Beyond the Stix (Warrior Black #2)

Chapter 8

EIGHT

Connor

During our meeting with the funeral director, my mother calls the deacon of their church, and it’s decided that the wake and burial will happen in two days.

And what a long two days of waiting it is.

Thank Christ, Tobias contacted Dean, who in turn called the local police department. Between them and our security team, the wake is a quiet event. The drive to the cemetery is hectic, especially pulling up to the gates and seeing a slew of paparazzi camped outside of it.

Though, I don’t know what’s worse, spotting the photographers attempting to climb over the metal fence, or seeing the drones flying over my father’s grave site as they lowered Dad’s casket into the ground. Without the police or our bodyguards, I imagine it would have been an even bigger nightmare.

By the end of the ceremony, I’m emotionally gut-punched. The lowest point was when Jessup tried to stand by Mom and me. Thankfully, our security team made it impossible for him.

I’m appreciative that John, Tobias, and the rest of the Harper Security team stayed diligent. I’m also grateful for Danny, Raef, Callum and Bobby. Without my bandmates—my best friends, I don’t know where my sanity would be at right now.

The moment I slide into the back of the blacked-out SUV, I draw in a lungful of oxygen, and try to relax. But not just yet. We still have the luncheon my mother’s friends have set up.

My mother admitted earlier that my father wouldn’t have wanted all this hoopla. And I had every intention on putting the kibosh on the lunch. But this is really for my mother, so I stop making a fuss and sit quietly next to her in the restaurant while her friends come up and interrupt her eating.

Being social is the last thing I want to do, but I can’t be rude.

Jesus, I’m a prick .

I lean into her a bit and gently grab hold of my mother’s hand. “I’m sorry.”

Her eyes, their shape so similar to mine, meet my gaze. “For what?”

“For staying away for so long.” The acknowledgement sticks a like a burr in my throat. “I should have come home more often. Spent time with you and Dad. Talked to Dad.”

She squeezes my hand. “Honey, don’t feel guilty for moving along with your life. I don’t know what was said between you two, but he loved you so much. And I know Markus, he too would have regretted what he said to make you angry.”

“How do you know that?”

“Because I knew your father well. He might have been a stubborn man—as stubborn as you are, Connor, but he would have done anything for you.”

But, would he have done anything?

I shake off that sour thought about my father, and return my attention back to my mom. “I know.”

“Anyway, he told me you two had words, and that he was sorry.”

“Me too.”

“Never forget we love you. No matter what.”

Her words have me losing my tight grip on my emotions. “Excuse me, I’ll be back.” I stand to leave, and see John stepping forward. “No, John. I only need a minute alone.” I push in the chair and stride to the only place that can afford me some privacy.

The moment I close the stall door and lock it, I quietly let loose the tears I’ve been holding onto for the entire day—the entire week. I’m exhausted, tired of peopling, and just want to go home and hide out in the tree house and listen to some music. Maybe write some lyrics.

Yeah. That’s not happening. With the way my head is filled with nothing but grief, I can’t focus.

We have less than two weeks before Rocktoberfest and the band still needs to finish the playlist. I need to get my head back into the music. If only it was that easy to do.

I don’t know how long I stood there in the stall, but the moment I wipe the wetness off my cheeks, I hear the washroom door open with a slight squeak. Thinking it’s John, I call out, “I’m fine, John. I don’t need you to watch me piss.”

“Sweetheart.”

That endearment has me freezing in place. Fucking Jessup.

I reach into my pocket for my phone to text John— shit . I left it at the table.

“Give me five minutes and then I’ll leave. Pinky promise.” I cringe at those words. He used to say that to me when he was going to do something special.

I close my eyes and let out an exasperated breath. “Just leave, Jessup. There’s nothing you can say that I want to hear. Again.”

“Come out here and tell me to my face.” His pleading tone sounds earnest enough. And not once has he tried to approach me or Mom during the luncheon, until now.

Against my better judgement, I rethink this matter between him and me. At least I can listen to what he has to say before I cast him from my life for good.

“Fine.” I unlock the door and step out. Aside from the light brown hair—mixed with silver at the temple though he’s ten years younger than my father, Jessup’s nearly the spitting image of him.

Jessup keeps his distance, and smiles at me in that way I remember. A familiar warmth settles over me but I immediately hate myself for feeling that warmth toward him. What he did to me is inexcusable.

No matter that he was my favorite person when I was a child, until… I shake off those memories and fold my arms across my chest. “Okay, I’m listening.”

“First, I want to say how sorry I am for your loss. I know you two were close.”

“Thanks,” I say, my stance relaxes a bit, but I still keep alert.

“I also want to say I’m sorry for everything that happened in the past.”

“You said that, now let me go.” I’m about to go around him, but he puts out his arm.

“I’m not done. I crossed the line, but when you wet the bed—no matter that my intentions to clean you up were innocent, you reacted bad—and so did I by slapping your face. I mean it. There wasn’t a nefarious thought that crossed my mind when I was taking care of you that night, Con.”

I wet the bed? Why don’t I remember that?

Could I have made a genuine mistake? I was terribly sick, and Mom said I was delirious with fever. I stare at Jessup for a long moment, and begin to reevaluate what my ten-year-old self thought that night. Should I trust his memory over mine at the supposed reason for him touching me inappropriately? Maybe. But something inside my gut is telling me to be cautious.

Since I don’t have the brain capacity at this point to think clearly enough to decide, I reply, “Well, if that’s it, I’m going back.”

“Can I have a hug? It’s been so long and I miss you so much,” he says with one of his charming smiles. Jessup raises his arms out wide, like he used to do when I was a kid.

The churning in my gut roils, but my feet move as Jessup closes the gap. My uncle wraps his arms around me, and holds me tight to his chest. He whispers in my ear, “You know that I’ve always loved you, sweetheart.”

