Vital Sign (16 page)

April 24, 2013

I didn’t know what to say other than to ask her to join me for lunch. Relief like I haven’t felt in a long time consumed me when she agreed. I told her that I had some fresh catch to toss on the grill for lunch and she texted back after a few minutes saying that she’d walk to my place. I offered her a ride but she declined; it’s clear to me that she loves the walk between here and there. I can understand that. I may not like it, at all—in fact, I fucking hate the idea of her walking alone—but I have no real claim over her. I can’t insist that she ride in the safety of my Jeep to and from the motel no more than I can insist she keep the mace in her purse. I could probably persuade her if I explained
why
she needs to be careful, but then again, if I told her that, I’d have to tell her everything and that worries me. I want to tell her things, but she’d take off if she knew the drama that’s attached to me and my family. Sadie’s the last person that needs any of that bullshit. I don’t like the thought of letting her go, but I know I’d lose any chance of remaining in her life is she knew. It’s a lose-lose situation for me. It’s just one more reason why I hate that I’m associated with Daniel McBride
.

My dad’s name carries weight and all but guarantees that anyone
associated with him gets thrust into the public eye. Being a part of Daniel McBride’s camp means you have to be on your best behavior, incidentally yet another reason why I don’t fit into my own family.

I’m a little hot headed, I always have been. I admit it. I
’ve partied way too hard and made an ass of myself in public. I’ve been in fights that were caught on some asshole’s smartphone then loaded to the web. I’ve had more than one woman who I didn’t actually recall sleeping with show up claiming to be carrying the new heir to the McBride empire.

Fucking ridiculous
. 

The woman in question
was always paid off. Whether her allegations were true or not was irrelevant. They were never true. Paternity tests proved that, but just the possibility of it being true is considered scandal enough to turn a negative light on our family and in turn, shove me further aside. The more I was in the spotlight, the more my family tried to keep me in the shadows.

It doesn’t look good when the Governor of Georgia has a son who
’s known to fuck and philander nonstop. It didn’t matter that I was born and bred to please and for the most part I did just that. I was a goddamn puppet.

I
started golfing before I could even swing a club because, as Dad said, “it’s a gentlemen’s sport,” and therefore it was shoved on me whether I actually enjoyed it or not. Thankfully, I was good at it. I went to the best private schools and did just about anything as long as my dad gave his signature nod of approval. It wasn’t until I’d graduated high school and had begun my freshmen year at the University of Georgia that shit hit the fan.

I guess it had been
assumed
that I would major in political science. I had no interest in that. I did everything they wanted my entire life, even at the expense of my childhood and my happiness, and the first time I refused, I was made out to be some kind of treasonous abomination who shouldn’t be seen or heard from until I was willing to comply. The more they pushed, the harder I fought, and the slow spiral kicked up a gear or two and I found myself in the fast lane to perpetual trouble.

Daniel McBride
, my father, got his start in legislation but always had his sights set on holding office as the Governor of the state of Georgia. I was groomed from birth to make him look like the wholesome family man who would be a political asset to Georgians. My refusal to major in political science was the start of the rebellion that had our name splashed all over the news and firmly planted the ever-growing wedge between me and him. His rumored candidacy for the Republican Party at the time that I dropped out was just that, a rumor. He was elected into office only months before I got bad news about my heart.

Between ages twenty and twenty-four
, I tore through the state like a tornado, kicking up dust and debris everywhere I went. The more I humiliated my father, the more I enjoyed acting like an asshole. As it turned out, a rebellious semi-pro, then pro, golfer brings a lot of new attention to the sport. I teed off still drunk from the night before more times than I can count, but it paid my bills and covered my partying quite generously. It’s the only thing I can thank my dad for and even that isn’t entirely true. It was my grandfather who taught me almost everything I knew about golf. My grandfather was the only one who didn’t give a shit about campaigns, or fundraisers, or any other political shit that was commonplace at the dinner table. He loved me and secretly, I think he hated that Dad turned out the way he did. He died when I was twenty-two, and that’s when shit got really out of hand. I was arrested twice. Both times were nothing serious, really, but crimes nonetheless. I’d sober up in jail for a night then get bailed out. Rinse and repeat until things got weird. I never saw heart disease coming my way. It showed up in a hurry and put a swift end to all my fucking and philandering.

It
gave me my first glimpse of a father who seemed like he cared more for me than he cared for his fucking career and reputation. Drug therapy was what they tried first. Multiple rounds of it, actually. A lot of people with Hypertrophic Cardiomyopathy respond well to medication. That wasn’t the case for me. My heart had begun to harden and there was little that the doctors could do to prevent my eventual death. I remember hearing them explain that HCM was the thickening and hardening of the heart muscle and I thought that was as ironic as things could get. My heart had been hardening for years and now it was physically hardening, making it impossible for blood to flow properly. I became weak and unable to keep from getting winded. I felt faint all the time. I was tired. My heart would sometimes feel like it was going to burst in my chest and other times I’d have sharp, stabbing pain streak right through me. Golfing was out of the question. It was just one more thing that I’d have to be fine going on without.

