The Solitude of Passion (13 page)

“Oh my, God.” I dreamed of Mitch—of his masterful kisses, his tongue lashing over me like a brand. “Did we?” I glance down at the thin blanket conforming to my curves.

Colt bears into me a moment too long before relaxing back into his jovial self.

“You did a table dance. You’ve got a pretty good routine going. Max is a lucky guy.” He blinks a smile. “If I were you, I’d work on the stripping part. You damn near broke your neck when you tripped out of your jeans.”

I sit up and pull my knees up and my vagina burns like a volcano erupted in it.

I look back over at Colt and hold his gaze because we both know damn well he’s lying.

“You’re right, Colt. Max is a lucky guy.” I press my lips together to stave off the tears. “Maybe we could keep the stripper thing to ourselves.” I cut him a look that threatens to hack off his balls with a fork if he doesn’t comply. “You know, until I can perfect my routine.”

“Maybe we should.” He meets me with his steely gaze. Gone is the playful Colt, I know and love, and in his place, the one who judges me through his brother’s eyes. And now we have a secret—one I would do anything to erase if I could.

“I’m sorry I ever came,” I whisper.

“I’m not.”

“You should be.”

Reeducation Through Labor Center

Mitch

“Mei,” it slashes from me like a barb. My throat is on fire—my head’s been burning up with a fever for three days straight.

I clasp my hand over hers as she walks on by, and she takes the rose, casual, as if nothing happened.

Twelve days I counted in isolation for distributing origami. Paper roses. Of all the time spent logging hours in the house of God, all I have to show for it is three verses from the good book, playing fast and loose with my memory—not including works cited.
Go ye therefore into all the nations baptizing them in the name of the Father, Son, and Holy Spirit,
Mathew something.
For God so loved the world He gave his only begotten Son, and whoever believes in Him shall live.
Mathew again? No clue. And the final installment of the proselytization trilogy is
Jesus wept
, nothing to quantify it with, no context, no book, just a weeping savior at best. It works, though. I may be low on ammunition, but it packs a powerful punch in a hellhole like this.

The detention center is a voice free zone. No talking, no whispering to a single soul, and that alone is a part of the torment. Voices are an intrusion, a sign of anarchy at its finest. These cloistered walls are littered with the downtrodden of the male species. The few women that mill around are authority figures, hence, Mei. It’s the feminine league that doles out food on the line, offers asymmetrical haircuts at discount prices, and supervises as we trim our toenails, lest we slit our throats in the process. Not a bad way out if you consider the alternatives.

I hear there’s an all women’s camp across the way, but no dances. It doesn’t matter, I’ve got all the dance partner I need in Lee, and she’s not even on this continent—same planet, though. There should be some comfort in that but there isn’t. We share the same sky, same moon. If I think about it too much, I start to lose it, especially at night. I used to hold it in, fight it. But it feels good to shed rivers for Lee. I’m sure she’s done the same. I hate the idea in theory, but it brings a little comfort thinking she might still give a damn about her idiot husband who got caught up in a Bible-thumping roundup while sleeping on the job—accused of being a spy, no less. Anyway, that’s the only the thing Lee and I have left for each other—tears—enough to fill an ocean. We could raise glass after glass of our precipitous sorrow—nothing but a haze of deteriorating memories.

I can feel the promise of a smile evaporating on my lips. No real reason to smile in this shithole ever.

I wait until lights out then reach for the pen from under my mattress, the paper I’ve precut to form the God-inspired floral arrangements. If I’m lucky the moon will show and guide my already treacherous penmanship. Some nights I just cut paper—score it with my fingernail while pretending to slit the throats of the assholes that have me hostage. Then I run my tongue over the dry parchment until it loosens moist and wet, and pretend it’s Lee. All of my sexual fervor for my beautiful wife reduced to stroking tree pulp with my tongue until it perforates.

I take a breath and consider the gravity of the fucking fall.

Lee and I had forever in the palm of our hands until I managed to get myself locked in a dungeon, proliferating the curse that’s been plaguing my family since before the time of my father.

I shake my head at the thought. Every single thing I touch turns to shit. Maybe that’s why I’m here. Some higher power wants to protect Lee from the great Townsend travesty—too late for that.

Every now and again I start to hallucinate and find my father sitting next to me. He looks bored as hell, and I can’t say I blame him. I want to yell at him—beat the shit out of him, but I’m in no mood to nurture my budding insanity.

The parchment crumples in my hand as if vying for my attention, and I get back to the task at hand—the fine art of making love to paper. Learned all my best tricks from a guy who grew up on a junk boat named Gao. The police caught up with him after he stole a bag of lentils, trying to feed his dying grandfather. He knows enough English to call me
Crazy Mitch
—crazy, because those paper roses are just cause for ruin in this desolate hell. But I saw the hope it ignited in others, the way those words lit the halls like a football stadium at midnight. I always did get off on a forbidden high. Who knew verses from the tree of good and evil could spring an entire fountain of hope in a desert like this.

There’s no doubt in me I’ll be here as long as the eye in the sky sees fit, but rumor has it he cares about what I want, too. And all I want is to be with Lee and our perfect baby. I can still see Lee clearly in my mind, beautiful always—her scent surrounds me like a ghost. She glows in the midnight hour, comes to life, gyrates around the room good and pissed because I won’t come home.

