I come, my body shuddering with the orgasm. When it’s over he’s up again, knees on the edge of the sofa, face to face as he takes me. Something is different between us, our eyes wide open, never wavering from the other’s face. When we come, we cling to each other, my arms around his neck, him gripping a handful of hair. He forces my head back and kisses me the moment I feel him empty inside me. I swallow his moan, knowing we belong to each other. Me to him and him to me. This is right. The way it was always meant to be. Me and him. Bishop and St. James.
And the baby inside my stomach has her destiny laid out for her. Her purpose. She will heal old wounds. She will close the history book and write a new future. Because even if the words aren’t spoken, I love Jericho St. James. And I need him. I know it’s the same for him. However this started, however he meant it to be, it’s something other now. Something whole and perfect and right. Strong enough to face all the ugliness of our world.
29
Jericho
She cleans my hands. My face. The antiseptic stings but I try not to move as I watch her. She’s beautiful. So beautiful. Even when she tells me how stupid I am to battle stone. She’s right. She prattles on about what Angelique will think when she sees me like this. How we’d better get me bandaged up and not stinking of a distillery before she gets home. It’s good. Distracting.
That’s twice now that Dex has taken my mother and Angelique out. I need to talk to him about that. It’s like my household is revolting silently behind my back.
Isabelle tucks a strand of wet hair behind her ear and looks at me. After our shower she dressed in a lightweight sweater dress. Her legs and feet are bare, the dress hugging her round ass. When she turns to throw away the bloody cloth she used to clean my wounds, I’m tempted to bend her over the foot of the bed, push her dress up to her waist and take her again.
“What?” she asks when she turns back to me.
I realize I have a grin on my face. To be honest I feel like I’m in a dream state. Probably at least partly due to the amount of alcohol I consumed and the fact that I haven’t slept in forty-eight hours.
“Your ass looks good in that dress.”
She rolls her eyes but smiles and draws the sheets back on the bed. “You need to eat this and sleep.” She points to the sandwich on the nightstand. “You need something to soak up all that whiskey.”
“Sit,” I tell her.
“Eat,” she replies, folding her arms across her chest.
“I’ll eat if you sit.” She doesn’t move. “We need to talk, Isabelle.” As soon as the words are out, it’s like that high begins to evaporate for both of us.
She sits beside me, tucking her legs up under herself. “Eat first.”
I nod and eat the sandwich in about three bites. I am hungry.
“Maybe chew?”
I smile, wipe my mouth, and turn to her. “What I told you last night. Do you remember?”
Her face darkens and she nods. “I threw away the other syringes. If you ever do that to me again—”
“I won’t.”
“If you ever do, I’ll kill you Jericho St. James.”
I smile at that. “Okay. I’ll hold you to it.” She pushes my hair back, her face softening. “What I said though,” I continue. “What I told you about the night your brother was killed. You remember?”
She shifts her gaze to her dress, brushing off imaginary lint. “I need to think.”
“I wish I were wrong, Isabelle. But I have proof.”
“I just need to think. Need to get through the next few weeks first. Okay?”
The anniversary of his death.
“Okay.”
I wrap an arm around her as she smiles weakly at me. “I won’t hurt you, Isabelle. I promise. Not now. Not when you have the baby. Not ever. Do you believe me?”
She wipes her eyes.
“You never have to worry about that. I care about you. I will take care of you. Do you remember what I said once? Pregnant or not, Bishop or not, vengeance or not, you’re what I want. That hasn’t changed. It’s not going to change.” I touch her cheek, pull her to my chest as more tears come.
She sniffles, her body wracked by a sudden sob, so I hold her to me. I wish I could see her smile more. I wish I could hear her laugh. Have I ever heard her laugh? Giggles now and again with Angelique when she doesn’t know I’m listening. But I don’t think I’ve ever heard her laugh.
“And I won’t betray you. You just have to trust me and keep choosing me.”
30
Isabelle
Jericho sleeps long and hard. That afternoon I walk out to the chapel on the grounds. It’s a cool, overcast day as I make my way along the path, feeling like the weeks leading up to Christian’s murder are always cool and overcast. At least they have been for the last three years.
I pick wildflowers on my way, finding bunches in blues and yellows. By the time I get to the cemetery I have enough for four small bouquets. I lay one at Kimberly’s grave, one at Nellie’s and take a third to Zoë’s. After arranging the flowers in the little pot before her name, I spend a few minutes thinking about her. Her short, sad life. Her terrible death. I think about her two brothers and how they couldn’t save her. I see Jericho’s hopeless face. The pain in his eyes.
“I’m sorry for what happened to you,” I tell her, remembering the sensation of someone being there with me in the cellar when I found the letter. The cool presence of something no longer of this world. As I think it, goosebumps rise along my body and a shiver has me hugging my arms to myself. It’s not frightening though. It’s her. Maybe she’s left the cellar now that the secret is out. Maybe she can rest.
A lump forms in my throat and tears warm my eyes. I brush away dirt from the Z of her name and shift my gaze to the name on the stone beside hers. The one with the residue of what I know is Jericho’s blood. Her father.
How can she rest with him so nearby?
But Jericho will take care of that. As early as tomorrow morning. Someone is coming to erase his name from the stone once his remains are removed from the crypt so that Zoë can finally rest.
I take a deep breath and head toward the chapel. I have my own dead to remember now. And over the last three years I have created my own memorial ceremony. Carlton never cared about it even though when prodded by Julia he pretended to. I can’t blame him. He didn’t know Christian. Julia though, I think she cared. She even joined me at the cemetery a few times, telling me she understood when I told her about my ceremony. How I remembered him.
Like I had the other night, I spot a few old cigarette butts on the ground in front of the chapel. I don’t know why they stand out to me. It’s not that out of the ordinary for someone to smoke if they are working out here.
Ignoring it I go into the chapel and walk to the altar. The tabernacle lamp is lit but the others aren’t, so I set my last bouquet of flowers down, pick up the box of matches and start lighting them. I open the shoulder bag I brought with me and take out my small, framed photo of Christian and me. I study his face, see how the smile lights up his eyes. It was taken a few years before my parents’ accident. I was only twelve.