Loving Lucas (22 page)

He gulps the coffee.

“Hungry?” I ask.

“Are you a fucking cop or Pope Francis?”

“Maybe a little bit of both right now.” I reach up front and grab the taquito.

He unwraps it and finishes it in three bites, then uses his sleeve as a napkin. “Thank you.”

I nod, pleased he’s lucid enough to have a conversation. “I need to ask you a few questions.”

“Did twenty years in the Ham,” he says, referring to Eastham Prison in unincorporated Houston County. “Manslaughter. Might as well get the foreplay over with if we’re going to get personal, sweetheart.”

I chuckle. “Are you in full compliance with all the conditions of your parole?”

“Checked in with my PO last week.”

“Does he know you have a chemical dependency problem?”

“I’ve been out three weeks—not enough time for me to be an alcoholic. But I’m fucking working on it.”

“What’s your full name?”

“Steven Byron Augustine.”

“Where are you from, Mr. Augustine?”

“Abilene.”

There are a hundred questions running through my head, and I want answers. “Did you grow up in Abilene?”

“Moved to Corpus in 1975—attended Ray High School—played football and partied.”

“Do you have any family in the area?”

He frowns. “Why are you asking me all these questions?”

“Please answer.”

“My sister and her husband.”

“Where do you reside?”

“I rent a studio apartment off the garage at my sister’s house.”

“At the same address listed on your driver’s license?”

He groans. “Yeah.”

“Ever been married, Mr. Augustine?”

“I don’t like this fucking game.” He kicks his feet.

“If you cooperate,” I say, “I’ll take you home and you can sleep it off there.”

“You’re not taking me to lockup?”

“Depends on you. I haven’t called in yet.”

He rubs his chin. “I’m a widower.”

“When did your wife pass?”

His face is as hard as stone, his blue eyes bloodshot and puffy. “The bitch didn’t pass; I slit her throat.”

Although the confession hits me hard, I need to appear neutral. “What year?”

“1993.”

“Do you have any children?”

His eyes narrow and he takes a deep breath. “None of your business.”

“Do you have a daughter named Karlie?”

His eyebrows jump, his jaw set in a hard line.

“I need to know, Mr. Augustine. She deserves the truth.”

He groans, then sobs uncontrollably. I reach in my back pocket and pull out my handkerchief, offering it to him. He accepts it and blows his nose. After he finishes, he tries to give it back to me.

“Keep it,” I say. “Do you remember meeting me in the parking lot at Roper’s last week?”

“Yes.”

“You asked Karlie for her autograph—claimed it was for your son.”

“I wasn’t going to hurt her.”

“I know.” I kneel in front of him, getting on his level. “I’m engaged to your daughter.”

Color rushes into his cheeks and he smiles. “My daughter is going to marry a cop?”

“If she’ll have me.”

He grows silent for a while, studying my face. “She was born drug addicted, laid up in the neonatal ICU for eight weeks. There were so many tubes and monitors connected to her tiny body . . .” He swipes tears from his eyes again. “I sat with her every day, couldn’t leave her side. Her heart stopped beating twice. All those alarms started going off . . . I remember clearly. It’s haunted me for twenty-one years.”

My heart bursts. All the loneliness and pain Karlie has experienced, not knowing where she came from, believing she was never loved . . .

“When her condition stabilized, I left the hospital to go get my wife. I found her passed out in bed with a hypodermic needle still stuck in her goddamned arm. I lost control. Grabbed a pair of sewing scissors off the nightstand and cut her throat.”

I close my eyes, trapped between shock, horror, and pity. He’s a goddamned murderer, a violent offender who snapped because he loved his daughter. Justice isn’t always black and white. And avenging angels don’t come from heaven. I open my eyes. “Why are you following her?”

“I wanted to see her.” He shakes his head, another tear sliding down his cheek. “She’s the spitting image of her mother.”

Should I comfort him? My gut says no. He’s everything Craig has been warning me about. As an officer, I live in a glass house; my actions are open to public scrutiny. But in some twisted way, I understand him. I can’t begin to imagine what I would have done if my son came into the world under the same heart-wrenching circumstances. Bile rises in my throat; that fierce protectiveness I feel for Alex, and now Karlie, returns. I fist my hands at my sides. My instincts also tell me something else. “What’s your sister’s name, Mr. Augustine?”

