Envious Of Fire (Kissing With Teeth #2)

24. The One Thing You Love Most.

—?—

Brock is sitting in a chair staring at a painting of an ace of hearts. In the painting, the card is caught on fire, and behind it is a backdrop of green, blue, and purple neon lights. Some kind of expressionistic take on Vegas. A trippy casino. A dream.

“I died,” he recites to the painting, “and then I came back. It was all like a dream. I should forget it ever happened. Things are okay now.”

Was death just a dream?

Is this really his life again, or is it just more death?

Will he get to see his boy graduate in the spring? Go off to college? Marry the girl? Have children? Will those children call him Grandpa someday?

“This happens every day,” he continues to recite, recalling the words that were said to him over and over, “in hospitals, on operating tables, while people are sleeping, they die a little, and they come back, and I should not be afraid.”

He sees Kyle before him. Kyle, his best buddy, his guy.

He sees Kyle’s face full of tears, screaming out his name.

That doesn’t make sense. Why would he be so upset? Why would he be screaming out his name?

Brock finds it difficult to swallow suddenly. He touches his neck, feels an unfamiliar scar. His fingers play across the whole length of the scar, one side of his neck to the other.

Why is Kyle crying?

“I died,” he recites again, “and I came back. It was all a … It was all like a … like a … a …”

A knock at the door. Brock forgets the painting, rises from his chair, places one foot in front of the other until he’s in front of the door, pulls it open. A bellboy. “Sir, I’m sorry, we appear to not be able to get through to you on your phone. You have had a lot of messages, sir. A lot of people are concerned about your wellbeing. As we were unable to locate you, we …”

Brock loses track of the words, finding his eyes drawn to the way the bellboy’s neck pulses and flexes as he speaks.

“… had to speak to the owner of this suite, to your father, sir, and it seems he …”

The red flush of his cheeks, how soft they must be, how full and rich they must feel like when pinched between teeth.

How squishy they must be as they burst like gummy candy.

“Sir?”

Brock meets the bellboy’s eyes. “I want to see my wife. Her name is Jessica. My wife’s name is Jessica. I am her husband and she is my wife.”

The bellboy blinks. “I … well, yes, of course, sir.”

“I want to see my wife,” Brock repeats.

“That … Yes, sir. That was in one of your messages. She’s at a hotel right now, a hotel in Boulder City with your son.”

“My son.” Brock thinks about his charismatic, bright-eyed, top-of-the-class son, his champion, his pride and joy. The one thing he loves most. He’s smiling. “I would like to see my son.”

“They can be notified at once, sir. I’m sure they would love to come and see you. They’ve already been here several times looking for you, as I understand it. What would you like me to do regarding the other matter, sir?”

Brock nods, still smiling. “I would love to see my wife and I would love to see my son.”

The bellboy grows flustered. “Yes, and you will, sir. But—”

The door closes gently on the bellboy’s face as Brock walks away from it, moving back to his chair, returning his focus to the ace of hearts on the wall, except now he thinks about Jessica and Asher and the moment he might see them again.

He once thought he would never see them again.

That it was the end.

That there was no coming back from the Great Darkness.

When the knocking comes once more, all the light in the room has changed, shifted, coming in through the windows at a different angle. He rises once again from the chair, walks up to the door, pulls it open.

His wife’s soft face, perspiration on her forehead, flushed in the slightest, misplaced strands of her hair curled down the side of her cheek, eyes wide and searching. She keeps saying some word over and over. It isn’t until she touches his arm that the word comes into focus: “Brock?”

“Jessica,” he says back, like a test.

Then he sees the young man some paces behind her. It is confusing at first, because this isn’t the charismatic, bright-eyed champion he remembered. This young man is timid and quiet. Withdrawn and irritable-looking, his face creased with tension.

But in his eyes, Brock sees his son, sees Asher, sees the boy he cherishes with all his soul. Brock comes toward him, hardly notices his wife stumbling out of the way, smiles broadly. Asher looks at him with a mixture of uncertainty and fear.

“Ash,” says Brock, discovering the nickname again.

