If I Should Die: A Kimber S. Dawn MC Novel (25 page)

“She told you about the roofie? Oh God, and the motel?” Ty glances over his shoulder and ducks when he sees me glaring at him. “At least it wasn’t a shanty one. I know! That’s what I told her.” He giggles into the phone after continuing to pretend I’m not present in the room. That he’s not blatantly talking shit about me, right in front of me. “Oh my God! L, you’re right. Jared Leto! That’s who he looks like!”

“Hello? I was kidnapped! Taken...against my will? I was kidnapped!” I sigh, feigning irritation. “Fine, you both can go fuck yourselves. I hope you both die a happy, rich life surrounded by your loved ones. ‘Cause I’ll be here in Daytona, living in a lonely solitude of hell until I die. ‘Cause the only two friends I have are complete shit! And I can’t find my sister for shit, either!” I’m shrieking by the time I finish my rant. And the tears that are welling in my eyes are only there because my heart hurts, and I’m dead in the middle of throwing the biggest pity party fit the world has seen.

At some point during my ranting, Ty put Lauryn on speaker. “Evie? Baby? You done?” Lauryn’s calm voice filters from the phone.

“Yes.” I huff before folding my arms across my chest. “Sorry. You know I don’t like it when the two of you talk shit about me.”

“Right, but we’re doing it in front of you. So, technically it’s not behind your back. We want you there for the details. Plus...you know we’re just trying to help you.”

I look up at Ty and shrug before turning and heading back into the kitchen for another bottle of wine. After filling my glass to the rim, I take a sip and head back out on the deck. When I’m back at our table, I set my glass down. “Oh, hey! Good news. I passed my last test.” Ty just looks at me, mouth agape, and L is silent on the other line, but I continue, “Yep. You are now looking at…” I wince when I glance at the phone to where L still is listening, “…and hearing from, the newest
soon-to-be
official hairstylist. I’m legal, bitches! Passed the Florida Board of Cosmetology Exam today, as a matter of fact. I cut and color hair now—professionally. What’s my name?” I cheers with myself, raising my glass, because Ty’s stopped drinking wine. He’s had one sake; he usually doesn’t drink much. I doubt he’ll keep the midnight oil burning with me and my recent proclivity to drunken melancholy thoughts that probably seemingly border suicidal ideology to outsiders. But they needn’t worry; I’m too scared
I’ll fail. Or worse, it’ll hurt. Besides, I’m too chicken shit to kill myself. I don’t want to spend eternity in hell. 

“You didn’t even tell us you were taking it—you said you wanted to wait. Finish the ‘season’ at Charlie’s, whatever that means, before you had to put in your two weeks. I didn’t know skanky places like that had ‘peak season’.” He rolls his eyes and motions towards L like she can freaking see him.

Then L squealing on the phone lying on the patio table between us breaks his current, selfish, train of thoughts just before she chastises him. “And who gives a shit, Ty? She passed!”

After my friends cheer, Ty fakes a group hug with Lauryn on speaker phone, and it doesn’t take long and we’re enjoying our weekly Friday date night with the OG’s from the squad. That’s what we call ourselves. And sometimes we include Eden. Well, we include her when she isn’t playing hide and seek...or more like duck and disappear.

We’ve just finished our sushi, and Zach, Lauryn’s husband’s, voice comes on the line. Apparently we’re not the only ones utilizing speaker phone. “Hey, hon. Got Abi down. How much longer do you think y’all will be? I’mma go hop in the shower.” Lauryn mutes the phone and handles her business as Ty and I embark on my different choices of salons he’s seen looking for booth renters.

“What about Miami. Or Orlando? You’d be closer to your mom.” He shrugs as we begin carrying our plates inside.

“My mom needs to be thankful I’m not choking her for not answering my phone calls. I’m gonna fucking kill her when I go over there tomorrow.” I shake my head and grab the two empty wine bottles before briefly leaving the conversation just long enough to step into the kitchen and toss the bottles in the trash. When I’m back out on the porch, I begin picking up condiments, Meanwhile, my mind’s still running a hundred miles an hour. Oh, Ilsa Blakeney has some explaining to do—she just doesn’t know it yet. But she will. I’ve taken the first half of my shift off at Charlie’s tomorrow night, and come hell or high water, she and I are having a
very
long and
very
overdue conversation. Not only about her and the decisions she’s made in life, but how those decisions have, and still are, affecting me. And I have every right to know what the fuck is going on.

I don’t know why I always assumed she didn’t know who my father was. She just never mentioned him. And I never asked. So stupid… I’ve been so stupid where my mother and sister are concerned. Why shove my head in the sand?

Because it was easier.

When L’s voice comes back over the line, she pulls me from my thoughts, making her excuses. “Hey, sweetie. Sorry, Abi’s in the bath. I gotta run. Thanks for inviting me tonight!” She giggles and Ty and I chuckle in return.

“Of course. You’re always invited. We’re the squad. Mod squad. Count us, there’s three. Three on the phone, three when you need us. One. Two. Three.” Ty chants like a dork, but I finish our stupid little BFF cheer before saying goodbye.

“There we’ll be! Every time! Three.” Then I get personal with my friend all the way in New York City. “Thanks for listening to me bitch, babe. I love you, hon!” I smack kisses to her over the phone and laugh before handing Ty back his phone.

“I’m gonna go do the dishes. You’ll clean up out here?” I ask.

“Sure, dove. No prob,” he says, before heading back out on the deck with his phone between his ear and his shoulder.

I’m about halfway through the dishes when the first few texts start coming in. First they’re just on my phone, but not long after, they start texting Ty too. Then the calls start. I won’t answer the calls though.

