Undefeated (Unexpected Book 5) Page 9

  Something about her reminds me of the Deckers. She makes me feel like I have a family. This time I don’t want to fuck things up. Lose them as I lost the Deckers. Maybe I should follow what they taught me. Like love without reserves. I also remember two things that the Deckers instilled in me—always use condoms when you have sex and try to have meaningful sex. I listened to one of them. I always used condoms. The second . . . I fucked women since I turned eighteen without giving them a second thought. None of them mattered; there wasn’t anything meaningful or significant. The only person who mattered was AJ. When I was with her, everything was different. Every caress, every kiss, and every I love you meant something to the both of us. AJ mattered. She meant the world to me. At least she did until I lost myself and became the opposite of who I wanted to be for her.

  After losing AJ, I never thought that I’d feel the same for anyone; that I’d care for anyone the way I did for her. At least not until Mackenzie knocked on my door. She stood right in front of me. Long, wavy, dark-brown hair hanging on her shoulders framing her heart shaped face. Her light brown eyes staring at me with curiosity and fear. The yoga pants and tank top she wore emphasized her curves and there was something about her that pulled me to her.

  Mackenzie illuminates and warms the dark places inside me. The past couple of months with her, Harp and Finn have been perfect. They’ve helped me create new memories. Having them in my life helps dull the hurt of my past. They fill a void I thought would remain vacant forever. Looking back toward the house, I decide to step up my game. Woo her. Show her that we can be great together. Trust that if I venture into a place where she’s not comfortable, she’ll let me know.

  “Never?” Mac asks, while fixing my hay hat. “Why?”

  “At least, I can’t remember ever doing it,” I rephrase. The period while I was with my grandparents is a black hole I choose not to investigate. Not even with hypnotherapy. “My foster family lived in the middle of nowhere, trick-or-treating was out of the question. We usually watched horror movies during Halloween.”

  “Ate candy?”

  “No. One of their kids was diabetic,” I explain without detail. Maybe someday I’ll share more about Gabe and Chris. Even tell her about AJ. For now, less is more.

  “Shouldn’t you be a scarecrow too?” I question Harper, who finally comes downstairs dressed in a glittery dress, fairy wings, and she’s holding a wand.

  “No. I’m a farm-fairy.” She touches me with her wand. “Now you’re a living scarecrow.”

  “That’s the best I could come up with,” Mac sounds a little defensive, handing her a cowboy hat. “Compromising with her was close to impossible. All her friends are going to be princesses or fairies. You ready for this?”

  I nod, pulling her cow ear slightly, then kissing her black nose. I wink at her, walking to the kitchen for the buckets that Molly bought for the kids.

  “Not bad for a first timer,” Mac says, handing me a glass of water. “You should head home to sleep.”

  “Sit.” I pat the couch. “We agreed on watching movies after the kids went to bed. Something scary. Psycho, Halloween, The Shining?”

  Her eyes grow wide, her head shaking. “Scary movie?” she counterparts. “I don’t watch scary movies. Ever. Not even the classics. Find something mellow. A comedy.”

  “Romantic comedy?” I ask as she frowns. “What? I happen to know a lot about movies. You don’t grow up with a movie fanatic and not learn a thing or two.”

  “Your foster parents?”

  I nod, remembering the first time I stepped foot on a movie set. Gabe needed a background band for a scene and he took me to fill in as the guitarist. He showed me the studio, explained the process of filming and how they add in the sound. It was a lot of shit to take in when there were so many famous people around, but after that day, I tried to pay more attention to everything he explained about his work. Fuck. Not many are as lucky as I was and I threw away so many opportunities. The biggest regret is throwing away their love.

  “You should look for them,” she suggests one more time. “If I could be closer to my parents . . . I’d do it.”

  “Why don’t you?”

  “They live in Miami, the living cost there is higher than here,” she explains. “I don’t know. I’ve been there only a few times, but the place isn’t for me. Still, I talk to them often. At least you should try something; start a conversation.”