“Dad,” quietly returns the teenager, still uncertain.

“It’s me,” Brock insists. The more he stares into his son’s eyes, the more human he becomes, the more sure he becomes. He is alive. He never died. None of those things happened. That’s why he’s been reciting the words. They were given to him by a well-meaning therapist he visited, a therapist with cool blue eyes. “It’s me, it’s your dad. I’m here.”

“I-I know,” says Asher awkwardly. “Who else would you be?”

Brock grabs his son without warning and traps him in the tightest embrace. He can feel his son’s heartbeat raging with a vengeance, thumping through his veins, rocketing into Brock’s body like the echoes of a great big drum, shaking the world.

Jessica’s voice comes softly. “Should we go inside?”

It is difficult to let go of his son. When he does, he feels as if every trace of love within his body is ripped away from him. He watches his very confused son, t-shirt and jeans, messy hair, go into the suite. As his wife says something else, Brock passes by her, heading inside, then sits with his son on the long couch.

Asher keeps looking at him, eyebrows stitched together.

Brock keeps smiling back, silent, amazed.

“Sweetie,” comes Jessica’s voice from near the door, from the front of the kitchenette, near a barstool. “Don’t you have an assignment you need to finish for school? Your father and I—”

“I did it already,” says Asher.

“Please go into the bedroom.”

“Mom.”

“I said please, sweetie.”

Asher rises from the couch. Brock’s eyes remain on him as he circles the suite to the bedroom door, slips inside without another word, closes it behind him. The sound of the bedroom TV is heard, softly muffled through the door. Brock continues staring at that door, as if he can magically see his son even still, staring through it, their eye contact still not broken somehow.

“Brock?”

Brock finally turns to Jessica, as if noticing her now for the very first time. He smiles again. “Sweetheart, there you are.”

“I said your name six times.” She comes around the couch. It’s strange, how she keeps her distance. “Are you okay?”

Brock died. Brock came back. It was all like a dream. Brock should forget it ever happened. Things are okay now.

“Yes,” answers Brock. “I’m okay.”

Jessica doesn’t seem satisfied with the answer. “Where …” She lowers herself onto the couch, all the way on the other end. “Where have … Where have you been? All this time, Brock? It’s been over a week since we last heard from you.”

“I did not die,” he states.

Jessica’s face creases. “You think this is a joke?” He stares blankly back at her. “Brock.” She scoots closer. “What is going on? I thought you were abducted. Mugged and left for dead. I’d gone through your emails, seeing if you had some enemy you never told me about. If you hadn’t suddenly shown up, I would have suspected Kyle had … had done something unthinkable …”

“Kyle?” Everything in the room spins into focus, clicks into place, at once bright and vibrant. Brock leans forward. “Kyle?” he repeats. “What about Kyle?”

Jessica frowns again, squinting at him. “Did you forget that was the whole reason you’re here? To see him? After that video our son stumbled on?” She scoffs in disbelief. “Brock, why are you acting so bizarre?” After a second, her voice softens. “I was just there, in that little town way off the road. Couldn’t believe my eyes when I saw him, hasn’t aged a day … Kyle Amos.”

Brock nearly falls off the couch as he draws closer. “Have you seen him? Is he okay?”

“I just said. Yes, I saw him.”

“I thought he was hurt. I thought he might be hurt. Kyle …” Brock’s eyes go somewhere else. “I don’t want anyone to hurt him. He’s my guy, he’s my man, my pal … I … I don’t …” His eyes find the windows, the sunlight washing in like white foam, blanketing everything in an indistinct haze.

A hand touches his arm. He flinches, turns. Jessica is next to him. “I know you care about him. You care about him a lot.”

“I do.”

“You pretty much upended your life just to find him again. We all thought he’d died. I understand. The Lord answered all our prayers and He brought him back to us, brought him back into our lives.” She rubs his arm, smiling. “You are in shock.”

“Shock.”

“Yes, you’re in shock. That’s what this is. And I know what you need.” Jessica takes his hands. Her skin is blazing hot. “Let us pray, Brock. Let us ask the Lord for guidance.”

