Not at all.
Chapter Seventeen
Let Her Go
Deacon
Deacon Gates lay on his back in the bed in the hotel room, his laptop open beside him, the flash drive Cassie gave him stuck in the side, iTunes up, the sounds of the piano coming from the speakers.
A Great Big World and Christina Aguilera singing “Say Something.”
The words started.
They cut deep.
He no longer felt it. He’d listened to the song fifty times. There wasn’t an inch of him that wasn’t lacerated.
The song ended and he started again.
Halfway through, his phone rang.
He paused the song, took the call, and listened to the asshole, piece of shit, dregs of humanity on the other end of the line asking for his help.
When the fucker was done speaking, Deacon said, “I’ll be there tomorrow.”
He flipped the phone closed and slid his finger on the mouse pad, starting the song at the beginning.
He listened.
And again.
And repeat.
He didn’t sleep.
He didn’t eat.
And early the next morning, he checked out and drove three states to help some asshole, piece of shit, dregs of humanity take care of his shit.
* * * * *
It was raining when Deacon slid his Suburban up to the little, tidy house on the street filled with little, tidy houses in Iowa.
The steps up to the house were near to covered with pots filled with flowers, only a narrow clearing was available to make your way to the house.
That was his mother. She liked her flowers.
Like Cassie.
He looked to the windows and saw his dad in a lounger, TV on, game playing.
He’d given up the farm.
He’d had no choice. He got old and his son had no interest in it. Never did. Always went his own way.
Until he just went away.
Deacon watched through the rain into the window until he saw his mother come in, two glasses in her hands, an iced tea for her, Deacon knew, an Arnold Palmer for his dad.
His dad took the drink. His mom bent to kiss his cheek.
She sat in the lounger next to her husband.
Deacon kept watching as he put the truck into drive.
Then he looked to the street as he pulled away from the curb.
* * * * *
It was still raining the next day when Deacon stood by the grave, eyes on the headstone.
Jeanine Ann Gates. Beloved wife and daughter. Always remembered.
Her parents put that shit on about beloved wife.
She was.
Then she wasn’t.
“You broke me,” he whispered to the headstone.
If she was there, she’d start crying. She’d mean those tears. She felt hard, when she let herself feel, which was why she did everything in her power to stop feeling.
She succeeded.
Spectacularly.
“Let me go.”
He closed his eyes and waited.
He saw her on that barstool trying not to let him catch her watching him. He saw her walking down the aisle, smiling at him so big, already crying happy tears and she hadn’t even made it to his side. He saw her bending to the oven, taking out yet another fucking tray of cookies.
And he saw her hanging from the hook, suspended in the sling, taking another man’s cock.
“Let me go,” he repeated.
She didn’t let him go.
The bitch never did.
* * * * *
Deacon sat in a dingy, old roadside diner, a cup of black coffee in front of him, the place deserted because it was three in the morning, his eyes out the window, focused on the dark sky.
It never happened so he didn’t know why it did then. He didn’t give a shit about music. He didn’t give a shit about anything. Jeannie taught him that just as Cassie did everything she could to teach him something else.
But the song playing in the diner hit him, every word, each stabbing like a knife in his chest.
He didn’t know why he did it but he picked up his phone, the real one he never gave Cassie the number to mostly because he was going to dump it when he left the life and get a new one.
He hit the Shazam button, an app he’d never used. An app Raid’s woman, Hanna, loaded on to it, teasing him, “Everyone has Shazam, Deacon.”
Shazam listened and told him the song was Passenger, “Let Her Go.”
Let her go.
Let.
Let.
That’s what he’d done. He’d done it. He’d let Cassie go.
He took a sip of his coffee, leaned forward, pulled out his wallet, threw some bills on the table that would make the night of the lonely waitress in her short skirt and ridiculous cap, who, by the look of her, needed to retire twenty years ago.
He left the diner, got in his Suburban, and drove away.
* * * * *
For some fucked up reason he didn’t get, the minute he got to a place that had Wi-Fi, he went out, bought an iTunes gift card, and downloaded “Let Her Go.”
He listened to it often, every word defining him in a way that was troubling, as if the man who wrote that song read the words carved into his soul.
It was torture.
But it was a break from the torture of playing Cassie’s song.
And he’d take that.
Because it was all he deserved.
* * * * *
Knight Sebring
Knight hit Raid’s contact and put the phone to his ear.
“Yo,” Raid answered.
“Yo, Hanna good?” Knight asked and heard Raid chuckle.
“Yeah, man, so am I, in case you’re wondering.”
Knight wasn’t in the mood.
“You hear from Deacon?” he asked.
The humor was gone and Raid’s voice was alert when he answered, “No.”
“Nothing?”
“Talk to me,” Raid bit out, now not just alert, but uneasy.
“Got word, coupla sources, he’s keepin’ bad company.”
“Name of the game, Knight.”
“Deacon had boundaries and we both know that. Now, it would seem he doesn’t.”
“Names,” Raid demanded, now curt.
Alarmed.
Knight gave him the names.
“Jesus,” Raid murmured.
Yeah. Jesus.
Bad company.
“You gonna find him and talk to his ass, or am I?” Knight asked.
“I gotta talk to Hanna then I’m on the road.”
That was good because Knight could afford the best and the best at finding people were Deacon and Raid and if either one of them didn’t want to be found, there wasn’t a snowball’s chance in hell of finding them.
Unless one was looking for the other.
“You need me, I’m there,” Knight told him.
“Gotcha. Later. And Knight?”
“Yeah?”
“Thanks.”
