Lex (Unconventional Hearts) (55 page)

Lex

“Hey Lex, you home?”

Oh God! Oh God! Oh God! Not now! This can’t
be happening! Lincoln cannot be here! Out of all the days to drop
by unexpectedly this is the worst.

Dear god,
please
make him leave,
please
keep him and Emma safe.

Unable to keep my eyes from cautiously
watching twitchy fingers on the semi-automatic shot gun Melissa is
wielding, I evenly, without deflection reply, “Yes, Linc, I am but
you need to go home.”

“Why?” he questions, nearing my location.
Then I hear it. The Lincoln ‘tell’. A low deep agitated grumble
that starts in his belly and rolls into his throat, a noise I’ve
heard a hundred times over.

“What’s going on here?” Friendly, loving
Lincoln is gone, replaced by the terrifying no-nonsense cop. Even
though I can’t see him with my tunnel vision singularly attached to
shaky barrel of the shotgun that is still firmly aimed at my chest.
I know he’s standing a few feet away, most likely in the doorway of
my kitchen.

Melissa’s eyes switch from Lincoln and back
to me. They widen further a contemplative gesture, her hands unable
to maintain perfectly still more than a few seconds at a time.
Riding high on nerves, little beads of sweat have formed and begun
to drip down the sides of her face. She stands approximately ten
feet directly in front of me, her body blocking the locked front
door. The hope of her leaving without a scuffle is slowly
diminishing as her expression hazes over into hardness.

“I’m not going to repeat myself. What is
going on here?”

Why does he have to pull her attention from
me, even for a moment? I don’t want that. I don’t want him anywhere
near this place.

I don’t respond to his question. I watch in
slow motion as the gun that was pointed at me is cunningly
readjusted to a new target. Lincoln!

Something suddenly snaps inside of me. I feel
myself lose it as the protective all-consuming mama bear residing
deep within rears its massive head. I drop my raised arms to my
sides, set my jaw, align my spine to stand tall and tighten my
fists.
It’s show time!

“Hey bitchy, bitchy, bitchy. Don’t you
fucking point that gun at him! I’m the one you want.” I taunt her,
my words steeped in the most poisonous venom.

“What
did
you say to me?” Melissa
seethes, a rolling tremor wafting through her body as she snaps the
gun back toward me.

“You heard me, bitch.” I mock, playing this
dangerous game.

“Lex, shut up!” Lincoln, orders heatedly from
a few feet away. I can almost feel his own protectiveness surging
in the air surrounding us. Jesus, he’s a powerful man.

“This is between me and the crazy bitch; stay
out of it Lincoln and leave. Take Emma with you.”

“Don’t you fucking dare.” Melissa clamors,
twisting her body back in the direction of Lincoln.

“Hey, bitch, do you want to hear all about
how Gage and I made love this weekend.”

My comment breaks her momentum and the aim is
back on me.

Good!

I realize, I too, am out of my mind. Playing
with fire, asking to get burned, I don’t care though. My
self-preservation flies out the window when it comes to my family.
I’ll do anything to keep them from being harmed. Even if that means
impertinently slugging low blows to the psychopath with a loaded
gun.

“If you don’t shut that stupid mouth of
yours, I will.” Melissa threatens; the haze in her eyes deepens,
marking me the sole object of her hate and murderous desire, just
as I had hoped.

“Stop this right now!” a different, sexier
voice commands in a growl. Breaking the hold I have on Melissa, she
shakes her head as if she needs to clear it.

“What the hell are you doing here?” I
question Gage in a tone I’ve never used with him before, one of
pure anger. I don’t know how he knew she was here, or why he is
here. But this is the worst-case scenario. Melissa’s hate for him
may just be a fraction larger than the torch of animosity she
proudly carries for me.

I side step a few inches closer to the window
to get a better view of the room and to place where not only Gage
is now standing but Lincoln as well. Melissa’s face drops into one
of serious contemplation as the gun that I had on me teeters back
and forth between Gage and I. Rotating on my heel just enough, I
get a clear view of everybody. Lincoln is half way between me and
Gage. Gage is taking up the doorframe of the kitchen, taking tiny
baby steps toward Melissa. He looks at me for a moment, locking
eyes, conveying with the depths of our connection that he loves me.
I don’t doubt that for a minute.

Losing myself in the beauty of Gage’s eyes,
an earsplitting gunshot is fired and I instinctively duck, covering
my head with my hands, closing my eyes, my ears begin ringing, and
then I feel it.