I want to come home Lee, but God says no.

No hope for you, Mitch Townsend.

Here come the waterworks.

Max

Dear Lee,

I’m up before the sun because I cannot wait to make the most beautiful woman on earth my precious wife. I’ll be honest. I have dreamed of this day far too long. This moment weighs more than gravity. It encapsulates a lifetime of my love for you, and embraces the life ahead we’ll be living together. I’m in awe of everything you are, and so very humbled that you would choose to spend your life with me. Can’t wait to see you.

All of my love,

Max

I fold it up and seal the envelope. I’m having two-dozen lavender roses delivered to the beauty salon where Lee is having her hair done. Stella is with her, so I pick out a mini bouquet and sign it
Love Daddy
. It warms me to the bone to hear her say it. Lee taught her that—had her calling me Daddy as soon as she could speak. The adoption won’t be final until Christmas, but for all practical purposes I’ve been Stella’s dad since the day she was born.

Lee made sure Stella knows about Mitch. She keeps a picture of him on Stella’s nightstand, and Stella calls him,
Picture Daddy
.

My heart thumps unnaturally.

Mitch—probably not a good omen to think about him right about now.

“Stop moving before I stab you in the heart.” My mother growls while doing her best to sever a major artery with my boutonnière.

She specializes in heart-stoppers, so I don’t move, just let her work and be done with it.

The groom’s room at the Mono Bay Assembly of God church holds the stench of old socks and stale pizza. I’m guessing it doubles as a doghouse for those not fairing so well in holy matrimony.

“There.” She slaps my arm. Her hair sits shorn a little too low over her skull, but I don’t say a word. “I’m proud of you, Max. Your father would be proud, too.” She presses her lips together, solidifying her resolve. “You marrying Lee is the best thing for this family right now.”

I glance over at my brother to affirm my mother’s lunacy.

“Unlike Jackie,” Hudson grunts while blowing smoke out the window. I’ve told him twice to knock that shit off. There’s no smoking in the holding tank, but Hudson never listens. Jackie’s been gone with Josh over a year now. Not that Hudson’s been after them. If it were my wife and kid, I’d be right there with them.

“I do what I can,” I say, adjusting myself in the mirror. It feels odd dressed in a tux. I’d much rather have worn a suit—a suit I can handle, but this feels foreign, unnatural. In fact, I offered to wear a suit, but Lee thought formal was best. Truth is, I would have worn scuba gear if she wanted me to.

Mom steps in and smooths out a wrinkle on my dress shirt. “Soon as you can, you should consider merging Townsend and Shepherd.” The whites of her eyes increase at the thought of a boardroom coup with the crosstown rival.

“Don’t do that—makes you look nuts.” I fiddle with my tie accidentally stretching one side farther than the other. “And, FYI, I’m not marrying Lee in an attempt to pull some hostile takeover.”

“No prenup,” she sings. “Nothing’s stopping you.” Third time today she’s reminded me there’s no legal infrastructure in the event we decide to dissolve the union that has yet to take place.

I avert my eyes. “Yeah, there’s another con I pulled.”

A knock erupts at the door, and Colton steps in flashing his cheesy Las Vegas smile. He looks sharp, too much like Mitch for comfort, but I decide to let his genetic deformity slide just this once.

“You made it,” I say as he slaps my back and ends with a fist bump. “Did you see Lee?” I’m hoping for a yes. I’m dying without communication. She said no contact until the big moment. She’s going old school on me, and I don’t like it. Deep inside I’m afraid she’ll be a no-show, and it crushes me to think about it.

“Yup. Says she hates you. Changed her mind.” He glances at himself in the mirror and twitches his brows.

“You wish.” I pluck my tie apart and start from scratch.

Deep down inside I’m afraid he’s right.

The sanctuary is decked out in roses. Every square inch of the altar is covered with enough flora and fauna to outfit the Garden of Eden.

My legs won’t stop shaking, so I alternate pumping my feet. All of those eyes glancing up at me from the pews make me feel like I’m under a microscope. The last thing I need is to have a panic attack in front of the who-cares-who’s-who of Mono.

Truthfully, I thought Lee might want something small since it’s her second go-around, but she went all out. In a way I’m glad. It shows she’s ready to move on, happy about it, too.

The church is brimming with bodies, standing room only in the back. The last time I remember it being this full was—

Crap. He’s getting in my head again. Sorry Mitch. Not today—and for damn sure not tonight. Lee thought waiting until our wedding night would be respectful to Mitch—thus the short engagement. God knows the only respectful thing I could do to please Mitch is lodge a bullet in my brain. Sorry Mitch, you get the casket—I get the bride. That’s how fate worked this one out. And tonight Lee is all mine, in name and in body—and do I ever have plans for that body.

The music shifts gears to something slow and melodramatic. Hudson walks Katrice down the aisle—just the two of them. I guess in that respect Lee decided to keep it simple. The wedding coordinator tries coaxing Stella to scoot on out. She’s all Lee with her blonde hair, those large doe eyes, and a smile that spreads ear to ear. Stella takes small, stiff steps, the curls bouncing on the top of her head in rhythm. A round of
oohs
and giggles circle the room as Stella sprays the runner with lavender petals, Lee’s favorite. Halfway down she runs out of flowers and pitches the basket into air, nailing my mother in the head.