I’m still staring at his hand as he pushes the button to shut down the engine, then reaches over and grabs his phone from the console between us.
I don’t remember ever noticing a man’s hands before like I do with him. Now I can’t imagine how one person could have so many parts of him that are so incredibly sexy. Seemingly normal parts. Even his knuckles are sexy. And even right now, with everything else storming around inside of me, I have to acknowledge the way he ignites a part of me I didn’t know existed before him. I want to pray.
Pray more than breathe.
I’m not sure I know how to pray. I’ve worn this tiny gold cross around my neck because it was one of the only things I had from my childhood with mom.
It was her mother’s. She used to always tell me,
don’t ever count on God for anything
. I still used to sneak the little cross out of her jewelry box and play with it when she wasn’t home.
Which was a lot.
Then, one of the many nights when the police showed up with Child Protective Services in tow, I had it around my neck and I’ve kept it there since.
I’m not honestly sure how I feel about God. I do know if there is a God, in whatever form that may be, I’ve got some serious questions to ask when the time comes.
Beckett jumps out and whips around to my side. I know better than to even attempt to open my own door. The click of the latch and he extends his hand like I’m Cinderella stepping down out of her pumpkin coach. Only, we’re not going to a ball.
A gust of wind whips some garbage around our feet and catches in his canvas jacket, spreading it open. He makes a simple white t-shirt look extraordinary. Pulled across his chest tight enough you can see the peaks and valleys of each hard chiseled square of pectoral and abdominal muscles. He is a warrior. And I am more thankful today than ever before that he is on my side of the battle line.
“Listen.” He squares my shoulders with both hands and turns me to him. “You just give me one look. One word and I’ll take over. Take you out of there. Okay? Do not take more than you can. This is deep, babe. Your mom. Jordan. All of it. You want to bail, there’s no shame. Say the word and we're out of there. Okay?” His eyes are latched onto mine, eyebrows high, the textured scars on his left cheek pulling a bit with the movement of his brow.
I'm so lucky to have him in my corner. I nod. “Okay. Can you go first in front of me? I just . . .” I blow out a defeated breath and look up at the sky for a second before bringing my eyes back to his. He tips his head, listening. “Can you go in first? I don’t want to just bump into her. Or be surprised. If I want to see her, I want it to be when I’m ready. I know that sounds weak, but I need a barrier.” The tips of his fingers tighten on the backs of my shoulders. My stomach can’t decide which of the thousand ways it’s wants to grind and twist to make me the most uncomfortable.
“I’ll go in first, second, third, whatever you need.”
I tuck my head into that perfect spot against his chest as we take the first step toward the back of the police station. It’s cold. I curl myself even closer to Beck. His body radiates like a furnace. He shows no sign of acknowledging the drizzle that is misting around us.
“It’s strange,” I say. “Strange that we are going inside to see her again. The last time we both saw her we were together. We weren’t really
together
—” I correct myself as Beckett interrupts.
“Yes we were. You just didn’t know it yet.” Another reassuring squeeze and he keeps us moving forward.
The American flag flaps and whips itself around a pole atop the building, booming and rumbling in the wind. One moment the fabric stands out in flat rectangles, the next it bends and snaps in a sudden gust, rattling its chains and clanking them against the flagpole.
“God, it’s freezing. What is with this weather in the middle of summer?”
The fact that I’m at all interested in the weather right now startles me.
We wind through the parking lot, squeezing past a giant, gas-guzzling 1970s Vista Cruiser when we hear a woman scream.
Our heads snap behind us toward the sound and I cower. Beckett immediately pulls me tighter as his eyes dart around the back of the building. Whoever it is, she’s mad as a skinned cat. Before we have time to figure out if the woman needs help, a male voice joins in, yelling over her.
“You fucking drag me down here for your bullshit! It’s always
your
bullshit. I’m
sick
! Fucking sick. And I’m sitting in a goddamn police station?” The man’s ragged voice has a cut to it that makes my heart stop and my breath catch.