I was scared. I can’t bullshit and say that I was fearless. I wasn’t. I was only twenty-
seven years old and was right on death’s door unless I received a heart transplant. We were told that it could take months to find a heart that would be the perfect match for me, that many people die while they wait for a transplant. You can imagine my surprise when the doctors were wheeling me into the OR after only a few weeks on the waiting list. I thought it to be both extremely odd and unbelievably good luck. I discovered a couple months after the transplant surgery that there was no luck to it. My heart had been purchased. That’s right. Governor Daniel McBride discretely threw around his weight and a wad of cash and
voila!
I rocketed to the top of a very long list and had a heart soon after. I would have been better off without it. He’s now more than halfway through his first four-year term as Governor of the great state of Georgia. He’s running again. I’m sure he’ll win.

His indirect backhandedness
was the last straw for me. Living with an odd sense of guilt because you know that someone died and you get to live is bad enough. Finding out that said heart and position on the waiting list were purchased? That fucked me up ten ways from Sunday. It scared me, knowing that he was able to accomplish what he did. I wondered what else he was capable of. I wondered and still do wonder if Jacob Parker’s death was a tragic coincidence at all. The thought made a chill run up my spine and I couldn’t get away from Atlanta quick enough. Now that I’ve met Sadie, I know that if she knew the whole truth, she’d wonder the same thing and hate me for it. She can never know about what my father did. For the first time ever, I may want to keep the sins of the father concealed more than the father does. I think—no, I
know
—I have far more to lose than he ever could. I just met Sadie. I don’t want to lose her now.

All of this makes me hate him even more.

I had a lot of down time while I recovered from the transplant. I began shopping online for a home in Tybee and did the smart thing by investing every dime I had to spare. I hired smart people to do smart things with my money and it turned out to be the first wise decision I’d made in a long time. I started avoiding the press at every turn. I got a hold on my temper. I follow a strict lifestyle set by the cardiologist that I see on a frequent basis. I keep to myself. I’ve stayed out of the public eye and, much to my parents’ chagrin, I permanently ditched my on again/off again relationship with Allison Forsythe, the debutante from a prominent Atlanta family who had been handpicked just for me by dear old Dad.

Fuckin’ douchebag.
   

The
Forsythes are from old money and an old (very conservative) Republican background. Allison and her whole stuck up family are a Republican’s wet dream. Me? Not even close. Allison wasn’t too hung up on my disappearance into reclusiveness, though. She put up a good front all these years looking like Daddy’s sweet and innocent darling, but she was a viper at heart. I was bred to do well and she was bred to marry well and provide two-point-five offspring to the sucker who said “I do.” There was no way in hell that I was going to marry that snob. She acted all prude, but that was all for show. I knew she’d been fucking their pool boy since she was seventeen. I didn’t give a shit though. I was just glad that I managed to skate that disaster.

***

I stop my stewing about the past to check the time. Sadie said she’d be here at noon. It’s ten after the hour and my paranoia seems to be getting the best of me. I slip on my flip flops and grab my keys.

“What did you say your name was again?” the handsome black man with short dreadlocks asks
, flashing his charismatic smile again.

“Um. I didn’t. Sadie Parker,” I say
, looking down as he holds out his hand expectantly.

“James Lancaster. Nice to meet you. Well, thanks again for your help.”

We shake hands and I realize that I don’t have a number to call if I do see which direction his dog went.

“No problem. Um
, is there a number I should call or something if I see him?”

“Oh, oh yes,” he says
, pulling a receipt from his pants pocket and the pen from his breast pocket. He scribbles the number down and hands it to me, brandishing yet another bright smile. “See ya, Sadie Parker,” he says with a wink and the way he says it has my nerves tingling with worry. James gets back in the car that he came into the parking lot with and turns back onto the main road.

He seems as harmless as they come
, but something just strikes me as suspicious about James Lancaster. The creaking of brakes draws my attention from the receipt in my hand and I look up to see Zander in his red Jeep, looking concerned. He switches off the engine and hurries right to me.

“You’re late. I was worried,” he explains himself somewhat apologetically and I smile to get him to shut his lush mouth. “What?”

“It’s nothing. I wasn’t going to ditch you or anything. Some guy lost his dog. He was asking if I’d seen a black lab around here.” I shrug and hand him the receipt. He looks at it speculatively, turning it over twice.

“
Black lab, huh?” Zander mutters then looks up to me with a fierce look in his eyes.

“What?”

“What did he look like?”

