Page 96 of Givin' Me Fitz!
Sawyer put the envelope in the pocket of his jacket. It was then I noticed the nice burgundy shirt he’d worn to the fight on Friday night was missing. “Where’s your shirt? It was nice.”
“I can’t say.” He didn’t look at me, but I could see by his expression he was miserable.
We walked out of the casino and into the parking garage. I noticed that Jim wasn’t in the passenger seat, so I took off running to the truck with Sawyer following me. When I got to the truck, I found Jim in the back seat asleep.
Sawyer glanced over my shoulder and chuckled. “Bless his heart. What did he say?”
We hopped in, and I backed out of the spot. “He said they questioned him about how his prints got on the gun that they believe was used to kill Richard Marlow. He said he didn’t know Richard Marlow and wouldn’t be able to hit the broad side of a barn with a gun. He also said the detective, uh, Detective Crane, I think. The guy didn’t believe he was blind, so he waved his hands in front of Jim’s face.”
I laughed, but Sawyer didn’t. “Sawyer, seriously, what’s wrong?”
“I have things I need to tell you because you have a choice here. You should have all the information before you decide if you want to stay with me. I love you, and I don’t want to lose you either, but there are things that might put me in a bad light, to say the least. You should know but…”
“Sawyer, nothing could make me leave you. Let’s make this easy. Will you marry me?”
He gave me a double take and smirked. “Yes.”
And that was how, six hours later, I found Sawyer and myself at The Gold & Silver Wedding Chapel a mile from The Strip. Jagger Hansen, who had nothing going on that Sunday, and Hobie, Sawyer’s best friend, were our witnesses, and Bon Jovi’s “Dead or Alive,” piped into the little chapel as we said our “I do’s.”
“Do you, Sawyer Brian Abbott, take John Fitzgerald Morgan as your lawfully wedded husband?”
“I do.”
“Do you, John Fitzgerald Morgan, take Sawyer Brian Abbott as your lawfully wedded husband?”
“I do.”
“Rings, please.”
I had my Naval Academy class ring that I found in a drawer at home when we stopped by to drop off Jim, and Sawyer had grabbed the signet ring that had been his grandfather’s when we went to the clubhouse to get his bike. Neither fit the other, but it didn’t matter. We knew we were married and that was enough for us.
After a kiss, we walked out of the chapel, thanked our friends, and rode Sawyer’s Harley out to the desert. It was a cloudy Sunday, but the temperature was in the sixties, though the wind was cold as we sped along the highway. I didn’t care. I was holding onto the man I loved, and I couldn’t be happier.
Sawyer pulled over at a scenic area with picnic tables and public restrooms. We got off the bike and walked over to the vending area, each getting a soda and a bag of chips—mine plain, and his barbecue.
We sat down on top of a picnic table and opened our cans. “Cheers,” I said as we toasted.
“To us,” Sawyer responded.
After taking a drink, we put down the cans and opened our chips. “Okay, spill.”
With a deep breath, Sawyer began speaking. “I’ve killed five people in my life. Three of them since I met you.”
I stared at him, unsure if I was surprised. Knowing the other members of the Cowboys, I wasn’t, but knowing the sweet, gentle man who could make my eyes roll back in my head, it was hard to put together.
“Did you know them? Is this your way to ease me into the idea that you’re a serial killer?” I was half joking—or so I hoped.
“I shot Tim Walton’s parents because they were about to do some bad shit to him, holding him hostage in his own home to try to rid him of being gay. They didn’t deserve a sweet guy like that as their son. He’s never asked what happened to them after he walked out of the trailer, and I’ve never brought it up. In fact, as far as I know, they’ve never been found.”
I ate a chip, chewing on his words as much as the chip. “Okay. Who else?”
“Some asshole who tried to rob the Cowpokes on Woodchips. Buried him in the desert somewhere.” He took a drink of soda and shoved a handful of chips into his mouth.
“Did you kill Ricky Marlow?” In my gut, I’d thought so because I saw Sawyer had someone cornered in the theater. Now I knew it was Ricky.
Sawyer nodded. “Jim smuggled the gun into the theater for me. I wore gloves, but I didn’t think to wipe the gun of Jim’s prints. Someday, after we’ve been married for a long time, remind me to tell you what happened to the gloves. We ripped up my burgundy shirt and flushed it down the toilet because it had Marlow’s blood on it.”
I started laughing, but something occurred to me. There were surveillance cameras everywhere in the casino and the theater. If the police were no longer focused on Jim, they’d peruse the footage to look for… “You need to cut your hair, sugar. The cops will recognize you from the surveillance tapes at the casino. We need to change your look. I hate the idea of you cutting it off, but after they determine it’s a cold case, you can grow it out again.”