Chapter Seventeen
Let Her Go
Deacon
Deacon Gates lay on his back in the bed in the hotel room, his laptop open beside him, the flash drive Cassie gave him stuck in the side, iTunes up, the sounds of the piano coming from the speakers.
A Great Big World and Christina Aguilera singing “Say Something.”
The words started.
They cut deep.
He no longer felt it. He’d listened to the song fifty times. There wasn’t an inch of him that wasn’t lacerated.
The song ended and he started again.
Halfway through, his phone rang.
He paused the song, took the call, and listened to the asshole, piece of shit, dregs of humanity on the other end of the line asking for his help.
When the fucker was done speaking, Deacon said, “I’ll be there tomorrow.”
He flipped the phone closed and slid his finger on the mouse pad, starting the song at the beginning.
He listened.
And again.
And repeat.
He didn’t sleep.
He didn’t eat.
And early the next morning, he checked out and drove three states to help some asshole, piece of shit, dregs of humanity take care of his shit.
* * * * *
It was raining when Deacon slid his Suburban up to the little, tidy house on the street filled with little, tidy houses in Iowa.
The steps up to the house were near to covered with pots filled with flowers, only a narrow clearing was available to make your way to the house.
That was his mother. She liked her flowers.
Like Cassie.
He looked to the windows and saw his dad in a lounger, TV on, game playing.
He’d given up the farm.
He’d had no choice. He got old and his son had no interest in it. Never did. Always went his own way.
Until he just went away.
Deacon watched through the rain into the window until he saw his mother come in, two glasses in her hands, an iced tea for her, Deacon knew, an Arnold Palmer for his dad.
His dad took the drink. His mom bent to kiss his cheek.
She sat in the lounger next to her husband.
Deacon kept watching as he put the truck into drive.
Then he looked to the street as he pulled away from the curb.
* * * * *
It was still raining the next day when Deacon stood by the grave, eyes on the headstone.
Jeanine Ann Gates. Beloved wife and daughter. Always remembered.
Her parents put that shit on about beloved wife.
She was.
Then she wasn’t.
“You broke me,” he whispered to the headstone.
If she was there, she’d start crying. She’d mean those tears. She felt hard, when she let herself feel, which was why she did everything in her power to stop feeling.
She succeeded.
Spectacularly.
“Let me go.”
He closed his eyes and waited.
He saw her on that barstool trying not to let him catch her watching him. He saw her walking down the aisle, smiling at him so big, already crying happy tears and she hadn’t even made it to his side. He saw her bending to the oven, taking out yet another fucking tray of cookies.
And he saw her hanging from the hook, suspended in the sling, taking another man’s cock.
“Let me go,” he repeated.
She didn’t let him go.
The bitch never did.
* * * * *
Deacon sat in a dingy, old roadside diner, a cup of black coffee in front of him, the place deserted because it was three in the morning, his eyes out the window, focused on the dark sky.
It never happened so he didn’t know why it did then. He didn’t give a shit about music. He didn’t give a shit about anything. Jeannie taught him that just as Cassie did everything she could to teach him something else.
But the song playing in the diner hit him, every word, each stabbing like a knife in his chest.
He didn’t know why he did it but he picked up his phone, the real one he never gave Cassie the number to mostly because he was going to dump it when he left the life and get a new one.
He hit the Shazam button, an app he’d never used. An app Raid’s woman, Hanna, loaded on to it, teasing him, “Everyone has Shazam, Deacon.”
Shazam listened and told him the song was Passenger, “Let Her Go.”
Let her go.
Let.
Let.
That’s what he’d done. He’d done it. He’d let Cassie go.
He took a sip of his coffee, leaned forward, pulled out his wallet, threw some bills on the table that would make the night of the lonely waitress in her short skirt and ridiculous cap, who, by the look of her, needed to retire twenty years ago.
He left the diner, got in his Suburban, and drove away.
* * * * *
For some fucked up reason he didn’t get, the minute he got to a place that had Wi-Fi, he went out, bought an iTunes gift card, and downloaded “Let Her Go.”
He listened to it often, every word defining him in a way that was troubling, as if the man who wrote that song read the words carved into his soul.
It was torture.
But it was a break from the torture of playing Cassie’s song.
And he’d take that.
Because it was all he deserved.
* * * * *
Knight Sebring
Knight hit Raid’s contact and put the phone to his ear.
“Yo,” Raid answered.
“Yo, Hanna good?” Knight asked and heard Raid chuckle.
“Yeah, man, so am I, in case you’re wondering.”
Knight wasn’t in the mood.
“You hear from Deacon?” he asked.
The humor was gone and Raid’s voice was alert when he answered, “No.”
“Nothing?”
“Talk to me,” Raid bit out, now not just alert, but uneasy.
“Got word, coupla sources, he’s keepin’ bad company.”
“Name of the game, Knight.”
“Deacon had boundaries and we both know that. Now, it would seem he doesn’t.”
“Names,” Raid demanded, now curt.
Alarmed.
Knight gave him the names.
“Jesus,” Raid murmured.
Yeah. Jesus.
Bad company.
“You gonna find him and talk to his ass, or am I?” Knight asked.
“I gotta talk to Hanna then I’m on the road.”
That was good because Knight could afford the best and the best at finding people were Deacon and Raid and if either one of them didn’t want to be found, there wasn’t a snowball’s chance in hell of finding them.
Unless one was looking for the other.
“You need me, I’m there,” Knight told him.
“Gotcha. Later. And Knight?”
“Yeah?”
“Thanks.”
