Page 47

Samantha

I wake up screaming again; screaming, and alone.

It was a different nightmare this time, but still the same as the other ones. Still seeing Jake dead beside me, still seeing Diesel gunned down in the parking lot, and still seeing my life as it is — unaltered, without hope, with nothing but a gray, empty sky above me.

I take two hours and a glass of wine to get back to sleep. Twice during that time, I ask myself that ‘what if’ question that gets harder and harder to say ‘no’ to.

I still say ‘no,’ though.

Probably because I’m a coward.

Then I sleep an hour or two and wake up mostly sober, to fill myself with coffee, off-brand cereal moistened with gently expired milk, and a half-hour of a sitcom played in the background, mostly for the noise. I’ve grown to like the laugh tracks, the sound of life, even if each day that passes, that sound itself is stranger and more foreign to my ears.

I wonder if I’ll ever laugh again before the end.

Then I go to work.

Frank, the yard foreman with the grabby fucking hands and the eyes and words that promise a fucking that his massive gut and overly flabby body could absolutely never fucking deliver on, is there to greet me with a leer as I reach the door to the offices of Blaine Shipping.

“Morning, Emily. Looking damn fine today. Let’s get a drink at lunch. I know you’re not supposed to drink on the job, but it could be our naughty secret,” he says with a wink.

I force a tight smile. "No thanks, Frank. I'll pass on that drink."

He shrugs, leering at me again. "Your loss, sweetheart. Offer's always open though..." He winks again before waddling off to harass someone else. I roll my eyes and push through the door into the dingy office and am immediately assaulted by the smell of stale coffee and moldering files.

Another glamorous day in the life of Emily Jacobs.

I settle in at my cubicle and boot up the ancient computer to begin the mind-numbing data entry and filing that fills most of my hours here. My thoughts inevitably drift as I robotically input numbers and sort paperwork.

Diesel’s face swims before my eyes, that crooked grin, those warm eyes that always saw right through me. God, what I wouldn't give to see that smile one more time. To tell him I'm sorry for everything. But he's gone, because of me. They're all gone. Him, Jake, hell, probably everyone from the MC. All dead.

And I'm still here, alone, living this empty shell of a life.

But I’m not really living, just existing.

Existing until I get the strength to do something about it.

Tears prick my eyes, but I blink them back. I can't break down, not here. I have to keep going through the motions, maintain this pathetic charade.

Around mid-morning, I head to the break room to make a fresh pot of coffee. It’s more for an excuse to stretch my legs than any genuine desire for caffeine. Ted from accounting corners me as I'm filling the coffee filter. His eyes are a rotten shade of green, set too far apart in his head, and, though they say eyes are the window to the soul, his look like a doorway straight to hell.

“Emily, we need to talk.”

Those words freeze me. Ted never wants to talk. Of all the people in this office, on this dock, within three blocks of this salt-stained hellhole, he’s the only one who actively avoids me. It’s his most redeeming quality.

“About what?”

“Tax time is coming up. I’ve been reviewing some of the paperwork to get the company ready, and noticed some irregularities.”

Irregularities is putting it lightly. My driver’s license was purchased from a sketchy bouncer at a local bar and only looks like me in the right light: pitch darkness. My other information, like social security number and all that, I bought off the dark web, which I accessed at the local public library, and paid for with a Western Union wire transfer to somewhere in Cambodia. The quality matched the price, and the only reason I didn’t get called out for it when I first interviewed here is the hiring manager was too busy looking at my tits to look at my documents.

Just then, miracle of miracles, my phone rings.

“I have to go get that,” I say, whirling away from the coffeemaker with all the grace of a ballerina with a broken left foot. “Lot of work to do today, Ted. But I’ll come find you later and we can talk.”

No, I won’t.

But I race to my phone, and even sigh a little in relief when I hear Vince’s scratchy voice come over the end of the line. “What you wearing today, sweetheart?”

“Fuck you, Vince,” I say, with a little bit of cheer. “Fuck you, and your mother, too.”

Then I hang up.

I barely make it through the rest of my shift. Between avoiding Ted's prying questions and Frank's wandering eyes, it takes every ounce of my frayed willpower not to scream or break down sobbing right there at my desk. The tedious work blurs together, minutes dragging like hours, until finally, mercifully, it's quitting time.

I clock out and head straight for the liquor store down the block, picking up the cheapest bottle of red they have. Then my feet carry me to the nearby waterfront park, a rare slice of something almost beautiful in this decaying urban blight. I find an empty bench and collapse onto it, unscrewing the cap and taking a long swig straight from the bottle. The wine is harsh and tastes slightly of vinegar, but it'll do the job. I stare out at the gray waves, watching a few lonely seagulls wheeling against the overcast sky.

My vision blurs and I realize silent tears are rolling down my cheeks. I don’t wipe them away. What's the point? There's no one here to see. No one who cares. I'm utterly alone in this world.

"Emily?" A tentative male voice breaks into my spiraling thoughts. I look up to see Matt. He's in jogging gear, slightly out of breath, concern etched on his forgettable features. He’d almost look handsome if my vision wasn’t so blurry.

"Oh. Hey," I mutter, hastily brushing at my tears with my sleeve. "What’s up?

“Just out for a run," Matt says, his eyes flicking to the wine bottle clutched in my hand before meeting my gaze again. "Everything okay? You seem... upset."

I force a brittle laugh. "That's the understatement of the century. But I'm fine, really. Nothing for you to worry about."

Matt frowns, clearly not buying it. He hesitates a moment before gesturing to the bench. "Mind if I join you for a minute?"