Oh dear God!

Glass starts to crash down from behind me as
the window breaks, shards of glass cascading like a jagged
waterfall to the ground. Pieces tearing at my flesh, my feet
stabbed over and over with tiny fragments of falling sharp glass. I
bite my lip to keep from screaming in agony as hot pain laden tears
sting my eyes.

My body begins to tremble, and I open my eyes
to see the freshness of my blood oozing from deep cuts in my feet.
Warmth coats my back. A warmth I’ve known before. I’m cut. Blood is
surging from a stinging fiery inferno lodged in my back.

My name is screamed. I register it though my
painfully ringing ears. And I look up. In slow motion, Lincoln
lunges for me and Gage dives at Melissa just as the gun unloads
again and then again. Lincoln’s massive body hits me like a Mack
truck, buckling my legs, and landing right on top of me. My head
ricochets off the hardwood of my floor and by sheer force; his body
knocks the wind out of me. The glass in my back is rooting itself
deeper into my flesh, like a hot branding iron, melting butter.

Taking in a deep breath, I turn my head to
the side, and no on in the room is standing. Everybody is down.
Where is Gage?!

The large body on top of me doesn’t move. I
shake Lincoln’s shoulder and he doesn’t budge. I can’t hear him
even if I try.

“Lincoln.” I cry out. The pain overtaking my
body is too much. But the need to see him and Gage is much greater.
I need to get him off me. My legs are slowly losing their feeling.
His weight becomes too much. Warmth is overcoming me. Am I
dying?

“Lincoln.” I slowly force my way inch-by-inch
out from under his unmoving body. Slithering my feet out the last
tug I break free. Then I see it! Oh dear God! No! No!

Lincoln has been shot! The warmth I was
bathing in wasn’t my body giving out. It was Lincoln’s. Eye’s
staring fixatedly right at me, he gasps for air and I crawl closer.
His legs. Oh God his legs! The blood! He’s dying!

Blood surges out of giant holes, turning my
hardwood floor into a swimming pool of bright red blood.

“Lincoln! No!” I screech, and I immediately
tear my shirt from my body, and lunge for his mangled leg. Not
caring about my own pain, I have to help him! He can’t die!

Wrapping it like a tourniquet, I tie it tight
and I hold onto him, my own body fading from blood loss and the
sharp glass residing deep in the flesh grating on my insides.

Laying my head on his chest, I feel his
shallow breathing as I cry, bawling for him. Lincoln is dying.

“Please, somebody help! Help!” I sob. My
entire body cloaked in his still warm blood.

“I love you Gage, I love you Lincoln.” I
mutter, one last moment, as my eyes flutter with heaviness and I
fade in the oblivion passing out, clinging to my best friend’s
chest.

Chapter Thirty-Three

6 weeks later

Lex

“You about ready to go visit Uncle Lincoln at
Memorial Park, Emma?” I ask my pretty little girl, attempting to
hold a smile and force myself to keep from breaking down. The past
six weeks since Melissa came in and tried to take Emma away, has
been unbelievably hard.

“Yes, can I bring him some posies?” she asks,
her hand hovering over one of the forty different flower
arrangements that have been delivered. We’ve had to strategically
place them around the house to keep it from looking too cluttered.
The townsfolk of Heartfair are such loving people.

“Yes, sure. You look very pretty today.” I
admire her lovely yellow sundress, her dark hair is down her back
today and she seems like she’s doing well. The counselor said she’s
very resilient and handling the tragedy better than most
adults.

She smiles in my direction, tugging a handful
of daisies out of a red vase. Walking back over to me, she folds
her tiny little hand into mine, we walk out the backdoor, lock up,
and she slides into the back of VW Bug that’s parked in the
driveway. Laying the daises on the seat, she fastens her own
seatbelt like a big girl, as I get behind the wheel. I hate that
she’s growing up so fast. Just three weeks ago, I was the one
fastening her seatbelt.

“Do you want to listen to Patsy?” I ask,
pulling of the driveway.

“Yes, please.” Her sweet innocent voice helps
relieve a bit of the guilt and pain. I hate doing this. I hate
making this drive. You think that after six weeks you’d start to
feel like some sort of normal. Like you’d wake up one morning and
the sorrow would lessen just enough to let you breathe. Praying a
day would go by when you’re not crying yourself to sleep. But it
hasn’t. It seems to worsen as time passes and more guilt poisons my
soul.