  Sounds simple. It’s been years since they closed the doors to their home. Time has passed. Enough to know that I truly fucked up. If I hadn’t, maybe I could seek AJ’s help. She’d be able to help Finn. For him, I’d do it, break my promise to Mason and look for them.

  “I know a teacher who specializes in learning disabilities. She’s a therapist too.” I change the conversation slightly from Gabe and Chris, trying to find out if Mac would be open to go with AJ. “If I can get in touch—”

  “Do you think she can help Finn?” I nod. Her face brightens and I pull her into my arms, soaking up that beautiful energy she’s radiating. “I . . . I’d try anything.”

  I kiss her temple. “Okay, if we can’t come up with the payment for the test, I’ll get in touch with her. I promise. Now, back to our movie night, if you’re not willing to watch a scary movie, what do you want to watch?”

  “Anything but Never End,” she says, laughing. “My father loves those movies. He has the entire collection, including the last one. Mom only watches them with him because of Gabe Colt but they are bad.”

  Gabe’s movies provided the background noise to our long conversation where I learned more about Mac’s childhood. What it was like being an only child, her summer road trips, and her love of science and living things. She wanted to have a farm and land where she could have a garden. After a couple of hours, we decided to watch Say Anything, but after the first ten minutes, she’s fast asleep. Carrying her to her room is the obvious thing to do, but I choose to keep her in my arms for as long as she remains asleep.

  Maybe someday this won’t be a stolen moment, but real life.

  Yes, I’m falling hard.

  My heart thunders, as fear rushes through my veins along with adrenaline.

  Does life repeat itself?

  I think, as I stare at the white envelope from Limestone County Jail. I try hard not to shake as I open it and unfold the white paper inside of it. Years ago, when my relationship with AJ started crumbling into shitty pieces, I received a letter from Steven Kendrick. My father. Back then, he wanted money, and today, who knows. Nothing has happened with Mackenzie, but what if my shitty luck repeats itself. The wicked get no rest and I’m a wicked son of a bitch.

  Dear Porter,

  It’s been a while since our last letter. Life continues even as I remain sitting inside this cage. Before it takes me by surprise, I’m taking the step and writing you this letter. A letter I’ve been thinking about composing before it’s too late. With it, I’m hoping to beg for your forgiveness, and maybe help you with the rest of your life.

  During my library periods, I sometimes search for your name on the old computer. Some years ago, I read that you were in trouble. The reports included an OD and issues with the law. Son, I don’t know where you’re at with your recovery, but I’m sure you’ve heard that addiction is a disease of the brain. Those substances are capable of controlling our thoughts and actions. We believe that we need the shit to survive, to breathe. The disease fools us into thinking that without the alcohol—or drugs—we will die.

  I’m an alcoholic; your grandfather was one too . . . Was this something I—we—inherited? I don’t have the answer, all I know is that I wished I had a place to rewire my brain and beat the disease before it was too late. Your Mama asked me to do it several times; she worried that it’d kill me. I made promises to her, many and often. All of them broken the next day or within hours. I couldn’t stop boy; I never stopped. Not until that night. My Georgina, God bless her soul, it was she who paid the price of my negligence, my weakness, the di
sease. Our entire family suffered, and you, poor thing. You ended up alone.

  Porter, I’m sorry for the part I played in your life. Sorry for snatching you away from your mother and family, leaving you alone. It’s been a long time since the jury decided that after killing my family and the family of another man, I should spend forty-five years behind bars. For these past years, I’ve gone through stages. Like anger, depression, mourning . . . finally, I found God. Maybe it’s too late for me to find religion, maybe I found it just at the right time. The most I learned is that it’s never too late to find peace, son.

  There are many things I have to seek before I reach the end. One of them is your forgiveness. For everything that I did wrong during those days, I’m sorry, Porter. There are not enough words to apologize for everything that I did to you. Only prayers that your life has turned around, and that maybe you’ll find in your heart to forgive your old man. If possible, can you visit me? Give me a chance to say in person what I should’ve said years ago.