All thoughts flee my brain and I stand there like a statue, not knowing what to do or what to say to him.

Then John strides into the bathroom, his blue eyes honed like daggers, and aimed at Jessup. He pulls me out of his hold and shoves me behind his back. “Are you alright, Connor?”

“I’m okay,” I utter in shock as my heart achingly tries to beat a path out of my chest.

“Connor, your mother wants you.” He nudges me out the door while he stands between Jessup and the exit.

As the door swings closed, I hear my bodyguard growl menacingly, “You had your time, now you can leave.” But the rest of John’s menacing words are muffled, but I can’t understand any more of what he’s saying to my uncle.

I reach the table and take my seat. My mother looks at me, her eyes filled with concern.

Before she asks about what’s probably written across my face, I say, “I’m okay,” smile, and hope she doesn’t prod me for more.

“We’ll talk tonight.” She pats my hand before standing up and facing everyone. I follow suit. She gives a heartfelt thank you to all who helped ease the burden of this trying day.

My mom is a respected person in her community of friends, and she names all the people who contributed their time and effort for today. Then she asks the deacon from her church to end the lunch with a prayer.

Out of the corner of my eye, I see John take his place at the table. Then I catch my uncle’s eyes boring into me. His suit is slightly rumpled. I want to lean over to ask John what went on in that bathroom, but I refrain.

Once the prayer is done, Jessup takes off without a single word.

After saying our goodbyes to my bandmates, their security guys, and Fig, who are all heading back to Callum’s parents’ house, my mother, John, and I are the last of our group to leave the restaurant.

The ride home is quiet, but there’s a buzz of tension in the space.

“I have to check in,” John says as he ushers us into the house and then heads back outside. I know what he’s doing. He’s giving me and my mother some space.

“You don’t have to do that,” I call out to him, but John shakes his head and leaves.

“Connor, I want to know why you are still so angry at your uncle. I know he slapped you when you were ten, but holding a grudge this long isn’t healthy, honey. Did he do something else?” She isn’t demanding the answer, but there’s a note of strain in her eyes that conveys that she isn’t in the mood for anything but the truth.

“No, Mom. We just had a disagreement and neither of us was willing to bend. But we talked and it’s done now. That’s the truth.” Sort of .

I’m not willing to break my mother’s heart with the whole truth—especially after what Jessup told me in the bathroom today. Honestly, I really don’t know what the facts of that night are, and speculating will only lead to a dark rabbit hole I don’t want to fall into.

Tears begin to flood her eyes. “Your father…” she stands, “hold on.” She leaves the living room, and comes back a moment later with the box in her hand. The same box I saw in her closet two days earlier. “You made this for your father in first grade for Father’s Day.”

“I barely remember it.” I drop myself into the chair and eye the box with curiosity. “I forgot what’s inside it.”

“You put your favorite matchbox car, a homemade card, and a box of Swedish fish—your father’s favorite candy. I swear that man ate all of them in a matter of seconds.” She chuckles, but I see her eyes fill. “Your father cherished this box as though it was made of gold.” She wipes her tears away with a tissue she snags from the side table.

“That’s right.” I reach out to open the box, but stop myself as though I need permission to touch it.

“I hadn’t seen it in years. Then right after you and your friends won the band contest two and half years ago, he took it out of where ever he had stashed it. I asked what he was doing with it, but your father refused to tell me. Yet, he was excited.”

A large lump forms in the back of my throat as I listen to my mother ramble on about my father.

Jesus Christ, I’m going to miss my old man.

“About two months ago, and this was so strange, but your father made me promise if something ever happened to him, that I’d give the box to you. I never looked inside it.” She then leans in, kisses the top of my head, and walks away.

“Where are you going?” I ask, while tenderly holding onto the box as though it is precious. And it is.

“It’s been a long day, Con, and I need to lie down.” She points at the box. “Your father loved you.”

Those four words slams into my chest like a battering ram—no, it’s the word loved—No. Not the word, but the past tense meaning of it. He loved me.

I swallow down the absolute grief barreling toward me like a runaway freight train, on a collision course with my already-battered heart. My mother might not realize how her sentiment affected me, and she doesn’t need to see how twisted around my insides are. Or how the thin veil of control I have on my emotions is about to shatter into tiny shards.

After she leaves the room, I sit there alone, but instead of looking at the pictures on the wall, I’m now staring down at the box my father kept for all these years.

I think about calling John inside, but I know he won’t want to intrude.

After placing the box on the coffee table, I scoot forward to the edge of the sofa cushion. I move the box closer to me, and a shot of apprehension runs through my body at what I might find inside. But I push pass the unsettling feeling and slowly open the lid.

Right away I see the empty box of red gummy candy, along with an unopened bar of my favorite chocolate candy.

I burst out laughing while tears begin to slip down my cheeks. Then I spot the pristine toy car, and the card I made him—with different colored pencils. Then at the bottom are two envelopes. I hesitate to touch them, but finally pick them both up. Each one has my name on it, in my father’s scrolling cursive, but with two different dates.

I carefully open the oldest one—the date after we got second place for the Midwest Clash of Bands contest.

It’s a letter from my father. I take a lungful of air and release it, and begin reading.

Dear Connor,

You know I’m not good with words, but I want to let you know how proud we are of you and your band on getting second place in the contest. You’re the best damn drummer this world will see. I always knew you’d be doing great things in your life. And this is just the start. Remember what I told you. Go beyond the stix, and you will do great.

I love you.

Dad

My father’s words break through the last vestige of control I have on my emotions. Next thing I know, John’s sitting beside me, asking what’s wrong.

“My father…” It’s all I can get out before a deluge of tears bursts from me.