Madden
* * *
Pierce drops me off in front of my place shortly after one in the morning.
Ears ringing, I make my way to the side door. I have to say that’s the first time in my life that I’ve attended a Flaming Lips concert and not enjoyed it.
And how could I, with the woman I love a few blocks away, dancing the night away with some other guy?
When I saw her board the elevator and watched as it hit the fourth, eleventh, fifteenth and top floors, I searched them all until I found her.
Apparently it was her brother’s wedding, not a date. But who the hell gets married on a Friday night in December?
I’d barely had a chance to say more than a couple of sentences to her when her father had me escorted off the property.
Heading into my building, I climb the stairs. I’m halfway up when I fish my keys from my pocket and glance up at my door.
“Hi.” A pretty blonde in a sparkly gold dress is seated on the top step. A pair of pointy gold heels rest beside her. Nothing about her looks like she belongs here but the juxtaposition of her radiant beauty against stained concrete steps in a dimly lit apartment building is a sight for sore eyes—and one I never thought I’d be lucky enough to see again.
“Hi.” I continue toward her, never taking my eyes off her, as if she’s a desert mirage that could disappear if I so much as blink. “How long have you been waiting here?”
She gives me a tender smile. “A while.”
“You could’ve called me.” I’d have left that concert so fast …
“I have a different phone now. Your number’s in my old one.”
That explains a few things.
I slide my key into the lock and let us in, flicking on a couple of lamps before meeting her in the small bit of open space between the bed and the living area.
Her hands fall at her sides. “So? What’d you want to tell me?”
Drawing in a hard breath, I let it go before answering. “Everything.”
“Everything?” She raises a brow.
“Yes. Ask me anything. I’ll tell you whatever you want to know.”
Her full lips press together and her eyes scan the length of me before returning to mine. “How much time do we have?”
“All night.”
Her tongue darts to the corner of her mouth before she squints at me. “All right. Why don’t you have any tattoos?”
I take her hand, leading her to the loveseat by the TV, and we sit together.
“I had a brother once,” I begin, chest tightening. “We were twins, actually. Identical. His name was Dallas.” She says nothing, but her eyes soften. “Growing up, we did everything together. And we were twins in every sense of the word—right down to our interests. From the second we were old enough to write our names, we both took an interest in drawing. And over the years, we’d practice, getting better and better. Then we started practicing on each other—drawing different tattoos and that sort of thing. Anyway, when we were sixteen, we made a pact … we were going to open a tattoo shop together when we were older. And we agreed that I’d give him his first tattoo and he’d give me mine.” I stop for a second, swallowing the lump in my throat just to have it return. “Anyway, he died later that year … and I vowed to keep my end of the agreement. So there you go. I know it’s not some scandalous secret, but losing my brother … I can’t even begin to describe—”
She places her hand over mine. “It’s okay. I get it. I know what it feels like to lose someone you love more than anything.”
We sit in silence for a second. I’m not sure if I feel lighter because I got that off my chest or because she’s here, but suddenly the world feels a little less heavy.
“But there’s something else,” I say.
“Okay …”
“My father … he killed your grandparents.” I wince, watching for her reaction.
“I know.” She leans toward me. “And for the record, I would never hold any of that against you. Honestly, I wish you’d have told me sooner.”
“How long have you known?”
“Since the week after I last saw you.” Her eyes shift from a stack of sketch pads on the coffee table to me. “I’m sorry about your brother, by the way. I can’t imagine. And I’m sorry for the role my grandfather played in his death.”
I nod, at a loss for words at first. It’s good to hear somebody apologize for his death, even if it had nothing to do with her.
“How’d you find out?” I ask. “About everything?”
“My father did a background check on you.”
I sniff. “Of course he did.”
“Which leads me to my next question … why didn’t you tell me about your criminal history? The stalking and the harassment?”
My head cocks to the side. “What are you talking about?”
“Don’t play dumb with me, Madden,” she says. “I saw your criminal record. Everything was listed there on the background check. Burglary, DUI, criminal mischief …”
“Brighton.” I half laugh because this is completely ridiculous. “I’ve never so much as had a speeding ticket.”
She straightens her posture, watching me. I get the sense that she wants to believe me, but I’m sure her father’s filled her head so full of lies that it isn’t that easy.
“Whatever he gave you … it’s probably fake,” I say.
She shakes her head, and for a second, I’m sure she’s about to defend him.
“Here.” I tear a piece of paper from one of the sketch pads and grab the nearest pencil, jotting down my full name, date of birth, and Social Security number. Handing them to her, I say, “All yours. Run your own background check on me and see what you come up with.”
She takes the paper with reluctance. “He said you changed your name when you were eighteen.”
“I didn’t want to be a Kramer anymore.” I shrug. “I didn’t want anything to do with my father after what he did. As soon as I became an adult, I changed my last name to Ransom—which was actually my middle name before. Named for someone on my mom’s side of the family or something. I don’t know, I just liked that it had a little edge to it.”
She laughs through her nose, and finally, I feel like I’m getting through to her.
The tension between us is still there, but at least now it’s lifting.
“There’s something else I need to tell you though.” I clear my throat. “I don’t know how to tell you this …”
“What? What is it?”
“According to my dad, your father paid him to …” my words taper off as her hazel eyes begin to water. “He, uh, paid him to kill your grandparents. A quarter million or something like that. And when my dad got caught, he took the fall for it. That way, your dad would still pay up and his family would have something because either way, he was going to prison.”
She’s quiet.
I have no idea if she believes me, and I wouldn’t blame her if she didn’t.
This entire situation is fucked seven ways from Sunday.