Whoever they are, they're on the move because their voices are becoming louder and more clear as Beckett moves us carefully forward. I want to go in the opposite direction, even with the comfort of Beckett’s hand, warm on my shoulder. I can feel his energy change. The soldier is on alert.
I catch the first glimpse of the man as we come closer to the back corner of the building. The screaming is louder and more vicious than before, but their words blend together, making it impossible to make out what they're saying.
The screaming man comes into full view when he spins on his heel and turns the corner, bringing him behind the building. He’s as tall as Beck, wearing a visibly filthy denim jacket. Tendrils of matted brown hair hang to his shoulders. His jaw is covered with a graying brown, unkempt beard. His eyes are narrow, his hands gripping the sides of his head as he tips it back letting out a long train of obscenities into the mist coming down.
Beckett speeds our steps, taking us off in the opposite direction, away from the man. His soldier’s eyes stay locked onto the potential threat, but he's not interested in confrontation if he can avoid it.
The hairs on my arms stand tall. Our feet crunch on the asphalt. My legs muscles tighten, wanting to move faster.
Beckett leans his head down until his breath is warm on my cheek. “Ssssshhhh. It’s cool. We’re fine, babe. No one is going to hurt you today; you’re on my watch.”
His hand drifts down from my shoulders to the small of my back, guiding me between the last row of cars before we reach the walkway to the front of the building.
The man has stopped talking, stopped screaming. Nothing comes out of his mouth except for a few grunts. He’s stomping his feet and swinging his arms violently back and forth, but we're almost away from him; we just need to take two more steps.
We take two steps and round the sidewalk to the front of the building.
My feet turn to lead.
My eyes feel like they are on fire and my stomach is coming up fast.
It’s her, the woman.
The screaming woman.
My hand plasters over my mouth, but it can't stop the high pitched sounds of horror that are coming out of me.
“Fuck.”
Beckett sees her at the same moment.
I don’t need to tell him who she is. There is no mistaking us for blood. And that thought horrifies me.
A mass of doll-like, ivory hair is in chaos on top of her head as she screams into her hands, crouching down, her back against the bricks. She holds a quivering cigarette in the fingers of her right hand, smoke rising in a zig-zag of white as she rocks back and forth.
“There is no fucking way we are doing this here,” Beckett says to himself as he starts to spin us away from the building and back into the grid of parked cars. But it’s too late.
“Baby! Is that you?” The woman’s voice cuts through the air and into my heart like a rusty knife. Her hands jerk out from her body in a gesture of resignation and self-centered drama.
“Beck.” I look up to see his jaw muscles flex and his nostrils open with a snort of air. Suddenly, it all crashes into me and I realize that I can't handle any of this. Beckett is going to have to take it all because I can't. I just say his name again, “Beck.”
The filthy man spins around. “Holy shit!” He meets my eyes just as my mom struggles to her feet. She’s wearing dirty fleece plaid pajama bottoms and layers of t-shirts. She’s barely a hundred pounds, even with the thick clothes, and I see the indents under her cheekbones, the raccoon darkness around her eyes.
“Holy shit, is that her?” The man yells toward my mother, his head jerking back and forth between us, probably unable to believe what he's seeing. The whole thing is surreal.
Beckett picks up the pace, practically dragging me through the rows of cars toward the glass doors about thirty feet away. I want to look away but I can't.
My mother.
Is here.
Right here.
The ground is spinning and I’ve forgotten how to inhale.
The woman that would rather leave me with strangers than miss a date is here.
The woman that locked Jordan and me in the closet and told us to keep quiet, so whomever her man of the week was wouldn’t know she had kids, is
here.
The woman that sat in court, with me only ten feet away, telling the world she didn’t want her own son and daughter.
Is here.
And I can’t stop looking at her. She’s coming toward us as Beckett moves us away, but still she's getting closer.
“Baby, it’s me! Mom.”
“Don’t stop moving, Promise.” Beck stiffens as her voice breaks over us like echoes from some old movie that you never want to see again.
He pushes me to his back and I grab the back of his jacket, turning my face away like I’m hiding from some prying paparazzo.
“Baby!” Her voice breaks on the word, hoarse, making her cough out smoke.
