Then There Was You: A Single Parent Collection Read online

  Jesse had been living up in Redding, where I grew up. I’ve wanted to kill him since the day he ripped my soul out of my chest. Killed my girl and spit on her grave. The dirty rotten motherfucker. He’ll get what’s coming for him. It’s all I’ve thought of for years; during every kill I made in the Army I envisioned they were him. Every. Damn. One.

  I shake my head when thoughts of her begin to creep to the outermost layer of my mind. There isn’t a day that’s gone by that I haven’t thought of her, and that’s the damn truth. Especially recently. Her birthday is coming up. I dread that day more than ever. She was my angel. Innocent. Sweet. She belonged to me as I belonged to her. I’ve never been the same since that day, and I never will be. My lungs filled with her every breath and sank with her sorrow. She made me see things I never thought of before. The way her eyes would shine brightly when we talked about our future; or the way she shyly looked at me when she wanted a kiss. To cuddle. To live.

  She was a bright light in a world that only existed. A day-to-day routine of going through the same thing. School, work, train. Monotonous. Cora changed me; she made me want to be a better man. Simple. Strong. She wanted me to live the life I wanted, not one that someone had planned out for me. And goddamn it, did I want that so fucking bad. All of it. With her. But she was killed at seventeen years old and never had the chance to live out her fantasies or her life. With me.

  I only found out this week that Jesse Barrick, my girl Cora’s piece of shit brother, is now serving four years in San Quentin after he shot the tires out of Slayer’s mom’s car a few years back. Slayer is a president to one of my dad’s gangs. His mother, who is sixty-five years old, was minding her own business, and the next thing she knew, she’s staring death in the face while driving down the road. Good damn thing she was pulling out of a parking lot when it happened, so she got side swiped instead of her tires blowing out on the highway. He could have killed her if he wanted to. Yeah, that motherfucker didn’t want her dead; he wanted to send a message telling them he was onto them. He was coming for them in the dirtiest of ways. Stupid fuck was wanted on so many misdemeanor charges that on top of an eye witness seeing him, they sent him away for aggravated assault to do bodily harm for three years, plus one year for all of his petty crimes. He should be on death row as far as I’m concerned.

  I’m not sure what the hell he thought he was going to accomplish by trying to overpower several gangs in the United States, but he has a guaranteed mark on his head now. Word on the street is his buddy, Cutter, is doing all his dirty, illegal work while hiding out somewhere after that stunt Jesse pulled. He knows he finally fucked up in a bad way by messing with someone’s mother, and is going to pay when he gets out, squealing and begging for forgiveness he’ll never get. When the time comes, I’m going to do everything I can to help track the both of them down, to let them know exactly what kind of men they are. The things I believe they’re capable of. Jesse is going to fucking die. I can only wish I were in the position to be able to pull the trigger. I hate the bastard, but I love my job. I’m right where I was meant to be, on the right side of the law; and even that motherfucker isn’t worth me losing something I know would make Cora proud of me. No matter if she’s here with me or not.

  A week after Cora was murdered, I went to my old man, told him I couldn’t do it. I could not stay there and be the man he wanted me to be. That man died with her. Even though he wanted to leave me his legacy, to become like him, he knew I loved her, had plans to marry her, someday have a family, live on the beach like she wanted, and rule the streets, he let me go. He allowed me to become the man I am today. My chest aches thinking about her, all the things she has missed. I’d give anything to be able to talk to her. To whisper sweet words into her ear, to just fucking hear her voice. “You need to get her off of your mind, man. She is not coming back.” I close my eyes, shove her to the side, and think of the day I met my buddies.

  I enlisted in the Army a few weeks after her death, went to boot camp in Kentucky, deployed for three eight-month tours in Iraq, while I kept in touch with my father through letters and phone calls. For his safety and my reputation, I kept my distance from him, loved him from afar. Even when I got out and decided I wanted to continue to serve my country in a different way, we kept our visits secret. The law knew exactly who my dad was. To them, he was a criminal; to me, he was my father, a friend. So I kept his identity hidden. I missed him like crazy, still do, but he loved me. Let me go to be who I wanted to be in spite of not agreeing with my choices.