When Jessica closes her eyes and begins to recite her words of prayer, Brock watches, awestruck by the peaceful, soft expression on her face. Her cheeks, flushed and supple. Her lips, like candy. Brock imagines nipping them, how they would feel so pliable.

As pliable as soft flesh peeling apart like a pastry. The squishy red jam that spills out from the bread, thick, gummy, oozing out.

“Amen,” says Jessica, opening her eyes—and seems startled by Brock’s odd expression. “How do you feel now?” she decides to ask, her words slow, uncertain. “Brock? Did you pray?”

He slowly nods.

“Good.” Jessica lays his hands back into his lap, pats them. “We’ll get through this. We get through everything together. We’ve been through harder times, haven’t we?”

“Yes,” he recites, though nothing comes to mind.

He barely notices when she’s no longer sitting next to him, no longer touching his hands. Belatedly, he peers up to find his son at the bedroom door, Jessica there, asking him if he’s okay, if he’s hungry, that maybe what they all need is a decent meal in their bellies. Then she peers over her shoulder, notices Brock, says, “Let’s all go downstairs for some lunch.” Her arm wraps around the back of Asher, consoling him. He still seems stiff. “Then we can head back to Phoenix and put this all behind us.”

Asher stares at his father from across the room, staring at him like he’s an alien.

Brock smiles back.

Next thing, the three of them are seated at a table in the middle of a loud restaurant. It’s somewhere on the first floor of the Scarlet Sands. Their table is next to a long window, through which there lies the infamous swimming pool with the dark red water, which looks strangely more sinister during the daylight hours than it does at night.

Brock stares at that pool, eyes lost in its red waters.

“You haven’t touched your food,” complains Jessica. Brock missed the first few things she said. “Yes, we’ll just take that to go,” she says to the server, likely more irritably than intended. Asher’s face remains buried in his phone, tapping away on some game, earbuds crammed in, not paying attention.

Brock is almost surprised when he blinks and realizes they are walking through the lobby of the Scarlet Sands toward the doors. “Mr. Hastings,” says a young lady at the front counter in her tight leather uniform with fake fang bites on her neck. She offers no warmth in her face or expression. “I hope you enjoyed your stay. We look forward to your return.”

“We’re never returning,” says Jessica on his behalf. “Bless you, and I will pray for your soul tonight, all your souls, so help you, this is Satan’s house and no one else’s.”

The young lady only watches them leave, saying nothing more. Brock stares back at her over his shoulder, finding her to be vaguely familiar. Brock and Kyle, standing at that front desk, Brock laughing, Kyle smirking as he studied the side of his face, the two of them about to have the best night of their lives.

The last night of Brock’s life.

“I died,” mumbles Brock to himself as they depart the loud, echoing foyer of the Scarlet Sands, barely any air in his words, “Came back. Like a dream. Forget it happened. All okay now.”

He died. He came back. It was like a dream.

“Should I drive?” asks Jessica as they stand by the vehicle. She has the patience to wait exactly four seconds. “I’ll drive,” she says.

The three of them zigzag through the streets of Las Vegas, through the exciting Strip, and en route to the highway. Jessica drives with more force than Brock remembers, his body pressed to the passenger seat window with each hard left turn. He notes the tightness in her jaw as she drives and how it accentuates the veins in her neck. The tightness of her knuckles on the wheel.

The way her lips pucker unnaturally.

Like she’s sucking intently on a sour candy.

“I already made the calls,” says Jessica, “so you don’t have to give it a thought. The authorities. Police departments. Our pastor back home. Your father,” she then adds with a change of tone, interrupts herself with a sigh, then says, “and my own. I’d be surprised if half the state of Arizona wasn’t looking for you.”

Brock peers over his shoulder at his son in the backseat, still playing on his phone, earbuds popping out of his ears like two white antennas. He smiles as he watches his son play his game. It fills his heart with joy to watch him. Makes him think of himself at seventeen. Of his best buddy Kyle. This one time they were in the back seat together, laughing at something dumb, parents driving.

