Beckett
“Sign here,” the guard says.
I sign my name on the line, and he slides a plastic bag to me. An orange swimsuit, blue flip-flops, and a Florida Gators baseball cap are the only contents in it.
“Go change over there. There is a laundry basket for your shoes and jumpsuit.” He motions to a changing area.
“Are you serious?”
“Do I look like I’m joking? We aren’t at the mall. You leave with what you come in with. Be happy you got paroled.”
I take a deep breath and go to the corner of the room that has a shower rod bolted in the wall and a flimsy curtain for privacy.
The swimsuit is encrusted with salt from ten years ago. There are splatters of blood on all three items as well. I take off the only outfit I’ve worn for over a decade and stare at my old clothes before tugging the firm fabric of the shorts over my legs. The shorts are tight, at least a size too small, no doubt from the muscle I’ve gained from spending any moment allowed working out.
Sand still cakes the soles of the flip-flops. I put the hat on my head and the sandals in the plastic bag. I tap them against each other to get as much sand off as possible.
I toss the jumpsuit and prison shoes into the laundry bin, throw the plastic bag in the trash, and slide the curtain back then stand in front of the guard’s desk.
He looks at me. “You’re free to go.”
“That’s it?”
He folds his arms over his chest. “Try not to come back.”
I open the door. The glaring sunshine blinds me, and I put my hands over my eyes for a second. The air isn’t quite as thick as a few days ago when I left court, and I take a few deep breaths.
Now what?
“Beckett! Oh my God, Beckett.” My little sister Gabriella comes flying at me, tears in her eyes. Her blonde ponytail is swinging in the air.
She embraces me in a hug, the first one I’ve had in over a decade. The visitation in prison didn’t allow contact. If you touched your visitors, they lost privileges to come back.
Don’t cry, Beckett. You can’t afford to go soft now that you’re on the outside.
I hug her back. “Thanks for coming to get me.”
“Like I would miss this. Mom wanted to come, but she had to finish her shift first. She couldn’t get off.”
My older brother, Ryland, smacks me on the back, and I turn around. He embraces me as well. “Trying to show off your six-pack?”
Ryland and I resemble each other but, unlike me, he’s got dark hair and eyes.
I snark, “Note to you both: don’t get arrested in your swimsuit.”
“Noted. Let’s go,” Ryland says.
Gabriella hops in the back, and I get in the front of Ryland’s truck.
“How does it feel to be free?” she asks.
“I just got released. Give me some time, and I’ll let you know.”
“Everyone is coming over tonight. Mom’s been cooking up a storm the last two days,” Ryland tells me.
I groan. “Please tell me Mom isn’t throwing a ‘my son just got out of prison’ party.”
Ryland’s lips turn up.
I groan again and look out the window.
Ten years. A decade of change. Everything looks the same but different.
Throughout the drive, Gabriella is yapping about something I don’t understand or care to ask about, my brother keeps giving me glances, and I continue to stare out the window.
The only thing that grabs my attention is when Ryland says, “I thought you were going to get out since there was no one to contest your parole this time.” Five years ago, Clay’s grandmother gave a big speech to the parole board about why I needed to stay in prison. After that, I didn’t get my hopes up.
“That’s not true.”
“What do you mean? Both of Clay’s grandparents died,” Gabriella says.
My head snaps toward her. “They did? Why didn’t anyone tell me?”
She winces. “Sorry. We must have forgotten.”
I look at Ryland.
“Didn’t seem like pertinent info on our visits,” he states.
“But I knew you’d get out since no one was there,” Gabriella claims.
“Mia was there.”
“Mia?” Ryland questions.
“What? She’s alive?” Gabriella cries out.
The curling in my stomach I’ve had since seeing Mia intensifies. “Apparently, she didn’t die. Her grandparents lied.”
“Then where has she been?” Ryland asks.
“I don’t know. But she is alive and was at the hearing.”
“What did she say?” Ryland furrows his brow at me.
“Nothing.”
“So, she didn’t try to stop your parole?” Gabriella asks.
I shake my head.
Ryland whistles. “That must have been her car I saw parked outside her grandparent’s house. I assumed someone on the island finally got their hands on it and rented it out.”
She’s staying on the island. You know how to find her now.
Do not find her. Stay away. Nothing good can come of it.
