The 'Burg: Hold On Part 30

Because I had a feeling I might be facing attorney's fees.

Two hours later, I stared down at the end of the bar where Colt and Sully were bent over their beers, looking at each other, smiling and chuckling.

Feb was on. Jackie was looking after Colt and Feb's little Jack.

This happened. Colt liked to hang with his woman when she was on.

Then again, Colt just liked to be with his woman and they both liked to give their son's gramma time to be with her grandson.

Drew Mangold, another detective, had been in. He'd left fifteen minutes ago.

Mike had been there too. When I got there, he'd been sitting with Colt and Sully, shooting the s.h.i.+t, an after-work drink that led to two with cop bonding. But he'd left less than half an hour after I hit the bar for my s.h.i.+ft.

No Merry.

He didn't come into J&J's every day.

But he was a regular. Once a week, more often two or three times, sometimes more.

It had nearly been a week since I blew things up.

He was avoiding me.

This scared me. He didn't seem the kind to hold a grudge. He was a straight shooter. He had a problem with you, he told you to your face and didn't delay (not that he'd ever had a problem with me, but I'd seen him have problems with other people and that was what he did).

He was not doing this with me.

He also wasn't living his life as he had so there was an opening for us to gloss over it and move on.

So it was safe to say I was worried. I'd not apologized. I'd not reached out in any way. There was no door open he could slide through so we could start the work to get back to the him and me that used to be.

My attention was called, a customer wanting a draft.

I pulled it, all the ugly s.h.i.+t that had come out of my mouth that I'd aimed at Merry slamming through my brain as I did.

I served the draft. The guy paid. I got a good tip that would probably pay for half a second of an attorney's time. I moved down the bar after a scan showed me some drinks needed refills.

I made drinks, notes on tabs, pocketing tips on those who paid outright and didn't open a tab.

Done with that, I glanced down at Colt and Sully. Feb was standing with them but twisted, her eyes on me.

She smiled a soft smile.

She'd noted Merry hadn't come in too.

I returned a c.o.c.ky grin.

She didn't buy it, but she didn't act on that.

At that moment, Ruthie bellied up to the bar with an order.

I moved her way.

Early Tuesday Morning It was four o'clock in the morning. Mom was snoring on the couch. Ethan was sleeping in his bed. I was in my bed, the room dark, my phone illuminated.

I f.u.c.ked us up, I typed into Merry's text string.

I deleted it.

I f.u.c.ked us up, I typed again, my eyes beginning to burn.

I deleted it again.

I miss you I didn't tell him, typing it with no intention of sending it.

I backs.p.a.ced through it.

I f.u.c.ked us up, baby, and I'm so f.u.c.king sorry.

I didn't hit send, but I also didn't erase it.

Like it could just exist and he'd somehow get it without me giving it to him, I left it there, closed down my phone, tossed it on the nightstand, turned to my side, closed my blazing eyes, and did not sleep.

Garrett Tuesday Night Getting home after work, Garrett sifted through his mail at the kitchen bar, wondering how the f.u.c.k he got so many catalogs when he'd never bought a thing from a catalog in his life, and in the same time, he'd never made an online purchase.

Bills. Credit card applications. Life insurance offers.

And there it was.

"Jesus Christ," he muttered, staring at the handwriting.

Solely out of curiosity, he opened the envelope.

Upending it, an eight-by-ten color glossy slid out on his bar, face up. Stuck on it was a bright pink Post-it note in the shape of a heart.

It read, I messed this up. I didn't work for it. I'm going to work for it, baby.

He read the note and looked at the picture.

In it, he was sitting on a barstool in Vegas. Mia was in a clingy dress he'd liked a f.u.c.kuva lot, standing next to him, hanging on him. She didn't have to hang; he had his arm around her, holding her close.

On the bar was a three hundred dollar bottle of champagne. They were both holding filled flutes. They'd splurged because he'd just won seven thousand dollars at the c.r.a.ps table.

They'd taken a few sips before Mia had asked someone pa.s.sing by to take that picture.

Then they took the champagne to the reception desk and did what they did. Not planning for a future, living in the now, doing it wild to pack in as much as they could, they blew almost all his winnings, got upgraded to a suite, and made short work of moving rooms.

The rest of the time they were in Vegas, three days, they didn't leave that suite. They got room service if they needed to eat. But if they weren't eating or sleeping, they were f.u.c.king, whispering, or laughing.

He'd never been happier.

And that was when it began. He felt it. He felt it their last night in Vegas when he laid on his back in the bed in that suite with his naked wife curled sleeping at his side.

He'd felt the fear.

They'd been three years in their marriage-three good, strong, solid years-and the minute they stepped foot off that plane onto Indiana soil, he'd started pulling away.

She'd let him. She hadn't fought it once. She'd been confused. Scared. Hurt. She'd let that show. It had killed him, seeing that, seeing what he was doing to her, but he didn't quit doing it. He didn't once cease in his efforts at driving her away.

And in those three years she hadn't once asked him what was in his head. What was making him drive a wedge between them. What was pus.h.i.+ng him to kill their happy.

She hadn't even begun to put up a fight.

Eight years later, she decided to put up a fight.

Staring at that picture, all they had, all they were, all he'd wanted, all that had f.u.c.ked with his head, all the harm he'd done to her, all the pain he'd caused surfaced and he gave it a second of his time.

Eight years.

Then Cher's bravery, smas.h.i.+ng through that fortress she had every reason to build around herself to wake up that morning and look at him the way she did, touch him the way she did, brush her lips against his throat, take his mouth, moved all thought of Mia aside.

Cher'd had it tough in a way that even in twenty years on the force he hadn't seen anyone f.u.c.ked by life as much as her.

But it hadn't even taken her a week to break through the walls she'd built to guard her heart to start letting him in. It got f.u.c.ked up, but she'd still done it.

Not eight years.

Not even a week.

That was all Merry needed.

He picked up the picture, tore it in half, in quarters, in eighths, then toed his trash bin and tossed it inside.

After that, he went to his fridge to get a beer before he went to his couch and turned on the TV.

It was Tuesday.

Tomorrow was Wednesday.

Which meant it had been a week.

Cher's time was up.

Ethan Wednesday Morning His mom's phone beeped.

He went to it and saw the text from his gramma telling them they needed to figure out a time to have a family dinner.

He opened his mouth to yell at his mom as he engaged her phone, punching in her pa.s.sword, going to her texts.

He closed his mouth when his mom's texts came up.

There was a line that said Merry.

Merry, a cool guy, a cop, a bada.s.s-not an in-your-face bada.s.s like Cal, but still a bada.s.s who would be able to stop anything bad from ever happening to his mom. A cool guy, cop bada.s.s who looked all natural holding his mom's hand.

He knew he shouldn't, but he couldn't help himself.

He touched the line with Merry's name.

He read the string, scrolling with his finger, his eyes s.c.r.e.w.i.n.g up, not understanding.

Talked to Ryker. He's been briefed by Tanner. He's all over the church lady.

That means you broke your promise to me. Right to my face, you promised. You lied.

You know what that means, Merry. You shared my s.h.i.+t. That means we're over in every way we can be over.

DONE.

They were over?

There was something between his mom and Merry to be over?

She'd told him there wasn't.

But she hadn't told him the truth.

She was protecting him.

Again.

Ethan felt his heart beating real hard.

There were words in the message line that hadn't been sent.

I f.u.c.ked us up, baby, and I'm so f.u.c.king sorry.

She called Merry "baby." She didn't call anyone "baby" unless she liked them a whole heckuva lot.

It said I f.u.c.ked us up.