Lies(68)
“Here. You take him,” my husband offers, holding our son toward me.
“No way. What if he does a number two next?” I maneuver around the dynamic and now wet and smelly duo. “He’s all yours, buddy.”
“Great.”
Thom returning to official live status meant some changes. It’s not easy to bring someone back from the dead without it becoming a big deal. Only Jen and my folks (who are still being told the whole secret-government-business-please-don’t-ask-any-questions line) know about his return, for starters. I told everyone else that I was moving to get a fresh start and eventually that I’d met someone new. We relocated to a roomy modern log-cabin-style home on a couple of acres on the outskirts of Boulder, Colorado. My official favorite of all the safe houses. In the basement is a secure workstation, safe room, and weapons locker…just in case.
We also got quietly married and changed our last name to Ferguson. Thom works mostly online from home, handling the everyday management of the zoo and doing all sorts of interesting research, with a few short trips now and then. I, meanwhile, work part-time at a local florist shop. But while I can come home and tell him all about my day, his must remain top secret. And I’ve accepted this. In turn, he’s accepted that I require a certain level of privacy and has eased up on the surveillance. I even occasionally let him win a fight when I’m feeling particularly gracious. Guess all relationships require a certain amount of compromise.
Occasionally, I fly out to see my old friends in L.A. But more often than not, Jen comes here to visit her godson. Fox, Bear, and Crow also have a habit of dropping in now and then and also claim godparent status. The original Henry prefers to Skype once a month or so from his bunker. He was delighted at our choice of name and gifted our son a rocket launcher, which my child shall never receive if I have any say about it.
I like to think our baby boy will grow up to be an accountant or a lawyer or a dermatologist. Something safe and far from explosives. But we’ll see. People can only be themselves. And after everything we’ve been through, I know I’m my best self with Thom and he’s his best self with me. Life is good.
The end.
PURCHASE KYLIE SCOTT’S OTHER BOOKS
Repeat
It Seemed Like a Good Idea at the Time
Trust
THE DIVE BAR SERIES
Dirty
Twist
Chaser
THE STAGE DIVE SERIES
Lick
Play
Lead
Deep
Strong: A Stage Dive Novella
THE FLESH SERIES
Flesh
Skin
Flesh Series Novellas
Heart’s a Mess
Colonist’s Wife
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REPEAT
CHAPTER ONE
The shop sits on a busy street in the cool downtown neighborhood of Portland, Maine. Larsen and Sons Tattoo Parlor is written on the window in elegant script. Inside, music plays, two guys lounge on a green velvet chaise flicking through books. It’s all very clean and neat and awesome looking. And there’s a sound like an electric drill in the air.
The girl behind the counter stops, mouth gaping when she sees me. She’s pretty and petite with a shaved head.
“Hi,” I say, attempting a smile. “Can I speak to—”
“Are you fucking kidding me,” a deep voice booms.
I meet the eyes of a tall man covered in tattoos. Shortish, light brown hair, lean but muscular. He wears jeans and designer sneakers, a T-shirt advertising some band. For sure, he’d be handsome if he wasn’t scowling at me. Actually, strike that. He’s handsome period, irrespective of his glare. His angular jaw is covered in stubble and it frames perfect lips. Straight nose, high cheekbones. Unlike me, this man is a work of art.
“No, not happening,” he says, striding over. His large hand wraps around my upper arm, grip firm though not cruel. “You don’t get to come back.”
“Don’t touch me.” My words are ignored as he marches me back toward the door. Panic bubbles up inside and I slap his chest hard. “Hey, buddy. Do. Not. Touch. Me.”
At that, he blinks, a little startled. “Buddy?”
I don’t know what he was expecting, but he lets go. It takes me a full minute to get my breathing back under control. Dammit. Meanwhile, everyone is watching. The girl behind the counter and the two guys waiting on the chaise. The woman with brown skin and big beautiful hair holding a tattoo gun and the older woman she’s working on. We have quite the audience assembled. The man screaming about being back in black over the sound system is the only noise.
“You need to leave,” he says, voice quieter this time, though no less harsh.
“I have a few questions I need to ask you first.”
“No.”