We cross the bridge to the island, and both sides of my vision fill with sparkling turquoise water. That’s the color of Mia’s eyes.
Mia’s face comes into my mind along with the pain I saw she carries. My heart beats faster, and I close my eyes, thinking of her tear-stained cheeks.
What does she remember about that night? Does she know I didn’t do it, and that’s why she didn’t contest my parole?
Since seeing Mia and learning she is alive, all I can think about is her.
Where has she been all these years? Why did they tell me she died? Why was she at the hearing alone?
My only possible answer to any of those questions is if they wanted everyone to think she is dead, then they assumed I would come after her. They must know about them. They thought I was a part of them.
Who is protecting Mia?
The hairs on my neck stand as the idea of her alone and unprotected makes me shudder.
We merge onto the island. So much is different. “What happened?” When I left, the island real estates consisted of tiny, older, Florida-style houses. Everything now looks new and bigger. There still aren’t skyscrapers lining the beach, but everything is updated.
“We’ve had a lot of construction. The island has had a boom.”
I peer out the window as Ryland drives us down the island near the pier. We’re nearing Mia’s grandparent’s house, and my gut starts to flip. There’s a lineup of cars on the island, and traffic is crawling slower than the thirty-five mile-per-hour speed limit. We’re stopped two houses away from Mia’s when she walks out and down the driveway to the mailbox.
My pulse increases. She’s wearing cutoff jean shorts and a tank top. Her hair is in a messy bun, and she removes her mail and steps back, shuffling through envelopes.
“Beckett, is that Mia?” Gabriella asks.
“Yeah.”
The passenger in the car in front of us catcalls out the window. Anger bubbles through my veins. She’s lost in thought reading and doesn’t seem to notice. We creep closer.
How did she become so beautiful?
The car in front of us is now directly in front of Mia, and the passenger leans out the window and seizes her around the waist.
Mia’s mail goes flying. Before I can think, I jump out of the car as Ryland and Gabriella both scream my name. I get to Mia as she’s attempting to escape the guy’s grasp.
He’s drunk. I can smell the alcohol before I get to him, and I grab him by the throat and squeeze. He releases Mia and tries to pry me off him.
“Beckett!” Mia screams.
“What the hell, man, get off him,” the driver shouts.
“Your friend needs to learn some manners,” I bark.
“He’s drunk and having fun.”
“You call assaulting a woman fun?” I growl at him and continue squeezing his friend’s neck.
The offender is turning purple when Ryland pries my hand from his throat.
Mia is shaking and I pull her against my body.
“I better not see you around here again,” I snarl at them and shake Ryland’s grasp off. The cars ahead of them have moved, and they inch as far up the road as possible, which is only a few houses.
Gabriella is collecting all the mail that flew out of Mia’s hands. I’m still holding her tight to me.
Cars start beeping. “Get back in the truck, Beckett.”
I ignore him. “Are you okay, Mia?”
A few tears stream down her face, and I brush them away with my thumb.
The air fills with the blare of horns.
Ryland puts his hand on my shoulder. “Beckett, let’s go.”
I turn to Ryland. “Go without me. I’ll meet you at home.”
“Beckett—”
“Go,” I sternly say, still clasping Mia to my body.
He scowls and angrily shakes his head.
I snatch the mail out of Gabriella’s hand. “You, too.”
Prison changes you in lots of ways. One of the things you learn to do is block memories, and I tried to forget about Gabriella hanging out with Mia. But the truth is that they were as good of friends as Clay and me.
A tear drips on my forearm, and Mia shakes more, staring at Gabriella.
Ryland pulls up and yells out the window, “Gabriella, time to go.”
“I’m glad you’re alive. I was devastated about losing you.” Gabriella wipes her eyes and climbs in.
“Beckett, come on,” Ryland tries again.
“I’ll see you at home.” I guide Mia into the house.
As soon as I set foot in the door, I freeze. It’s like stepping back ten years ago. Pictures of Mia and Clay line the walls and crowd the tabletops.
I haven’t seen an image of Clay since the trial, and grief floods me. He was my best friend. We did everything together since we met in kindergarten.
I clench my jaw. Don’t cry.
“You should let me go,” Mia whispers, and I realize that I’m holding her against my bare torso, and I’m still wearing the too-small bathing suit with Clay’s and her blood along with crusted ocean salt on it.