It’s funny how when people want to get a hold of you, it’s usually to deliver terribly horrible news. It’s never good news. It’s never, ‘
Hey, you know that lotto you didn’t sign up for? Well, you won it! Sure freaking did.’
No. It’s never like that. It’s always bad. And they will find you too. Even if they have to go through your people to do it. You will be found, if they want to find you and deliver that bad news.

I think the first text was from John, Mom’s current running boyfriend. The second was from some friend of Eden’s from Jersey, named Sara. I’d only spoken to her a handful of times and it was always just chit-chat. And the third was from Steve. Eden’s father.

I’d never even met him before. I didn’t know how to respond to the first few texts, asking if I’d seen his daughter and when the last time I’d spoken to her was. I didn’t know what to tell them. What? How do you tell someone you haven’t
actually
spoken to your sister in four fucking months? Who lets that long go by? What kinda sister does that?

‘No.’

That was my answer to every text. No need to elaborate. No need for extra details, because there aren’t any.

Their questions ran along the lines of, ‘Have you seen Eden? Spoken to Eden? Been by Eden’s?’ My answer was simple and the same to everyone: No.

“John’s called the police. He hasn’t seen or heard from your mother since yesterday. Said he’s been away for a business meeting that he left town for early in the morning.” He shrugs and I’m trying to watch his mouth as it moves because I can’t hear a fucking thing he’s saying. My mind doesn’t want to register what he’s saying.

“Wait—what? What are you saying? No. She disappears, Ty. You know her. This is just what she does. Why don’t they know that? She disappears. Hell, THEY BOTH DO!” I start cackling. “Then they come home when they need more money. Eden’ll come home. Or go to Mom’s, or her dad’s. She’ll pop up.” I shove him and his hugs and gestures of comfort away, along with my phone. “Get the hell—” I glare at him, daring him to say something and cause these tears to fucking fall. He takes my phone from my hand. “Don’t, Ty. Fucking don’t. Touch. Me.”

I yank my hands from his gentle hold and turn before heading towards my room. And when I get into my bedroom, I slam the door behind me. Once I’ve got the door locked, I decide if he goes through the trouble of going around to the deck, I’ll fold and let him in. I’m not walking all the way over there to lock the double doors beside the bathroom in order to prevent him from something he
may
do. Instead, I flop onto my bed.

I hear his fists hitting my bedroom door minutes before his lecturing rings out. “Stop it, Eve. Stop. Get your head out of the sand. You can’t run away from the truth. No matter how much easier it is. And not right now, not when your sister may need you. I know you’re pissed, sweetie.” I hear him sigh.

“I’m not pissed. I’m sick and tired of her bullshit! How come she disappears and I’m the one who has to answer for it?” I yell just as my phone starts going off in his hand on the other side of the door. I know this because
Pussy Control
is my ringtone. Mine and mine alone. It’s fitting, I think. Well, not with my recent whorish activity...

“Dove, it’s her father again. You want me to answer?” I don’t respond on the other side of the door. Let him answer; he likes to tell people my business. Maybe he can elaborate on how shitty of a sister I am better than I can.

I hear him answer my phone before stepping away from the door. And for the hundredth fucking time today, even with all this shit that’s going on with my sister, I pull the folded up grocery list from my blue jeans pocket before unfolding it and grasping my crucifix—
his crucifix
—then I read his parting words...
again
in the middle of my double bed. Like a stupid teenage girl, rereading a letter from her first real boyfriend or crush.

I mentally face plant, even at twenty-six, but I’m still gonna read it though—

Vagabond, I shouldn’t have even come here the first time, much less take you, and then return. And honestly, even if I did have an excuse, I doubt I’d tell you. You fuck with my head too much. It’s funny, I think I remember telling you once that I was too scared to touch you. Something along the lines of, touching you too much might drive me crazy...well congrats, Pipsqueak. You’ve straight got me mindfucked. Not that any of it matters anymore, unfortunately.

I’m sorry. I do want you to know that. I wish things were different. I wish, I don’t know—something. I wish it could be easier. I wish I could tell you everything you need to know, everything you want to know. But I can’t, it’s not my battle. Do you understand? It’s not my battle, Vagabond. But there is a battle. And this is your heads up. Now start asking the right questions, and start asking the right people, the one’s a little closer to home, specifically. Not me. Don’t ask me and mine. We can’t help you. Not anymore. Not with Pops gone.

I’m leaving you with my ma’s crucifix, and in case you try to get it twisted, and make it into something it’s not. I’ll stop you with this: It’s not because of any other reason than I feel sorry for you. And I honestly think you need some Jesus in your life. Maybe if you pray...you can hold it then. Hold onto it, Pipsqueak—I have a feeling you’re gonna need it. And I want you to remember something, my Ma once told me—when I was sixteen just before she died. ‘Steady and straight—stay that way. It doesn’t matter what they say, it doesn’t change what’s in your heart. What’s in your blood. You just stay, steady and straight.’

Keep that shit, Eve. Keep it. Like I said, I gotta feeling you’re gonna need it.

                         —Jacques

I think it’s the part where he says, ‘
It’s not for any other reason than I feel sorry for you.’
That’s the part the stings the worst. That’s the part my heart can hardly handle. I’m not sure what all these other riddles mean. Why or how he thinks I’m related to a Renee ‘King’ O’Malley. I know I Googled the scary looking bastard. I know I’ve never been in Louisiana a day in my life, which is where the thuggish looking fella in leather over business suits lives. Any places I remember from my childhood were when we lived in Miami at Grams’. New York; there was an apartment in New York I vaguely remember. And then our little place in Chicago. Never Louisiana. And mother’s never spoken of him. Whoever he is. I looked for any similarities, but in every one of his mugshots online they were a black and white copy of the original. All I saw was a white guy with a darker complexion and a long dark brown beard.