“Annette Johnson.”

Chapter Twenty-seven

This isn’t exactly how I pictured tonight would go. After school, I rushed home to cook a yummy dinner to make up for Halloween. Making peace with Charles helped put things in perspective. I need to focus more on my world and less on what other people do, whether I approve of their actions or not. As long as no one is getting hurt, turning the other cheek will help keep my life stress free. I’ve lived so far to the left and right, I missed out on what happens in the middle, where most people fall.

I stare at the clock in the kitchen. It’s well pass seven and I haven’t heard from Lucas yet. The cream gravy on the chicken fried steaks is cold and watery, the salad is wilted, and my homemade honey white bread needs to be reheated. I grab a slice and put it in the toaster. The wicks in the candles have burned so low the flames are floating in wax. I’ve already called and texted Lucas. Should I call Craig? His number is on the list of emergency contacts by the phone. I don’t know why I’m so paranoid, but maybe it’s because Lucas is always punctual. He’s also a police officer, and for a quick second, I recall the memorial wall at the shooting range.
Oh God.
Fear starts to play tricks on my mind.

Is this a glimpse into my future—what it will be like every day wondering if my husband is safe? Do I need to join a support group? Maybe they can teach me basic coping skills, how not to pull my hair out while I’m clueless at home.

Twenty minutes later when the front door opens, I squeak, and run to the entry. I throw myself at Lucas and he drops his duffel bag, grunting when I slam into his chest. He embraces me, sliding his hands up my spine.

“What happened, Karlie?” He grips my arms, holding me away from him.

“Nothing.” I don’t even know what to say.

“You’re trembling.”

“Why didn’t you call me?”

He retrieves his cell from his pocket. “I didn’t hear it ring.” He checks the incoming call list. “Sorry, I lost track of time.”

We walk into the dining room and he stares at the table. “Sorry, baby.”

“I can reheat everything.”

“No. Let’s go out tonight. I’ll take a quick shower.” He kisses the top of my head, then rushes upstairs.

I quickly clear the dishes, storing what I can salvage from the meal in Tupperware. I load the dishwasher, check that the counters are clean, and head to my bedroom to change. I’m so relieved he’s okay, but once again, I sense something happened. He’s reluctant to confide in me sometimes. Of course I’m the same way. Most couples transition into a deeper relationship over time. We fell in love the way we tumbled into bed—headfirst. Should Lucas be able to make me feel this way?

Yes. I wouldn’t change it.

I choose a green, long-sleeved Divvy dress and a pair of three-inch black heels. Next I sweep my hair into a combination French twist/bun. I put on my silver-blue topaz dangly earrings and matching necklace, then freshen my makeup before meeting Lucas in the living room. He’s wearing charcoal-colored slacks and a white button-down shirt underneath a fitted, gray pinstripe sports coat.

“Did you read my mind?” he asks. “You look too pretty. Maybe we should dine in?”

“After all the work I did to look nice for our date?”

He smiles warmly, offering his arm. “We don’t get out enough.”

“Maybe this could be a new chapter in our relationship.”

He stops and spins me around, his hot, tempting mouth covering mine. It’s the kiss I’ve waited for all day—it sets me on fire. When he removes his lips, I’m breathless and want more.

We arrive at Katz 21 Steak & Spirits on Spohn Drive a half hour later. I’ve never had the opportunity to eat here before. It’s a trendy place splashed in warm light, with bistro tables and elegant booths. We’re escorted to a corner table surrounded by floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the city; the skyline is incredible tonight. A server lights the candle in the middle of the table and offers Lucas a wine list. Then he fills our water glasses.

“Anything good?” I ask.

Lucas sets the wine list down and reaches for my hand, caressing my fingers. “Let me order tonight?”

“What do you have in mind?” I place my elbow on the table, resting my face against my palm. I gaze into his chocolate-colored eyes, mesmerized by the gold flecks I can see in the dancing candlelight. Where did he come from? I’m beginning to think this is some kind of dream—a fairy tale, really. In real life, orphan girls don’t marry princes. They hook up with alcoholics wearing wife beaters who race cars and motorcycles and abuse them. That’s the future I faced until I took a chance with Lucas.

“Karlie?”