  The Army is where I met both of my best friends. Both of them were Military Police Officers like me. Seen more death in our lifetimes than any one person can imagine. Killed more, too. The three of us wanted to serve the people more when we returned home, so we signed up for the academy, went through all of the ghoulish, demanding, and rigorous training it took to become police officers, which felt like boot camp all over again; and now we’ve been taking some ruthless criminals down.

  I bow my head and stare at my boot-laden feet when I think it was because of her that I bought this place. A home she will never see. I can’t get her off of my mind. I used some of the money my dad insisted I take from him to turn this into a home fit for a family. It took a year to remodel and turn into a place she would have loved. I had started it before my dad died of a heart attack a few years ago. My five-thousand-square-foot home sits right on the beach. At first, I thought I would hate being here without her, those quiet nights spent on the beach by myself dreaming of her, wishing she could share the scenery of the clouds changing from white to gray as a storm rolled in, or the calming serenity of peace just listening to the waves. It is what it is when this is a person’s dream to live on the ocean around here. I promised her we would have a place right on the water; she dreamt it, wished for it, and I would give anything for her to see this place. To be here with me. To make her proud.

  It pains me to live here without my heaven on earth, my angel; but for some reason, I feel close to her here. Even now I can feel her, see her hair blowing in the wind, her long legs carrying that curvy body across the sand, playing with our kids on the beach while I catch a wave then crash to the shore and capture her sinful mouth with mine. I need to quit thinking about something that’s never going to happen. She’s been gone for years.

  I lift my head. Oddly enough, my eyes land on the house next to me that had been up for sale for the past six months. It sold a few weeks before I left. There’s furniture in there now, a vase full of daisies sits on the kitchen table. I’ll be curious to see who moves in there. As long as it isn’t a busybody, clinging woman who’s looking for another rich husband to rake over the coals, her lips full of collagen, fake tits, and a face made out of plastic, then I’m good to go. Can’t stand fake people or bitches who attach themselves to a hardworking man, live off of someone else’s dreams that never become a reality. They all think there’s a Prince Charming out there when that’s not what we are. They get what they get from me. I get them off, and they do the same for me. None of them will capture a heart that simply isn’t there. Trust me, they’ve tried. Not one of them will succeed. Not one of them will be my heaven on earth. My heaven was robbed from me. Short-lived. And now I live in Hell.

  There’s nothing but the crash of water on water or sand here. Seagulls are calling. It’s peaceful compared to the chaotic life I lead in this way too big of a home for a single man. Who gives a rat’s ass? It’s mine. I earned it. I only wish she were here to share it with me. She would have loved this place.

  I’m a modern-day citizen, a good neighbor, a cold-blooded man who dishes out money to a lot of charities, homeless shelters, and even the local police. Fuck, I practically fund their goddamn charity ball around here. I do it anonymously for reasons no one needs to know about. All of it in remembrance of my mother. My father left me more money than I’ll spend in my lifetime. Therefore, I give it to those who need it.

  I’m a sucker for any charity that has to do with cancer.
Doesn’t mean shit to me what kind. Cancer is cancer, and whether you’re the one fighting for your life or you’re the one watching the person you love dying from that hateful disease, you are a victim to that poison. All the money in the world, and still there isn’t a cure. I hate it. That disease stole my mother, so the way I see it, cancer can go fuck itself.

  Every time my old man mentioned his talent of counting cards being the only thing God didn’t take away from him beside me, I knew he was talking about my mom. He loved her; she loved him; and they both loved me. They met while Dad was on the road setting up a new chapter in Phoenix. I can’t remember all the details on how he got her to move out here to California with him; all I do know is my mom hated this lifestyle, called it hell. However, she loved us more. Stood by my dad’s side and was the best wife and mother. Always cooking and cleaning, making everyone feel right at home. Of course, she got sick when I was eight, died when I was ten, leaving me with memories of a great childhood and parting words I understood the day I met my angel. The woman who became my heaven on earth.

