Undefeated (Unexpected Book 5) (17 page)

M
y 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 disease. 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.