  Love,

  Steven Kendrick

  My instincts tell me to shred the letter and go on with my life. There’s no point of visiting a man I’ve only seen a handful of times during my adult years. That same person didn’t give a shit about his family and killed them. He took my mother away from me; why not send me with them? I bet shit wouldn’t have been as bad if my mother had been with me.

  I think of Harper and Finn losing their father at a young age. At least, they have a wonderful mother next to them, fighting to make a better life for them. Yes, she had a rough start but Mac’s making things happen. If only I could be the rock she can lean on when she’s tired. The shoulder she can cry on when she feels like the world is closing in on her. But we make our choices and mine had consequences that I’ll never be able to shake.

  Looking down at the letter, I decide that perhaps, I should give my father a chance to speak his peace. The same chance I’d like to have but no one is giving me. But will history repeat itself?

  Dear Porter:

  It’s been years since I’ve heard from my family . . . what I have left of my family. My father, my mother, and well, you. A couple of months ago, my father came to visit. My first visitor since they sentenced me to spend the next forty-five years in a cage. A couple of times, I heard from my mother. The last time she sent me a picture you were twelve. You have your mother’s eyes and her brown hair.

  After that letter, I never heard from her again. When my father visited, he gave me the news that my mother died years ago and you ran away. Also, he thought you were a singer. I laughed at him. A singer? You? My mother said you couldn’t read a full sentence at twelve, and she feared you were retarded. A side effect from the accident we had years ago. How can a retarded child be a famous singer? I disregarded his comment and told him never to visit me again. I have lived without my family for more than twenty years: I can handle the rest of my sentence the same way.

  Yesterday I received the news that your grandfather died. I wished I could feel sad about his passing, but he was a hard person to live with. He wrote a letter, apologizing to me, to my mother, and to you. He told me to look for you, that you’re real and you’re famous. During my library time, I went to the computer and found you on the Internet. It’s you, living large with those beautiful models and all-you-can-eat buffets. You’re lucky.

  In the back of this letter, I’m sending you the details to make a monetary deposit to my commissary account. You know boy, they sentenced me to forty-five years in jail.

  That’s a damn long time, don’t you think? After twenty years in jail and having spent a third of my life thinking about what I did wrong, it occurred to me that maybe it is time for me to get out. However, it isn’t as easy as it sounds. Waiting until my eighty-seventh birthday to get out of this place doesn’t seem fair. It occurred to me that you could pay a lawyer to help your father. I don’t think having a father in jail is good publicity.

  Waiting to hear from you,

  Steven Kendrick

  I stare at the letter, or maybe it’s the letter that stares at me. Fucking hell. What the hell does he want? Money? The letter makes little sense. I take a swig of whiskey. My second bottle. Being away from AJ is fucking killing me. But she has to learn. She has to know that she can’t fuck with me. First, she’s pregnant, then she’s saying there’s no baby. I stare at the tattoo healing on my wrist with my son’s initials. Fucking hell. I lost everything.

  I rub my face, reading the letter from the man that killed my family. He killed my future. If . . . I have no idea what to think. AJ would know. She does. But now that she fought with her parents I have no idea where to find her. Hell, I might have to visit Steven, figure out what the fuck he wants. Later, maybe later when I get her back again.

  The blazing sun of the morning beats down on me. The one fucking day I decide to hit the asphalt early to burn the tension, anger, and adrenaline that my father’s letter created. The sun is out and I’m sweating like a pig. For fucks sake, it’s November. My shirt is damp and I wipe my forehead with the sleeve of my sweatshirt. It’s been four long days and I haven’t come up with a decision yet. My supervisor said he’d take me off the schedule for next week.

  Do I want to visit him?