  My dad was never the same after my mom’s death. Frankly, neither was I. While he hit the booze and pussy, I built a gun range in our backyard, practicing every day after school. As life progressed, I started setting up targets in the woods out behind his compound upstate. Until I met Cora. That day changed every aspect of my life. I fell in love with that girl. A beautiful girl who I wanted to share my life with. Both of us doing the things we loved. I continued to do what was expected of me, but my heart wasn’t into running a club. My heart was alive with a gun in my hand, lining the bitch up and blowing a hole through a tin can while pretending it was the head of a bad guy. Regardless of how fucked up that sounds, it’s the truth. Hypocritical in today’s world? Probably. Do I give a fuck? A big Hell, no.

  The day I turned eighteen was the day I went to my old man and told him I wanted in, but not in the way he wanted. We both knew I had a talent for a quick eye like him, only in a different sense. Where he could count cards, I could hit the mark from a mile away. Kind of a fucked-up concept when your dad gives you the okay to become a prospect, go through all the grunt work bullshit like everyone else to demonstrate your worth. He didn’t show me special treatment. I didn’t want it either. I worked my ass off to prove I could sling a knife through the air or shoot someone between the eyes if need be. Of course, the fighting, the target practice, and the end results were fake. Needless to say, I knew I had it in me to kill.

  Never expected that when I was set to call my girl to tell her I’m on my way over, that I would get the phone call that shattered me. Broke my heart into unrepairable pieces. She was dead. Shot like her parents. Supposedly. I died right along with her. I begged for her piece-of-shit brother, Jesse, to let me see her, to allow me to say good-bye. They told me to get the fuck off of their property, that they had already cremated her and I could say my good-byes at her grave. My dad was livid when I returned home begging him to help me. What the hell could he do to help? She was dead.

  I fucking left. I couldn’t bear to be there. Everywhere I went reminded me of the long-blonde-haired, emerald-green-eyed Cora. My girl. My love.

  “You fucking hear me, Riddick?” Tyson calls me by my given name. My head snaps to the side to look at him; he never calls me by that name unless it’s serious. My friends all call me Murdock. His loud voice pipes up over the roar of the ocean. My logic is trying to clear its head to the fact I’m home. I can hear my bed calling my name over the top of his strangled voice. By the torn up way he looks, he’s telling me it’s going to be a long while before I climb my sorry ass in it.

  He’s gasping for air, white as a ghost, and shaking worse than any of us did when bombs would go off in Afghanistan.

  I slide off my helmet and swing my aching legs over my black custom Fat Boy, the sound of the waves begging me to sit out on the beach in the distance. That isn’t going to happen either.

  “What the fuck are you going on about?” My annoyance is flaring. It diminishes the instant I see a hint of questionability all over his pale face. I jolt my body back, every part of his shocked appearance hitting me full force.

  “While you’ve been sitting here for the past five minutes thinking about God knows what, I’ve been staring at a fucking ghost on the beach. I swear to God, Riddick. Brother, you’re going to need something besides those fucking cigars we all smoke to see this.” What the hell did he see?

  Before my brain registers what he said, I watch him take off across the lawn, his long, wide steps faltering at the edge where the grass meets the sand; and sure as shit, the minute I set my helmet on the seat of my bike, slip on my sunglasses, and shake my head at this damn fool, I, too, become shocked at what I see. I follow behind him, my boots digging in the grass, my mind reeling.

  There’s a beautiful woman on the beach with long, blonde hair, legs that go on for miles, tits and ass that scream Grab me and fuck me. She’s talking to a young boy with a head of dark, wet, shoulder-length hair.

  “Jesus Christ. My heaven, my angel?” I roughly call out, questioning both our sanity. My legs give out. I drop to my knees in the sand.

  “It’s her. I swear to God that woman is the spitting image of the one in all those photos you have, brother. That’s Cora; and that boy with her looks just like you.” His tone is as shaky as I feel.

  “If that’s her and she’s alive, this means I have a son. What in the fuck?” I whisper.