My heart is pounding, and I scan her eyes but don’t release her. The scent of her skin, a clean floral aroma, flares in my nostrils. Time stands still as my growing erection presses against my already skin-tight shorts.
Her lip shakes harder, and I don’t think. I keep my arm tight around her and using my free hand, brush my thumb over her trembling mouth, then cup her cheek. Her skin is like soft butter. “Did he hurt you?”
“No. You did,” she whispers as another tear escapes.
But I didn’t do it.
“You don’t remember, then?”
“Remember what?”
She doesn’t know. She thinks I killed Clay. “Why didn’t you contest my parole if you don’t remember?”
“Remember what?” she repeats.
I can’t tell her. If she doesn’t remember, she can’t know. I tear my arm away from her.
Slowly, she steps away from me. I instantly feel the loss of her warmth and regret releasing her.
“Why did you lie about being dead?”
She glares at me. “I never claimed I was dead.”
“Where have you been all these years?”
“Why did you say you didn’t know who I was at the hearing?”
“They told me you were dead. You don’t look like the Mia I used to know. There’s a resemblance, but you’re a woman now.” I swallow hard as I say it, cursing myself as my gaze wanders down her body.
“How could you kill Clay?” she quietly asks as her chest rises and falls faster.
I swallow around the thick knot in my throat. “I loved Clay like my brother.”
“Then why?” she whispers.
I can’t answer. If I deny it, she’s going to want to know why I took the fall. Instead, I ask, “Who’s watching over you?”
“I don’t need anyone. I can take care of myself.”
I take another step into her house and check the windows.
“What are you doing?” she angrily asks.
“Seeing how easy it is for someone to break in.”
“Is this what they call casing the joint before the act takes place?”
I jerk my head toward her. “I’m not a thief.”
“Who said I was referring to you stealing anything?” Pain and sadness darken her eyes.
She thinks I’ll murder her, too?
I step toward her and she steps back. I keep moving and she keeps retreating until she is up against the wall, my body inches from hers.
Her head tilts up at me, her lip is shaking again, and I play tug-of-war with my mind, holding myself back from kissing her.
I finally say, “I will never hurt you.”
“Is that what Clay thought before you stole his last breath from him?”
I bite my tongue not to tell her the truth.
As I grapple with myself, a surge of energy shoots through my veins as her finger begins to outline the side of my waist.
“C.C. & M.C. You have a souvenir of your kill,” she blurts out in horror and rips her hand off my tattoo.
“Not a souvenir. A reminder for vengeance,” I blurt out, not thinking about the consequences of my words.
“Vengeance?”
I turn to inspect her back door. The handle is loose, and the lock barely works. I spin, surprised she’s only a few inches behind me.
My breath rises and falls faster.
She’s so damn beautiful. I’ve not seen a real woman in over ten years, but I didn’t even know what one was when I went inside. My numerous sexual activities with teenage girls in my class are now faded memories. And Mia is stunning. There is nothing ordinary about her.
“Tell me what you mean,” she pleads.
“I can’t. I want to, but I can’t.”
“Then tell me why you killed him. Please,” she cries out as new tears fill her eyes. “I have to know.”
I cup her face with both hands. “I can’t tell you about that night. I want to, but I can’t.”
I’m cursing myself for hurting her and telling her too much already, when she whispers, “If you killed him, why did you yell, ‘Get down, Mia?’”
I scan her eyes. “So, you do remember?”
Tears drip onto my fingers. “It’s in my nightmares. Your voice is in my nightmares. I know it’s you.”
“What do you remember about it?”
“Nothing. I just hear gunshots, you yelling at me, and I see my brother bleeding to death.” Anguish fills her face. “You should have let me die. I wish you would have let me die.”
Ten years of learning how to hold my emotions and not cry, and the moment I embrace Mia, tears flow down my cheeks. “No. Don’t say that.”
She sobs into my chest. “You ruined my life. You should have let me die.”
I hold her tighter, tears falling on her head. “I’m so sorry. I wish I could redo that night.”
She shoves me away. “But you can’t.”
I’m not able to deny it. “No.”
She closes her eyes as if in further pain. I kiss her on the top of her head and leave. I no longer am seeking vengeance for myself, or Clay. I vow to get it for Mia.