I shut off the light as if Brian weren't behind me in the room, and I hear him hiss. I'm starting to open the door when he springs from his seat and slams it shut with a hand flat on the door. I turn around. My back to the door, I give him the coldest stare I can muster, but when I do, my breath catches in my throat because deep down inside me there's heat soaring.
My eyes fall on his lips, and I so badly want him to kiss me as he did last time that it almost hurts.
"You don't want to talk," he growls. "That's fine because I'm not in a talking mood either."
And then I get my wish because he kisses me, and I let him until there's nothing left of me but a ball of need. I know I'm going insane because I urge him on with the crazy moans that escape my lips. My fingers thread in his hair, and I hold on to him as if my life depended on it. His hands go to my breast and then slide to my ass. He digs his fingers into my flesh and lifts me up. He's pinning me against the door, and it feels so good I never want him to stop. I wrap my legs around him as I need more, so much more, but we're wearing way too many clothes.
When he pulls his mouth away we're both panting.
I look into his eyes. His gaze mirrors the hunger I feel for him. It's incredible because there's not a shred of restraint left in me. God, I'm game for just about anything. I let go of his hair and put one hand on his chest next to a patch that says "Future organ donor," and I don't find it funny at all. I move my hand and uncover the Iron Tornadoes patch. Seeing it, I crash back to reality.
I don't want to, but I need to push him away. I need to know what happened between David and him. I need to know, but I'm so scared of the answer that the question that pops out of my mouth is not the one I thought I would ask.
"How did David die?"
Brian's grip lessens on my butt, and I drop my legs from around his hips. My feet reach the ground, and there's more space between us, but he hasn't let go of me yet.
"You don't want to know," he says sounding like Captain Williams. He closes his eyes and takes a step back.
"Yes, I do. It's eating me up. I have nightmares where I see him die a hundred deaths, and each one is more horrible than the last," I tell him.
"Did they let you see him?" The concern in his voice is tearing me apart. This means that he still cares about me, but it also means it had to be ugly.
"No." He lets out a sigh of relief but it's my turn to be adamant. "Brian, I need to know; it's driving me insane."
He stares at me, and it looks as if he understands that I really do need to know.
"He was at the wrong place at the wrong time. He got into a knife fight and he lost. The blade went right through his chest. He was dead before he hit the ground," he says, and he studies my face. I keep my expression neutral while I process this. It doesn't add up—a knife wound is easy to hide. No need for a closed casket because of a knife wound. I shake my head and frown at him. I'm not buying it, and he sees it.
"They did a number with his body after he died..." he explains.
I try to put on my best poker face, but I fail miserably. Bile is coming up my throat. I make it to the garbage can just in time. I'm so angry right now that, given a chance to do so, I would probably kill whoever went after my brother's corpse—so much for all my passionate pleas against the death penalty in moot court exercises. It's one thing when you're looking at the issue from the dispassionate view of a bystander; it's another thing altogether when your family is at stake. Right this second I feel murderous—I want blood.
"How do you know?" The accusation is unmistakable. For a second, I see the hurt in in his eyes. It's worse than if I had slapped him.
"I was told about it by someone who was there," he says, his expression and his tone almost indifferent. "You sure know how to kill the mood." He turns away and heads for the back door, waving over his shoulder as he says, "See you around, sweet butt."
I grab the can of beer he left on the table and hurl it at the door. Bad idea—he hadn't finished it, and now I need to clean up the liquid splashed all the way to the door. As I mop, I start crying again. I hate it—I'm turning into a fountain, or maybe my mother.
I resolve to stop crying and try to reason with myself. After all, he was dead by then, so it shouldn't really matter. There was nothing left but an empty shell. It's not as if they hurt him. Only animals go after a dead body like that!
Cold reasoning doesn't work today.
My mother must never know. If she finds out, it will push her over the edge. She's so fragile, I'm not sure I'm going to be strong enough to keep her together.
But what if Everest was right? What if David's captain was really sweet on her? Now that I'm wrapping my mind around the concept, I see my mother in a totally different light. Objectively, she's really okay. How old is she anyway? Fifty-five or fifty-six. When I was a teenager, I used to see her as ancient. Some of my law professors and some partners I interviewed with were probably older than she is, and I never thought for a second that their lives were over. I know they had rich professional lives, and I'm pretty sure their private lives were active as well, so why did I look on my mother differently?
It isn't hard to picture my mother and Captain Williams together since he was by her side most of the day. He's big and protective; he would surely make her feel safe. I play with the idea, seeing them sitting side by side on the swing and holding hands, maybe kissing, walking down the aisle in church. In my overactive imagination, she's wearing a pearl-colored dress and he's in his dress uniform, just like today. She looks delightfully happy.
Concentrating on that image, I go to bed with a smile on my face.