“What? He was
, um, a black guy maybe an inch or two shorter than you, short dreads, great smile. Really nice. Too nice…” I trail off, furrowing my brows, knowing better than anyone that that man was too—too something. He was chipper, like he was in a good mood. Like he had found something he was looking for when he actually had just lost his beloved dog.

“Key,” Zander grumbles with a tensed jaw, holding out his hand, palm up.

“Excuse me?” My eyebrows rocket up my forehead.

“Your room key,” he demands with a pensive
glimmer flashing in his eyes, causing every nerve ending in my body to spark to life, going on high alert.

I shove my hand into my bag to fish out the key.
“Zander, you’re scaring me! What’s going on? Who was that guy?”

Zander snags the key from my hand and marches back to my room. He unlocks the door and barges right in. I rush after him
, feeling scared and confused. I don’t want to be a victim. Never again. I sidle up next to him, subconsciously seeking a little comfort—safety. I feel safe with Zander.

He groans and closes his eyes
, rubbing the bridge of his nose between his thumb and index finger. “I’ll explain when we get back to my place, but you need to pack up your stuff. I’ll call Miss Dawn and take care of your bill here. You’re staying with me.”

“The hell I am!” I snap back.

“Sadie, please just trust me,” he grates, displaying a fierceness that I had yet to see from him.

I recoil at the sight of it and widen my eyes. Something in his expression tells me that he’s dead serious and isn’t going to budge
, but I need answers if he expects me to just traipse over to his place like an obedient little puppy. Staying at Zander’s house has its dangers too, it’s just a different kind of dangerous.

“If I’m not safe here for whatever reason, you tell me now,” I hiss through gritted teeth.

Zander takes a deep breath and turns to face me square on. “I’ll explain when we get there. Just—please trust me.” His eyes tell me everything I need to know. He’s serious.

Zander drives like his life depends on it back to his house
. It’s unclear to me if his anger is to blame for his lead foot or if it’s really necessary to drive fast. It could be a combination of the two. I hold the hem of my sundress down as the wind whips through the cab of his Jeep. He comes to a stop and quickly rounds the Jeep to help me out like he’s done since I first rode with him.

He takes the stairs two at a time and lets us into his house. I open my mouth to speak and Zander holds up one finger
, silencing me.

“
Gotta make a call first, Sadie.” He digs his cell phone from his pocket and punches the screen a few times before bringing it to his ear.

I walk over to his bar to sit and wait
, watching him pace anxiously back and forth across his living room. His anxiety is feeding mine, or maybe it’s the other way around, or maybe it’s equal across the board, but my head is tumbling with all kinds of crazy scenarios. Sitting here waiting for answers is becoming more difficult by the second.

“Hey
, Trav. It’s Zander. Yeah. Yeah, I know. Listen, we have an issue. You know I wouldn’t call unless it was something that needed handling.”              

A long pause passes before Zander opens his mouth to speak again.

“I know. I know. But I made myself clear about security details. I don’t need them. I don’t want them down here. They showed up out of the blue and that shit isn’t acceptable. It’s probably their fault that Jeremiah Lancaster showed up. He tailed them.”

Security detail
? Someone tailed someone else?

The way he’s talking has criminal activity written all over it.
Another long pause. My eyes are a little wide and I stand up, walking closer to where Zander is pacing. He’s looking down talking to his feet with one hand holding the phone in place, the other resting low on his hip.

“I’m sure. With the fundraising
event in a few days, I’m sure he’s digging for something good to splash all over the goddamn news.” His jaw tenses, displaying that twitching muscle. His cheeks flush a little red with obvious frustration. “You could have fucking warned me, Travis!” Zander bellows, making me flinch.

Another pause.

“He approached a friend of mine. He lied to her, saying his name was James Lancaster.”

“Yeah
, I’m sure. She described him.”

“She’s—fuck
.” He sighs, running one hand through his already beautifully disheveled cinnamon hair.

“She’s the wife of my donor,” he mumbles into the phone
, like he’s ashamed.

He can’t possibly feel the same level of shame I’ve felt the last few days.

“I know.” He nods his head. “I don’t want her dragged into this, Travis.”

I chew on my bottom lip
, doing my best to wait patiently.

“Right. Yeah. Guess I’ll see you in a couple days. Send Dumbass and his sidekick back down here
, will ya? Of course they never left,” he adds sarcastically. “Right. Bye, Trav.”

Zander ends the call, tosses the phone on his couch
, and runs both hands through his hair then clasps his fingers together at the nape of his neck, causing his white t-shirt to draw up enough to see a brown trail of hair disappearing into the waistband of his jeans. His blue eyes look troubled and it makes me sad for him. He’s obviously torn between telling me the truth and continuing our little friendship or whatever it is in the dark, which isn’t an option. He has to tell me what’s going on or I’m going back to Atlanta right now. I cross my arms over my chest, communicating the fact that I’m waiting.

