Dark Needs(8)

I'll take anything my wife was willing to f*cking give me, because the last thing I ever wanted was for Bee to crawl back into that f*cking head of hers again and get lost under all the shit she kept buried in there.

At that very moment she was fading away before my eyes, but I needed her to be present, to be strong.

For Georgia.

For our family.

It killed me that I couldn't go to her, hold her in my arms and drag my Abby back to the surface, and, if necessary, I wasn't entirely against shaking the shit out of her until she refocused and emerged from the fog she retreated to when she just couldn't deal.

Dumb and f*cking Dumber both drove off the same way they'd arrived. One at a time, tires spinning dramatically in the dirt, launching onto the street, their sirens invading every corner of the usually eerily quiet neighborhood. The wall of mangroves lining the road flashed blue and red as we passed.

Abby stood in the road and watched us drive off, her expressionless face shrinking smaller and smaller in the rearview mirror until she completely disappeared from sight.

I could feel my heart twisting in my chest, and I made a vow right then and there that no matter what happened as a result of these charges, I was going to find my way back to Bee and Georgia as soon as I could.

Breaking out of prison couldn't be that hard.

We turned toward the Matlacha Pass, the only bridge that connected the rest of the world to Coral Pines. Once we were over the bridge, the sheriff spoke to my reflection in the rearview mirror. "Why is it, Jake, that you don't seem surprised that you are being charged with my nephew’s murder?"

I shrugged. "Well, it's been a while since I jaywalked."

The sheriff shook his head. "Touche, Mr. Dunn. Too-f*cking-shay," he said, rolling the window down just a crack. He lit a joint he’d retrieved from the center console. "All I'm saying, son, is that I'm hoping they fry your ass real good, hope some skin head with a hankering for blondes makes you his new girlfriend." He held the smoke in his lungs, not even bothering to blow it out the crack in the open window as he finished his little villain speech.

Or was he the good guy, and it was me who was the villain?

The lines between right and wrong, good and bad, light and dark, were always blurred when it came to the comings and goings of the residents of Coral Pines.

You never knew who was going to save you.

Or who was going to kill you.





FOUR


In the back of my mind I always knew that no matter how careful I was, someday there was a possibility the shit I'd done would catch up with me in a very big way.

I knew that day had come when I found myself being led down a poorly lit concrete hallway wearing a scratchy orange jumpsuit, carrying an even scratchier blanket and pillow, into a cell much smaller than the new guest bathroom I'd just finished remodeling for Bee.

Inmates shouted over one another, their voices bouncing off the cement block walls of my cell, any one person indiscernible from the blended echoes of the masses. My eyes watered from the inescapable and overwhelming stench of backed up toilets and body odor.

Although my father had been dead over a year I could almost hear his 'I told you so's' from the grave.

Fuck you, Frank.

My mother, the eternal optimist when it came to me, used to tell me that the world expected great things from me, that my future held something terrific in it, and that someday I would realize my true potential. She usually gave me that speech while she was driving me home from the sheriff's station or from a stint in juvie.

She was sort of right all along. I'd realized my true potential a long time ago. There just wasn't anything terrific about it.

Horrific maybe. Terrific no.

I'm not glad she's dead, but I'm glad she would never see me caged up like the monster I was.

My father, Frank, never traveled on the same wavelength of thought my mother did. He always told me that my future held nothing more than a life behind the cold bars of a prison cell. It was laughable, because that drunken f*ck might have been actually right for once.

The cell door slammed shut behind me. I set the blanket on the unmade top bunk. The guard locked my cage with one of the many keys on his retractable key chain attached to his belt.

"Welcome home, inmate," he said smugly, tipping up the brim of his baseball cap in mock salute, the cap read CORRECTIONS in big bold gold lettering across the front. The guard, whose brass nametag read ABBOT, sucked on his upper teeth with his tongue as if he'd just finished a big satisfying meal.