I hiss at her, like I'm a cornered animal.
“Step back.” Beckett is trying to keep his voice steady as we pass about three feet in front of her. “Step the fuck back.” We’re only ten steps from the glass doors but it feels like miles.
“Who the fuck is he?” The man points at Beckett. He’s a few feet behind my mother now, his nose crinkled and his hands hanging limp at his sides. He tips his head with a snarl. His lips are wet and his face sports a handful of scabbed sores, deep and rimmed with red.
The dark circles around his eyes match my mother's.
She steps off the walkway, pushes a hand against the man’s chest.
“That’s
her
. . . Carl . . . that’s my baby.
Promise
, please . . . It’s
mom
.” Her voice crackles and croaks as Beckett gains us the last three steps, putting his hand on the door as my mother shuffles forward. She reaches out, grabs my back, and I shriek.
Beck turns in an instant. “I said back the fuck off!” He drops the door handle, corralling me behind him and I swear he grows three inches, filling the gap between me and my mom. His voice turns dark, with a hint of something a wise man would be smart to run from.
“Don’t you fucking talk to her like that.” Carl steps up. “Who the fuck are you?” His voice is full of idiotic bravado.
I wish I could disappear into the sidewalk.
Everything slows down. I see my mother’s mouth moving but no sound is coming out. She is an older version of myself. Hair, eyes, skin, even the shape of her face—I could be looking into a mirror from some kind of nightmare. The kind where you see yourself in another life, one that was open to you but you chose not to take it. You see what things could have been like, and all you want to do is wake up. But there is no waking up from this.
“Dude, you do not fucking need to know who I am.” Beckett’s voice falls an octave and shakes me down to my toes. “What you need to do is step back before I relocate you myself.” He shifts forward, keeping me behind him with one hand on my hip.
“Promise, you’re so beautiful. I just want to talk to you. I’m here now, baby.”
Hearing her voice, I feel like I’m six years old again, hiding behind a social worker when she comes home drunk after a two-day disappearing act.
She comes within a foot of Beckett, and a rush of terror covers me, a sense of detachment, before he extends a locked arm as his final warning.
Mom is fussing with her hair, pushing it back from her face. The cigarette still quivers between her fingers, dropping ash over her shoulders before it blows away into the mist.
Beckett braces his arm toward my mother, putting his fingers on her shoulder as she pushes forward. “We’re going inside. She’s not talking to you out here.” His voice is stone cold.
Carl finds his balls again and spits toward Beckett before he speaks. “Don’t fucking touch her!” The man begins stomping toward Beckett and my hands shoot to cover my ears. I squeeze my eyes shut. “You fucking freak, that’s
her
fucking daughter! She can talk to her if she fucking wants to.”
I barely open my eyes, just in time to see the skinny man come at Beckett with two extended arms, palms shooting to push into his chest. I feel Beck's body shift back as he keeps himself between us.
His hand is solid on my hip for just one more second.
The next moment his hand drops from me, and I frantically turn into the glass door, my hand on the cool silver handle and I jerk it with all my strength.
“I told you to stay the fuck back. You don’t take direction well,” Beckett growls.
I jerk and pull but the door only gives a millimeter before metal hits metal and I realize it’s locked. I frantically look inside where I can see people moving around. Deep blue uniforms stand at a desk and I focus on the arrow and printed sign taped to the inside of the door.
Use East Entrance. This door for personnel only.
“Get away from me!” my mother screams at Beckett.
“Fuck this.” It’s the last words I hear Beckett say before I look up to see him cock his fist back.
Mom and Carl lunge at Beck. His reflexes are so fast I barely catch the movement of his arm before I hear the smack and crunch of his fist as it smashes into the man’s jaw.
The single hammer blow knocks Carl back three feet before he crumples to the ground like a house of cards.
“You asshole!” Mom flails her arms at Beck, while he holds her back with one hand to her shoulder. I hear a furious cavalry of footfalls coming from behind me. “Why did you let him get Jordan!?” Mom is yelling toward me, desperately slamming her fists into Beck as he stands like a statue keeping her at arms’ length and taking her vitriol without flinching.