  He deserves to be heard, but I fear that this encounter is going to fuck up all the good I have going on with Mac. Approaching the house, I spot her minivan arriving at the house. I check the time. Eight thirty. Fuck. I forgot Harper. Coming to a stop, I try to catch my breath.

  “I’m sorry,” I say, as Mac approaches. “Lost. Track. Of–”

  “Are you okay?” She hands me a Starbucks cup, stands on her tiptoes, and kisses my cheek. “Something is going on with you. You’re quiet again—sad.”

  I massage my forehead with my free hand to fight the headache building up. Drinking the caffeine might help me. Despite the run, I couldn’t shed any of the feelings I’ve been harboring. My body needs something to control the plethora of emotions that Steven created. The memories of my past are threatening to come back and I refuse to let them take the front seat again. Should I call my therapist?

  “What happened?” Mac cups my chin, our eyes connect, and her soft gaze calms me. “Porter, I’m here for you.”

  My arms encircle her petite body and I press her against me. I catch the floral scent on her hair. Home. That’s the word that comes to mind when I have her in my arms. Today more than any other day, I wish I could tell her what I feel for her. Take this relationship to the next level. Impossible, as I’m in a bad place. One mistake and I could fuck up more than my life. The last time I almost killed the woman I loved.

  “The past,” I finally speak. Experience taught me one thing, to communicate. Today I won’t tell her everything, but the least I could do is tell her that I’m going through a hard time. I push her away lightly, holding her shoulders. “Promise to tell you about it soon, I have to work it out before I can talk it out.”

  “I understand, Porter, I’m here to help you anytime. Always remember, I’m your friend.”

  The knowledge that she’s with me, settles some of the uncertainty that has me tied into knots. Facing the past might be the best way to build the future. A future with her.

  Following the guard through the hallways of Limestone County Jail, I stare at the gray walls illuminated by the artificial lights. Purgatory is the word I’d use to describe this place. A place to repent from your sins before you head to whatever is next. My purgatory is much more different from this one, and I have yet to find a way to compensate and apologize for each one of my offenses.

  “Take a seat, the inmate will be with you soon,” the officer says, opening the door to a small room occupied by a metal table and two chairs.

  I stare at the walls, the furniture, and wonder why they changed the regular visitors place with the phone booths and zero privacy. I scratch the nape of my neck, wondering if I made the right choice. There are so many thoughts inside my head, they sound like a gushing riv
er, and I’m unable to concentrate on just one. The questions that prevail are the ones about my decision. Is he playing me?

  “ . . . give me a chance to say in person . . .” he wrote.

  Shredding the damn letter had been my first impulse. But instead, I use the old saying ‘treat others the way you want to be treated.’ For years, I’ve lived in my own prison. It doesn’t have walls, but it’s as suffocating as any other place. Unlike my father, I’ll never get a chance to say anything in person to my son. There’s no way to send a letter, but every night I ask him to forgive me for what I did to him. And for the way I treated the best person in the world—his mother. Before I fall asleep for a few hours and, while the guilt pounds my chest, I think about the numerous ways to change my past and have my son and my girl right next to me. If I had been who she thought I was, if I hadn’t abandoned her, cheated or . . .

  I trace the tattoo inside my wrist: JGK 02/03. My little boy, James, was supposed to be born on February third. James would’ve had his mother’s green eyes and he’d be as smart as her. He’d be a gifted musician with many brothers and sisters because AJ always wanted to have a big family. From everything that I’ve done, my biggest regrets are killing my son, almost killing my girlfriend, and killing our dreams.

  “Porter, you made it.” Those four trembling words snatch me out of my personal hell and I’m back inside the small room. Craning my neck toward the door, I find him with thin winter-white hair, his thin timeworn face making his brown eyes look bulgy. He’s not the sixty-three-year-old man I expected to find. The man in front of me looks more like a ninety-year-old guy taking a step closer to God. Meeting his fate.

  “Father,” I say, moving the chair closer to him so he can sit down.