I shrug listlessly. "Suit yourself."

He sits down beside me, careful to keep a respectful distance. "Look, Emily, I know we don't know each other that well, but I can tell you're going through something. I just want you to know that you don't have to deal with it alone. If you ever need someone to talk to, or even just grab a coffee or a bite to eat with... I'm here. I can be a friend if you need one. I’ve been through hard times, too, and I know what it’s like, and I know how to listen. And if that’s all you need, someone to listen to you, I can do that, too."

I take another long swig of wine, feeling it burn down my throat and settle like lead in my empty stomach. A friend. The notion is so absurd I almost want to laugh. But I don't have the energy.

"That's real sweet of you, Matt. But trust me, I'm better off alone. I'm not exactly friend material these days."

"Everyone needs someone sometimes," he persists gently. "No one should have to carry their burdens completely alone. Just think about it, okay?"

I meet his gaze, seeing the genuine care and concern there. It’s touching. And so misplaced; I don’t deserve any of it.

“Fuck off, Matt.”

He blinks. “What?”

“Go fuck yourself and get the hell out of here.”

“Fuck you, too, Emily, you fucking bitch,” he says over his shoulder as he jogs away.

Alone at last.

I walk toward the water's edge, the pull of the waves drawing me in like a siren's call. An old, weathered pier stretches out into the gray expanse, its wooden planks worn smooth by countless feet and the relentless assault of the elements.

It’s like a bridge into heaven, an opportunity to escape into the unknown; it’s beautiful.

My feet carry me onto the pier, the boards creaking and groaning beneath my weight as if in warning. But I ignore their protests, driven forward by a force I can't resist. The bottle of wine slips from my fingers, rolling away and coming to rest against a splintered piling. I don't bother to pick it up.

I reach the end of the pier and stare down into the dark, churning water. It looks so cold, so final. But inviting, in a twisted way.

And in that moment, the thought takes shape. A way out. An escape from the constant fear, the unrelenting grief, the soul-deep loneliness. A release.

This is how I really leave my past behind.

I take a shuddering breath and tears blur my vision as I gaze into the depths below. It would be so easy. So quick. Just one step, and then peace. Blessed nothingness. It wouldn’t even hurt, I bet; the cold ocean would numb me, the waves would pull me under, and then it’d just be darkness. The all-embracing darkness. Quiet, peaceful, alone.

It sounds right.

It feels right.

It is right.

I stand at the very edge of the pier, my toes curling over the weathered plank like a diver preparing to plunge into the abyss below. My heart pounds in my chest, a sick excitement coursing through my veins and mixing with an almost perverse sense of hope. Tears stream down my face, but I can't tell if they're from sadness or anticipation anymore. All I know is that down there, in the dark depths of the unforgiving sea, lies the promise of peace. Of escape from this wretched existence that feels more like a prison with each passing day.

I close my eyes and imagine reuniting with Jake in whatever comes after this life; he'll be whole again – the brother I remember from our childhood, before the world chewed him up and spat him out a broken addict. His eyes will sparkle with mischief instead of being glazed over with desperate hunger. His smile will be genuine, not the forced grimace of an addict just trying to survive another day.

And Diesel... God, Diesel will be there too. In that place, we can finally be together, without the horrors of our pasts ripping us apart. No more looking over our shoulders, no more blood on our hands as we fight just to keep breathing. Just him and me, the way it was always meant to be.

I teeter on the edge, one foot raised to take that irrevocable step into the abyss, when a voice shatters my trance.

"Going for a swim? Mind if I join you? I didn't bring a swimsuit, but a little skinny dipping never hurt anyone."

My eyes fly open and my heart kicks into overdrive, threatening to beat right out of my chest. That voice. I know that voice. Know it as well as I know my heartbeat.

But it can't be...

Slowly, hardly daring to breathe, I turn around.

And there he is.

Diesel.

Standing not ten feet away, hands casually shoved in his pockets, that familiar crooked grin on his face. He looks just the same as the last time I saw him. Before the gunshots. Before his blood splattered across the pavement. Before I died.

But now he's here — alive, whole, and looking at me with those warm brown eyes that always see straight into my battered soul.

"Diesel?" I whisper. My voice cracks on his name. "Is it really you?"

He takes a step closer. His smile softens. "It's me, Samantha. In the flesh."

A strangled sob escapes my throat and I lurch toward him, half convinced he'll dissolve into mist the moment I try to touch him. But when I collide with his chest, he's solid and warm and real. His arms wrap around me, crush me against him, and I suck in a shaking breath for what feels like the first time in months and release it and it comes out as another sob. Before I know it, I’m weeping against his chest, tears and snot and crying hiccups bursting from me in an embarrassing torrent that I cannot stop.

“I missed you,” I whimper.

“I missed you, too,” he says, and he plants a soft kiss on the top of my head.

For so long, all I can do is hold him and release all the hurt I’ve held onto for so long. When I pause, I look up at him to remind myself that he’s really here.

“How did you find me?” I say.

He breathes in and out and I hear the wind fill his lungs and the beat of his heart against my cheek, within my chest, my heart stills and matches the rhythm of his, and then, after another deep breath, he kisses my head again. I look up at him, and he kisses me, a lingering, intense kiss that touches the deepest, most hurt reaches of my soul.

“After I survived everything that happened with…” He stops, gives me a pause, and I’m so grateful that he doesn’t speak my brother’s name. “After I survived, I knew I wouldn’t feel alive again unless I found you. So I went looking for you, and I keep looking, and I knew I would not stop until I found you.”

“This whole time you’ve been looking for me?”

“All this time.”