Page 30 of Fight for You
“My sister attends church in Long Beach. I go sometimes. His wife, I can’t think of her name offhand, is head of the choir. They own MacKenzie Freight. It might be a blue-collar business, but their name is also at the community center where my nephew plays ball. He hasn’t gotten into any trouble since going to the community center. Maybe that’s what happened to this Jamie kid? He turned his life?—”
“I’m telling you; this kid is the worst thing walking since—since Starbucks took over and my favorite coffee shop closed.”
“Well, as much as I love gossip, I’m sitting in the middle of a police post trying to help you push around your weight, Nolan. Call me when you have something better. Or better yet, do it when you return to the office. I’m actually gonna be busy tonight too. So, we can’t hit up Mary’s.”
Proud Mary’s,a cop bar.
The call disconnected. I glanced around myself.If I could just get through this traffic. As Deputy Chief, I no longer drove around in cop cars. I no longer had access to flip a switch on thedashboard. As a rookie cop in Long Beach, the siren was my red carpet to an adrenaline rush.
I fought the urge to spiral into paranoia after Leith’s cryptic request. Maybe I’d jumped the gun? I hoped so because there was only one woman on earth who scared me more than any man alive.
Nan MacKenzie.
That laddie’s mother loved him more than all of her kids combined.
I shook that thought away and smirked. Nan didn’t know about the other kids. She couldn’t.
If she did, thatnuggetLeith wouldn’t have tipped me off.
Nan would’ve shown up at my doorstep at the crack of dawn, right as I stepped out with my first cup of joe. Knife in hand. Ready to carve my heart out for not saving those rugrats.
Which meant … Jamie had started picking apart that twisted little pretzel of a brain I’d created. Maybe he’d let a concern slip to Leith. Not his parents.
Aye. It made sense now.
I muttered, “Alright. Get rid of the rat.”
No more Jamie. No more threat. Maybe then Nan would stop pining over Nutty-for-Nutter-Butter’s Jamie. I could still picture him scarfing down those cookies. The nickname stuck.
Aye. Maybe if little Jamie MacKenzie had anaccident, nobody would have to know how I saved the boy’s life. Much good that did anyway. I’d brought home a shell of a boy. A ghost. A nothing. This time, I’d be doing his poor mam a service.
13
SANTA BARBARA
Jordyn
Days free: 150
Was this all a dream?All on a glorious Friday? One hundred and fifty days—yes, I’d counted. I’d even started a countdown to Christmas like a kid waiting for magic. But this was my real celebration: five months of freedom. Five months of not being forced to do acts that made me hate myself.
And today? I’d greet the sunrise like an old friend.
Jamie’s house sat on the southern curve of the coastline that boasted views of sunrise and sunset, which not many places on the Pacific Ocean offered. I often caught both, the first light of day and the fading thereof, while Jamie and I listened to some of our favorite audiobook characters. That had become our thing over the months.
“Rebel,” I whispered, rousing the Rottweiler who slept at my side. “Don’t you bark, you hear me? Not even a whimper.”
The girl nudged her wet nose into my hand.
Quietly, she and I left the bed, being cautious not to wakeJamie. Muscle memory carried me past his warm, still body asleep on the floor. Poor guy. Thought he had to jog with me every morning. Never once complained, but I could tell he wasn’t thrilled and often worked out again in the gym midday.
Without turning on a single light, I brushed my teeth in the dark and washed my face. I ran a hand over my hair, now in one layer of cornrows. No need to change clothes. No run today. Not on this day. I’d remain in my silk pajamas. Long sleeves. Long pants. I wanted to feel … soft. Like peace finally touched me, even if Jamie wouldn’t. Because today I was free. Truly. Not hunted. Not haunted.
Aleksandr Chelomey must’ve given up on me. Sliding into tennis shoes, I wrapped my matching silk robe tighter, opened the door to our room, and stepped out into the fragile, hushed morning.
Outside, the air kissed my skin, salty and cool. I sat in the sand with Rebel snugged against the side of my thigh. When she looked toward the house, I did too.My home. Gratitude swelled in my chest. I turned back around, allowing the soft sea-salt air to brush over my skin.
I opened my journal. The first page included a few lines filled with shaky handwriting. Over the months, I’d written more, and my penmanship had become more confident. Now, the journal steadied me because it dictated how I’d stopped allowing my past—my pain—to define how I loved someone.