“I’m just going to give it to you straight
, okay?” he finally says, his voice so much softer than when he was on the phone.

I nod warily and wait, bracing
myself for the worst.

“Daniel McBride is my father.
Governor
McBride. The man who you met today was a reporter who has a special penchant for putting his nose in my personal business. He’s a reporter.”

“The guys in the car?”
I ask, numbly trying to play catch up.

“Security detail sent by dear old
Dad himself. Security has been turned up because of the fundraising gala that my dad is hosting on Friday.”

I nod and let his confession sink in. Jake’s heart went to the Governor of Georgia’s son. I can’t believe I didn’t make the connection. I’ve heard him mentioned on the news multiple times in the past for all sorts of shit. The general consensus about Alexander McBride is that he’s a wild child who has been out of control for a long time. That’s always what I’ve heard
, anyway. But Zander? He’s as calm and quiet as they come. He seems to keep to himself as far as I can tell in the eight days since our first email.

“Wow,” I mumble.

“Yeah.” He hangs his head like he’s ashamed and I know the feeling. I’ve felt ashamed of who and what I am a lot in the last couple of years. I walk over to where he’s standing.

“That’s it?” I ask
, watching him slowly turn away from me and I swear I hear him say something like “hardly” or “maybe.” I can’t tell what he said, but I know if he meant for me to hear it, he would have said it louder.

So
I leave it alone. For now.

“Hey,” I say softly,
easing up to him. I reach out to touch his shoulder. “What’s the big deal? So what? Your dad is the Governor,” I state the obvious, trying my best to ease the worry that’s written across Zander’s beautiful face.

“Travis had an idea,” he
begins, looking out towards the beach. “The fundraiser that my dad is hosting is back in Atlanta on Friday. Two days from now. He thinks I should bring you to the fundraiser gala as my date. Best if I introduce you to the media voluntarily instead of Jeremiah writing up some inflammatory bullshit, ya know?” Zander glances at me as I absorb what he’s said.

“That guy would do that?” My voice comes out screechy
; irritation over some asshole who writes shit that isn’t true has me balling my fists.

“Come here. I
’ll show you. There’s a lot of shit on the web about me. Fair warning.”

Zander grabs my hand and leads the way through his house. We
head down a long hall and turn going into an all masculine bedroom that I have to assume is Zander’s private space. He drops my hand and I take the opportunity to take a look around. A low profile bed with clean lines and dark stained wood is set against the far wall. The walls are painted a flat gunmetal gray with white crown molding edging the room. A tray ceiling is sort of the focal point. It is for me anyway. My eye is drawn up to admire the crisp white paint of the tray ceiling juxtaposed against the flat gray covering the rest of the walls. The nightstands on both sides of his bed are antique-looking steamer trunks with all the neat hinges, rivets and hardware. Zander’s bedding is really the only splash of color in the entire room. His duvet is a rich blue with thin white stripes oriented across the bed width wise, giving the illusion that it’s bigger than it really is. There are multiple black and white prints framed in thin, simple black frames on the wall. I walk closer to his bed to get a look at the print above his headboard. It’s in a perfectly square black frame and the print is of a mangled piece of driftwood. It’s sitting on the sand so elegantly as if someone had placed it there as opposed to tumbling ashore riding a wave. The horizon and the water is out of focus. The driftwood fills most of the frame and it’s so badly mangled that it’s almost offensive looking. It reminds me of my sculpting style. Somehow, the fact that it’s distorted is where its beauty lies. Most people would say that it’s ugly but my first thought is to wonder what is that piece of art’s history? Where has it been? Who has it seen? What did it endure to become so twisted? How did it make it ashore in one piece? How did it not just disintegrate under the elements that have obviously been so punishing?

“This is…perfect, Zander.” I tear my eyes away from the art just long enough to look to where he
’s standing so that I can give him my compliment. Then I allow my attention to move back to the picture.

“
Thank you. I think so too,” he says, leaving the alcove where his computer is set up to come closer to me. “My grandfather took that picture here in Tybee. He always told me stories about coming here when he was a teenager. Said it was his favorite place to visit.”

“Your grandfather sounds like my kind of guy,” I s
ay to the picture, allowing my eyes to trace the contours of the misshapen piece of wood that, at some point, was a part of a tree. It must have been living and thriving at some point. Who knows how it ended up cast into the deep, dark, cold water of the Atlantic. Who knows how long it was adrift. Where it came from. I guess none of that matters now; I think I like it better this way. It’s back on dry land as a new version of itself. It’s reshaped, restructured, and boasts its durability like a badge of honor. I like it.

That tiny bit of me that hopes finds something
else to hold onto just looking at the picture above Zander’s bed. I reluctantly tear my eyes away from the picture to turn and face Zander. He’s standing at the foot of his bed wearing an expression that makes me want to explore his handsome features with just my lips.