“Talk to Keith. Hell, kill Keith. If someone did that to Reese—” Ace grimaces. Warren wasn’t all that better to Reese, and Ace almost did kill him. “Look, I know you’re all about following the rules, but, sometimes, a little backstreet justice goes a long way.” His phone rings, and he gives it a quick inspection. “I’d better go. Let me know if you need anything. If you come down to Yeats, give me a call. I’ll help you track down the sleaze.” He takes his call and walks out the door.
All about the rules. I groan at the thought. I’m not sure I’ve ever been all about the rules.
I pull out my own phone and do a quick scan of the media coverage concerning my brother’s trial. I’ve only done this sparingly, but I’m desperate for a distraction. The coverage itself has been weak to non-existent, but it’s my only lifeline to Sol, and for now it’ll have to do. A few brief articles pop up.Solomon McCarthy on Trial for the Murder of Cuba Sterling.Cuba was a gangbanger that dealt meth. The ex-boyfriend of Sol’s girl. Solomon sold meth. Solomon is sleeping with the girl they were warring over, so the murderous math is simple. I don’t see anything new regarding the case, so I set my phone on the table.
I know for a fact my brother wasn’t at the scene of the crime. I know for a fact he wasn’t behind the wheel that day. His fucked up friends had no problem lying about it, placing him at ground zero. Of course, they didn’t offer up who was actually behind the wheel when Cuba’s body went flying fifty feet, his head exploding like a melon on impact, so that leaves a reasonable level of doubt in any jury’s mind.
I know where Solomon McCarthy, my kid brother who I’d die for, was the night Cuba Sterling met his maker.
Solomon was with me.
Illegal seizure of the Heart
Kennedy
The truthas defined by Webster is the state of real facts being authentic. I really did look that up. It really did sound like gibberish. The reason I looked it up in the first place is because it also happens to feel like gibberish to me—the truth always has. My brain is atrophied from years of listening to my mother, from years of believing that “little white lies” were no more hurtful than breathing—everybody did them, that sometimes they were necessary. I lied to mother on a regular basis. She trained me in the sport, it’s only fair she bears the brunt of the blame and, of course, the benefits. For instance, this morning, when my mother asked if her dress looked decent, I said yes. It looked great! She was stunning and she should wear that dress every single day! In truth, it looks like every other dress she ever drapes over her body, too short, too tight and too slutty. A repeat of a repeat. I know my mother would rather die than wear something for a second time. Most people have a laundry pile. She has a Goodwill pile so as not to run the risk of said repeat. It’s just one of her many, many beneficial tax write offs.
My mind drifts a moment as I steady my gaze over the lake. I’m seated at the landing dock in front of my mother’s overgrown luxury cabin. She made sure when she married again that she married well. Chuck came with two benefits, an entire cache of good green bills and a sizable retirement on the horizon. My mother loves to travel, and she is more than ready for the next phase of her extravagant life to begin.
My feet swing over the icy lake, numb and burning from the frozen sting. The water is a good three feet below me, but I like the pretense of dangling my bare feet over the glistening water. A part of me wants to believe it’s still summer. I’m still with Keith— and what my face might look like as I’m about to climax is still a very private matter. In the event one is wondering, I look like an ass. My mouth does this crazy open and close maneuver as if someone is suspending a hotdog just out of reach, and I’m crazed to have it. Speaking of hotdogs, Keith should have shot himself at a better angle. I had no idea he was sporting said hot dog between his legs, literally—and that is far from a compliment.
I did wonder if he was lacking. I mean he was my first. But after perusing some of the other videos nestled in the same scary categories as mine, I was quickly apprised of the fact that, yes, Keith Stearns does in fact have a microscopic penis.
An audible grunt escapes me because in a very small way, Keith was lying to me about the status of his pecker, trying to pass it off as a perfectly good pickle when all he really had was a baby dill.
Keith. Just the thought of him makes me physically want to spit. I’m the last person to engage in this unladylike activity. And, not to be crude in other ways, but I swallowed for that bastard.
I close my eyes a moment trying to banish him from my thoughts, but Keith presses in, messy, like a worm between the pages of my mind. He’s cemented himself, all of the agony he’s caused, right over my existence and left an etching, giant FU right over my heart. He’s a cheat, and I hate cheats more than I hate just about anything. My father was a cheat. He brutally ripped apart our happy family because he couldn’t keep it in his pants. He drove my mother to do things. He made me stoop lower than hell to do things for my mother. I hate him for it. And mostly I hate that my last statement still feels like a lie.
But Keith… the first time Keith cheated on me, I saw it with my own eyes. It was a lake party much like the other night. I was hanging out with Reese and Warren because I couldn’t find Keith. I started asking around—before I knew it I found them behind the McCarthy’s boathouse. He had his hands up Sienna Jane’s top. I could make out his fingers under her shirt, groping her breasts and her loving every groan-worthy minute. I ran back to the house and cried. I cried like a baby, like a sissy, like a girl with no backbone—but mostly I cried like a person with a broken heart. That’s when my mother stepped into the room. She told me that boys were foolish at my age, not to take it so seriously.I can’t believe anybody would do that to you, Kennedy. You are a strong woman. You will figure out the best way to get through this. I bet he’ll live to regret this. I bet he’ll wish he never met that other girl.
I thought that was odd advice from the woman who eviscerated her own husband in court just years before. I thought it was odd because she used me to eviscerate him as well. As soon as she left the room all of the hurt, the sadness, melted away. That was my mother after all, and if I was anything, I was a biological copy of her. She was my vindictive blueprint from which all of my vileness would come to bloom. Her words were saying one thing, but, her eyes, that wild vapid look was the same one she wore when she learned my father was screwing his eighteen-year-old intern. I was able to read between the lines that night. My mother was saying words, but they were simply lies. It was our private language, our own secret code.What she was really saying was,nobody does that to you, Kennedy. You are a strong woman. You will figure out the best way to get through this.I bet he’ll live to regret this. Make that bastard wish he never met you.
I’m betting right about now Keith Stearns is regretting his wandering ways.
I bet he wishes he never even met me.
“Ken!”
I glance over to find Brylee Peters and Neva headed this way, so I jump up and slip back into my flip-flops, my feet slipping and squeaking.
“What’s up?” I pat the back of my jeans as I make my way to the house.
“We’re planning an anniversary party for Reese and Ace in a couple weeks.” She shakes her blonde curls into the autumn air. An arctic breeze blows by, ironically warming my numb feet. It’s as if I’m walking on stumps. “You in?”
“Party planning? Sure it’ll help take my mind off things.” Like that will ever happen.
“I’m sorry about all that crap.” Neva butts her shoulder into mine. “It’s a real shit storm coming down on you right now.”
“Did you guys—you know, watch?” I can’t find it in me to look at them when I ask. This is voyeuristic porn at its most sadistic—particularly because it contains moving images of my most intimate parts.
Another gush of wind roars past us as if cushioning me from the blow.
“Sorry.” Brylee is the first to fess up with her wary shrug. “It’s everywhere. Even my old dorm sisters are hooked like it’s the best new Netflix series. It’s pretty bad.”
“It’sreallybad if you ask me.” Neva swallows a dark laugh. “That was fucked-up. How is Keith Stearns even alive after that? I’d knife A.J. in his sleep if he ever showed the shit we did together.”
“You didn’t!” Brylee squeals like it’s the juiciest bit of gossip.
