Everything I Left Unsaid(22)

Blake’s bottle green eyes lit up. “We will be gods and people will bow before us.”

“Well, that is the plan. Be there in a second,” he said.

“I wanted to thank you for giving my brother a chance. Mom appreciated it.”

“I’m sorry I fired him without talking to you first.”

“The garage is your world. You did what you had to do.”

Blake was a good guy, one of the best. And his mom was Margaret and both of them deserved better than that shit-bag Phil. But whatever; if everyone got what they deserved, Dylan would be dead a few times over.

“How did he leave?”

“Like a dick, spewed some hate at me and Mom before he finally got in his car.”

“Where’d he go?”

“Back to whatever rock he lives under, I guess. It’s not like he keeps us up-to-date on his address changes.”

“I don’t know why the hell you bothered.”

“Some of us can’t just leave our family behind, man.”

“Yeah, well, that’s too bad for you.”

“Mom wanted one last try,” Blake said, making it clear he wouldn’t have done it on his own. Blake had inherited his father’s darker skin, green eyes, and business brain. He got Margaret’s blond hair but none of her soft heart. “And it’s done now. For good. Come check out the gear set,” Blake said and without another word he left, closing the door behind him.

Dylan remained in his chair, staring first at the door and then at his phone. Without thinking about the consequences, because after all, he was a god, Dylan grabbed his phone and sent Layla a text message.

Call me.



She might be embarrassed. But she was innocent, and she had no idea how f*cking compelling, how addictive, what they’d just shared could be.

Dylan was a patient man and it might take her a while, but she would learn.

And she would call back.





ANNIE


A few days later, I walked the field for the last time before mowing. The tall grass touched my legs just under my shorts and my thighs were wet with dew. It rolled down into my socks. I pushed and shoved the big boulders into the brush along the edges, shoving a long stick in the ground next to the ones that were too big to move so I didn’t accidentally hit them when I mowed.

I worked until my body hurt and my muscles were twitching. My hands, despite the gloves, were raw.

I worked until what happened with Dylan on the phone seemed to be something I’d read. Maybe in that dirty book. But not something that happened to me.

Stuff like that didn’t happen to Annie McKay.

Walking back to the trailer after locking up, I saw Ben in his garden, taking bricks out of a wheelbarrow and struggling under the weight.

“Here, let me help you,” I said, rushing to his side. I didn’t even think about what Dylan had said. His dire warnings about this old man’s danger. Frankly, I just didn’t believe him.

“I got it,” he breathed, clearly straining.

“Stubborn man,” I muttered and ignored him. I grabbed a bunch of bricks, setting them down beside his pile. I got another load before he could straighten his back.

“I’m not helpless.”

“I know.”

“You don’t need to treat me like I am.”

“I’m not. I’m just helping you.”

He grunted, which made me smile.

“You don’t got enough work?”

“What else am I going to do?” I asked, taking out the last of the bricks.

He sighed. “I hear alcoholism is time consuming.”

I was worn down and thin with all my worries and that joke just made me howl.

“It’s not that funny,” he said with a smile, watching me sideways.

“I know,” I said, wiping my eyes.

He started clearing the bricks off the cement pad that I’d placed my stacks on. “Thanks for the pasta sauce,” he said.

“You’re welcome.”

“It was better once I put some of my oregano in it.”

I sobered again, shackled by the reminder of my own gutlessness. Can’t ask for what I want. Can’t enjoy what I’ve got. Can’t even touch my body without being pulled apart by all the shit I’m trying to leave behind.

That night…after the thing with Dylan, I’d taken Fifty Shades of Grey and thrown it in the drawer with the gun and the phone and shut it. I’d been enjoying that book, was excited to read the rest of it, but I denied myself that because I’m a gutless dummy.

Because in the end, I get what I deserve.

I started an Agatha Christie novel. Because who doesn’t love Agatha Christie? But the whole time I wanted to be reading the book in my bedside table.

“I’m sure it was,” I said, crouching down beside him to clear the cement pad. After my shower I was going to finish that damn book. I was. No one was going to stop me. Not even myself. “What are you working on?”

“A little brick oven,” he said, brushing leaves away with his hand. “It’s too hot to cook in the trailer during the summer.”

He pulled a piece of paper out of his back pocket and I saw again under his white shirt the shadow of that big, black tattoo.

It seemed ominous.