Page 82 of Southpaw Slots
When I glance at Wyatt, he rocks himself and pleads at me with tears in his eyes. If I can just figure out what’s going on, maybe we can save him. The desperate look on his face rips the last of my heart to shreds. Pain surges through my chest and the only comfort is my wife’s long nails digging into my skin as she peers around me with tears staining her cheeks to question, “Wyatt?”
“Who’s the girl?” I ask.
“No one could get her name, but the code word used wasstars. They said they delivered a box ofstarsto the consort. Gemini and I both witnessed the delivery.” He leans forward and almost whispers to me, “She came inside a crate, Ace.”
THIS IS A VIOLENT SUICIDE SCENE. SKIP TO THE NEXT CHAPTER IF YOU WANT TO AVOID.
Another weeping scream rips out from Wyatt’schest. “Can you talk with me, please? Please, Ace. I need you to listen. Arianna…please.”
Arianna makes a move, but I block her, letting her know to stay in one spot.
Wandering near to him, he beckons me with his head. “I don’t want them to hear me. Please.”
He smells like piss and iron, sweat, and sorrow when I lean over him. “What is it?”
Tears run like rivers down his face as he tries to hold back a choked gasp. “I was wrong about everything. My plans were wrong. I see that now. Someone should have killed me a long time ago. So, I’m begging you. Please, end my life. It’s the only way to save yourselves. Take our wife out of this room and do it.”
Shaking my head, I breathe slowly to try to contain the pain that wars within me. Despite everything, I want to save him. Keep him with me and safe. It seems like he’s finally willing to talk. “No. Just tell us what you need.”
He drops his shaved head and stares at his lap for a moment. Before I even have a chance to understand what’s happened, he’s out of his chains, his broken hand having slipped through his bindings, and he snatches the gun from my waist.
Arianna lets out a shrieking scream as he presses the end against my forehead, but I slowly raise my arms. My entire instinct is to become armor for Arianna. Wyatt flashes the gun to each man in the room until everyone holds up their hands in the air.With the utmost care, I back up two paces until I feel my wife at my back while he’s distracted with the others.
“Wyatt! Don’t!” she yells, the sound muffled by my back as she grips onto me.
Just as I open my mouth to tell him to put it away or to tell the others to jump him, he points the barrel directly at my chest. My only wish was that I got to live long enough to see my child born and make more with my wife.
But instead of shooting me, he gazes into my eyes, then hers, and says, “I love you.Both. It was all true. Everything I felt was real. I’m sorry.”
Then he aims the gun at his temple and pulls the trigger.
TWENTY-FOUR
ARIANNA
I think we’re all broken inside. Wyatt stole some piece of me that I can’t get back and I’m angry. Furious with him for it.
How ridiculous to be mad at a dead body!
But I am.
And it’s not just for me. As I stand next to my stoic husband, who hasn’t been able to sleep for a week, I know my rage is for him, too.
They say that anger is the second emotion. That it usually covers up fear. And if I look deep within myself, I think it wasmewho caused the problem. That I killed him just as much as my parents. When Asa and I are awake at night together, we both feel the same way.
It’s just not true, though. Despite how much guilt he holds on to, Asa needs me to bethere for him. This could have torn us apart, but it brought us closer than ever.
He tugs me into his side as we continue to stare at the gravestone underneath a myrtle tree in the back lot. Next to where Asa had his beloved Golden Retriever buried when he was ten, he told me. I don’t know what that means, but he seems to take comfort in it.
“Do you want alone time again?” I ask.
When I usually leave him, I know he rants and raves at Wyatt’s ghost. The worst part is, though, that he never responds. If we could have just gotten ananswer, maybe we could have stopped it.
The what ifs may kill me.
His blond hair has grown out some this week, and as my husband shakes his head, some falls across his forehead. “No. I think I’m done yelling.” Taking a big breath, he stares at the clear blue sky. “At least for today.”
I hate the weather. Howdarethe sun shine when our world has been torn apart? Couldn’t it rain just to give us some solace?