“Sorry.” I force my dark thoughts aside. In no way am I wine connoisseur, but I enjoy the occasional white or red. “Please, pick whatever you want.”

A few minutes later, another server arrives. “Have you made your selection, sir?” he asks.

“Yes,” Lucas answers. “We’d like a bottle of Turnbull Black Label Red and Oysters Rockefeller—a full dozen.”

The waiter takes the wine list, replacing it with a dinner menu. He runs through the specials—including a mouthwatering description of Midwestern corn-fed prime beef. Once he leaves, I flip open the menu, scanning the lovely entrées. Because I live on a strict budget, I’ve spent most of my time reading menus online and teaching myself how to make gourmet dishes at home. I consider this a rare treat; I’m so ready to enjoy a nice meal.

Lucas orders shrimp bisque, flounder stuffed with blue crab and seasoned herbs, and steamed asparagus for us. I’ve never tasted blue crab before. The oysters are amazing and I request another half dozen. We finish half the bottle of wine before our waiter delivers the main course.

After tasting my first forkful of fish, I let out a tiny squeal. “This is
sooo
good, Lucas. Thank you for tonight.”

He smiles. “I want to spoil you, Karlie.” He takes a sip of wine. “And I want everything to be perfect every day for the rest of our lives.” He reaches inside his sports coat, then places a black ring box on the table, sliding it in my direction. “I’m sorry I proposed without a ring—but I couldn’t hold those feelings inside any longer. I love you, did the minute I set eyes on you.”

I stare at the box. “Love at first sight?” He’s never told me that before. And his tender confession stokes the flames in my heart.

“Right here,” he says, thumping his chest. “It belongs to you.”

With shaky hands I open the box. It’s from Jones & Son, and—there’s a small card blocking my view of the ring. I read it:
Tacori 18KT rose gold engagement ring.
It’s so beautiful—the center diamond is a classic round cut surrounded by smaller ones.

“Let me,” he says, removing the ring.

He takes my left hand and slides it onto my finger. Tears pool in the corners of my eyes as I hold my hand away from my face, admiring the symbol of his love. I wouldn’t care if it came from a vending machine. I lower my hand, then offer him my bravest smile. “Thank you.”

The restaurant erupts with applause.

Oh. My. God.
Even hidden in the corner, we caught the attention of everyone. Lucas scoots closer to me. “Don’t be embarrassed,” he whispers. “You’re too beautiful to overlook.”

By the time we finish dinner, I’m saturated with happiness and nicely buzzed. With our arms linked, we walk to the truck. Nothing else matters right now, just Lucas and me.

Karlie is downstairs taking a shower. After another marathon lovemaking session, she decided to get cleaned up. I’m thrilled that she loves her ring. The look in her eyes when I slipped it on her finger is a memory I will cherish forever. The untethered joy she displays whenever something makes her happy is what poets write about. Unfortunately, my heart is torn; I’m harboring a bittersweet secret. Something Karlie deserves to know.

But how can I tell her who and what her father is? Before he murdered her mother, he was a master carpenter. On the way to his residence, he directed me to the house Karlie would have grown up in. There was nothing exceptional about the single-story, wood-frame dwelling, except that Karlie never got to live there. Irretrievable pages torn out of her life.

Without a past, she feels empty. I’ve begged her to stop referring to herself that way, explaining she has a clear advantage over most of us. She gets to be the architect of her future—thereby creating memories that will eventually become her past. Special ones. I’ll give her anything she wants, but I’m deeply concerned about how she’s going to react. I need a couple of days to think about it.

She appears in my doorway wearing nothing but a pair of black lace panties. Her wet hair is braided to the side, revealing that slim throat I love to nibble on. She holds her left hand out and beams at me. “Look what I have.”

“Someone likes you.”

“Very much, I think,” she adds.

“What’s he look like? Should I be jealous?”

She slinks closer, resting her knee on the edge of the mattress. My eyes are drawn to her full breasts. “Very jealous,” she informs me. “He promised to lick my clit until my forehead caves in.”

“Really?”

She nods enthusiastically. “And I think he has a really big dick.”

I launch myself at her and she squeals. I wrestle her onto her back, spreading her legs wide. “Shouldn’t have told me anything about him, darlin’,” I rumble. “Now I have to do my best to outperform the bastard.” I remove her underwear and slingshot it across the room.