Driving through the gates of Memorial Park, I
hold my breath, inching the car forward until we pull into our
spot. The spot Emma and I have parked in every day for the past
five weeks. It’s the weekend now so we came earlier than usual. The
sun is still high in the cloudless sky and it’s a balmy sixty-five
degrees out.

I open my car door and she climbs out from
the backseat, proudly carrying a handful of white daisies. Walking
to the same place we visit every day, Emma sits down on the grass
in front of him, resting the daisies in a pile on the ground beside
her.

“I brought you some flowers today, Uncle
Lincoln.” She sweetly explains in her tiny voice.

Swallowing hard, I slowly make the last bit
of distance and sit on the bench. I wink at Emma, and feign a
smile. It’s nearly impossible. I hate being here. I hate this raw
sewage feeling boiling in the pit of my stomach. Why can’t I get
past this?

“Stop looking so sad today, my girl.”
Lincoln’s hand comes over and rests on my thigh and I sigh, letting
go of all the raw tension building in me.

“She cried all night, again.” Emma states and
I shamefully turn my head, unable to look at either of them.

“Lex, come here.” He coaxes and I can’t.
“Lex, you have to come to me.” I don’t want to.

“Lex.” His warning, militant infused Dom tone
takes charge and I listen, not looking but scooting so my hip meets
his.

His warm, comforting arm rests over my
shoulder, side hugging me.

“This wasn’t your fault, Lex, none of it was.
Stop blaming yourself.”

He tells me this every day I come to see him,
and every day I tell myself I will believe what he says. Then I get
in the car, I go home, and the sadness consumes me once more.

Six weeks ago, Melissa came to take Emma from
me. Six weeks ago, I refused to let her. Six weeks ago, I stood up
to a woman with a loaded shotgun. Six weeks ago, both of the most
important men in my life came to save me. Six weeks ago Lincoln,
lost both of his legs above the knee down, when he jumped in front
of a bullet that was meant for me. He’s been in Memorial Park
hospital ever since. In recovery, healing, and trying to gain
mobility. Doctor’s said that in another few months they will try to
fit him for prosthetic legs. He doesn’t blame me for trying to save
my life. But I do. I blame myself for every bit of it. If I had
taken the gunfire, he would still have his legs. I might be dead,
but I thought I would have died long ago. And to die, knowing that
I have felt true love with the man I know is my soul mate. I would
have died a happy woman.

I woke up in the hospital two days after the
incident. Gage with a bandaged neck sat by my hospital bed, holding
my hand. After the initial shot, Melissa had fired off two more
rounds out of her semi-automatic shotgun. The first shot hit the
window that was intended for me. The second and third was also
intended for me, but hit Lincoln in the legs instead of the chest
when Gage tackled her. A few buckshot BBs grazed Gage’s neck as it
went rogue leaving the shotgun, producing enough blood loss for him
to pass out, missing his carotid by mere millimeters. I had a
concussion from Lincoln knocking me over and landing on top of me
in a pile of glass. The glass shard in my back wedged its way about
an inch into my body, producing heavy amounts of blood loss and my
feet were torn up pretty bad. I’ve never seen so much blood in my
life like I did that day, and it haunts me in my dreams. Not even
when Brian nearly killed me all those times did I see that much
blood.

When I woke up in the hospital that
Wednesday, I was sure Lincoln was dead. I thought I had heard his
heart slow down and his breathing nearly diminish when the cops and
the paramedics arrived. I only faintly remember being lifted off
him before I passed out again. The tough man he is, proves he’s a
survivor, seems as though we all are. Time and time again, I
overcame the odds. I’m not sure how any of us did it this time
though. We got lucky, as I see it.

I didn’t sustain any lasting medical trauma.
Gage will be fine. Already added a tattoo to the low-lying scar on
his neck of a small old school heart, around one top lobe of the
heart is a princess crown and off the opposite side of the heart is
an angel wing. Inside of the heart, done in script, is the date
Emma called me mommy for the first time, it’s beautifully done. All
of Gage’s tattoos are. His entire body is like a giant artistic
masterpiece. It’s hot. And the new tattoo, the only one on his
neck, peeks half out when he wears his dress shirt and tie, leaving
exposed tattoos only on his wrists and tops of his hands and now
his neck. I’ve learned the tattoos on the tops of his hands are to
conceal even more cigarette burns and a curling iron burn rendered
by his mother of course.