  3

  CORA

  “Henley said this extra half hour is on him. Come on, Mom, please?” Ethan, my darling eleven-year-old son, begs me for the tenth time for the extra time his surf instructor always seems to give him. I hear the laughter hiding in his hint of playfulness every time he asks me. Repeatedly. I find none of this funny today; that’s why I’m stalling on giving him the answer he knows he will get. Not like he does as he stares me down with his crooked little smile and those adorable puppy dog eyes.

  I haven’t slept for two days due to my demanding job at the hospital. He knows I’ll cave, though. I always do. Hence the big smile and the slight chuckle coming out of his sneaky little mouth. The cute little brat.

  “Fine. Then we eat, lock up, and you let me sleep.” I lift my brows and peek at him over the top of my sunglasses; his excited expression has me stifling back laughter of my own. God, he’s the spitting image of his father in every way possible. Even the endearing way he looks at me, the kind way he asks for things. If I didn’t know for a fact that I gave birth to this kid, I would swear he wasn’t mine. His expression reminds me more of his father the older he gets, and the more he shows he has me right where he wants me. Giving in to him. The little shit.

  “This wave is for you, Mom!” he hollers with his back to me as he retreats out on his board to the instructor I hired for his private surfing lessons. The guy is smoking hot in his surfer dude way. Long, bleached-out blond hair, lean and trim chest and abs. He’s the type of guy who would appreciate a woman; I’m sure of it. I bet he breaks them in then breaks their heart. That I’m sure of, too. I shrug his beautiful beach body off my mind, sit back down in my beach chair, dipping my toes into the sand, and enjoy the view of my son, not the hot instructor.

  My gaze teeters from the beach god to watch Ethan do the one thing he loves. Surfing. Watching him has always been a favorite thing of mine to do. Even though I’m biased when it comes to him, I know the kid is damn good at it. Picked it up right away. It’s like he was made for it or something. Kind of follows the Murdock gene pool having a God-given talent. It’s crazy if you ask me. Riddick would have been so proud.

  I watch him nod his head, paying close attention to the meticulous detail of his poise, confidence, and talent. He’s so good. Watching him also has me thinking back to those years when Jesse and Cutter sent me packing with a one-way bus ticket, two black eyes, a busted up lip, bruised ribs, and five hundred dollars in my pocket. Most of all, they sent me away without the knowledge if my baby was going to survive
the beating my brother inflicted on me. He had it all planned out. The man knew I wouldn’t be able to survive on the measly amount of money he gave me. He simply didn’t care. He wanted me gone for reasons I still don’t understand. However, as I enjoy my son enjoying himself, I’m thankful he didn’t care.

  I had no idea what I was going to do. All I knew was I had to find a doctor the first chance I got. I needed to make sure my baby was still alive after Jesse kicked me in the stomach. My child was a part of Riddick and me; he or she had to be okay. I believed it down to my soul that after everything else God had taken away from me, that he would not be so cruel as to take away the only thing I was going to have of the boy I loved. His child. Ours.

  I knew they would kill Riddick if they truly had him. A part of me wanted to believe it was a crock of shit on my brother’s part to get me the hell out of there, so he could carry on with his illegal activity without having to worry about me anymore. To continue to live like I never existed without having to acknowledge I was there. All these years I’ve wondered if Riddick died that day; yet now at twenty-nine years old, I’m still too scared to look his name up or to go back there.

  Up until a few years ago my, brother continued to remind me once a year what’s at stake if I decided to show my face around the town I grew up in. I’m not sure why they stopped coming; they just did. The card I receive from him every year on my birthday reminding me that my son has lived another year is all the reminder I need. I almost lost my son once by the hands of that monster; and until Ethan is old enough to make adult choices on his own, I will sacrifice my curiosity, my heart, and my life if needed to keep him safe. I will continue to protect him into adulthood, too; that’s simply what a mother does. There are days when it eats me alive to the point I become physically sick wondering where Jesse is now or if he’ll pop up out of nowhere to terrorize me again. But one look at the young boy I need to protect is all the cure I need. I’ll take my last breath protecting Ethan if it comes down to it. The importance of his happiness, safety, and health are what always wins in the end.