. Some are even close to the truth. I laugh, nodding and then waving a hand in the air until once again they’re quiet, and then I respond, “Exactly. A lot of fucking money.”

I sigh heavily, suddenly turning somber. As if they sense the shift in my mood, the raucous uproar lessens. I wait patiently, allowing them to settle naturally, knowing that at some point, there will be complete silence.

Because they know what I do with complete silence.

I fuck it up.

“I know some of you are likely confused on why I’m playing the role of captain obvious douchebag up here, and let me assure you, I will explain fully once I get a few things off my chest.” I pause, allowing my words to sink in until the general vibe of the room is for me to continue, and so I do, “Anyone else here just fucking pissed off at the state of the world?”

A wave of hooting and shouting picks up, and then, right as things begin to dull, a sharp voice from the back shouts, “You mean the US of fucking A.”

I make a show of thinking about it and then another show of nodding my head as if I begrudgingly agree with the sentiment. There are a few boos, but for the most part, it appears the audience is in general agreement that the state of the USA is questionable.

“Listen, folks,” I say mildly. “I’ve been in some fucking clown cars in my day, and this one here, well…this one takes the fucking clown car cake all the way to fucking hell.”

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