“We’re gonna go to college together,” he says, cutting off something Jessica was explaining. “Kyle and I. We’re gonna be roomies. My dad said it didn’t matter if he didn’t qualify for the scholarship, he’ll pay his way, we’ll get to go.”

Asher looks up from his phone, squints, pops out one of his earbuds. “You talking to me, Dad?”

Brock keeps smiling at his son, lost in his dream.

The snapping of fingers brings Brock’s attention back to his wife. “Brock, I’m being serious, pay attention. When we get back, it’s important you go get yourself a medical checkup with Dr. Sharma, a thorough medical checkup.”

“Do you believe in the afterlife?”

She half-glances at him, keeping her eyes on the road. His words seem to bring her pause. “What kinda question is that? Of course I do. It’s called Heaven.”

Brock faces forward, stares through the windshield ahead at the sandy, dusty nothingness of the highway. “I think I saw … I think I saw Tristan there. I saw him in the afterlife.”

The car slows, only slightly, but noticeably.

“Not until we’re home,” says Jessica finally after a moment. “Just … Just let us get through this car ride home. Then you can tell me about your strange … your strange and …” She swallows, shakes her head, finishes tersely: “Let us get home in peace.”

Brock stares ahead, says nothing further.

A gas station. While his son sits inside the vehicle, Brock fills the tank, a task he always loves to do, something about stretching out his limbs and the cloying aroma of gasoline. Jessica went inside for bubblegum and drinks, bottled sweet tea, a bag of chips, Brock wasn’t paying attention. He stares at the distant mountains, at the dust billowing in the air, a yellow-white haze over the world, a sky that blazes with its blinding blueness.

“I can’t drive another gosh darned mile.”

Brock turns, finds Jessica with a plastic bag, her grip on it so tight, her knuckles pop out like bones.

“Why did you leave?” she snaps.

Brock stares at her, lips hanging open, at a loss. “Kyle …” he starts to say.

“Do you love him?”

The question cracks out like a whip, just as quickly as the first one did, only this one lands, stinging, intentional.

Brock stares at her, lost in the watery texture of her eyes.

How her eyes are even as squishy as gummy candy.

“What?” she goes on, shrugging, the plastic bag in her grip crinkling. “You don’t think I saw it? Don’t think I know? All of those years? Bless your heart, what do you think I pray to God for every night? Since we married, Brock. Since the day of our wedding and Quincy made that comment about the ‘late Kyle’ and you nearly lost yourself.”

Brock’s eyes drop to the bag in her hand.

Didn’t he kiss Kyle?

Didn’t the two of them kiss recently? On a dark street? The two of them were so happy. Laughing so hard, nearly in tears. All the world around them was gone, just the two of them existed, the two of them and the stars above and the dark street.

And that perfect, electrical kiss.

Or was it also a dream?

“You should have just told me back then,” says Jessica softly. Brock turns to her, surprised by the gentle change in her tone. “You think I wouldn’t have understood?”

Brock parts his lips further to speak, stops.

“Maybe you love us both,” she suggests as she crosses her arms, plastic bag swinging, bottles swishing inside. “You could be bisexual. The Lord loves you just the same. I’ve seen you all over the years flirting with girls, too. I’m not denying you any truths, Brock, sweetheart … but with Kyle? … With Kyle …” Her voice carries away like a raft. “With Kyle, it’s something else. It’s always been something else.”

The gas pump nozzle clicks.

Brock barely notices, pulls it out, returns it to the holster, stands there blank-faced.

Jessica sighs. “Let’s go. Let’s just get on out of here and go. We’ll talk about this at home. You and I, we’ll have … a … a good and overdue conversation. Asher’s impatient.” She returns to the driver’s side with the bag crinkling in her grip. Brock continues standing there, staring ahead, mouth hanging open to the point of drooling, eyes lost staring at nothing.

Kyle. It’s something else. Always been something else.

With Kyle.

They’re on the road again. The sun is high. The world is on fire around them. Blazing yellow-white fire.

“I think you loved him,” says Jessica after a long while. The hum of the road fills their ears between her words. Asher’s ears are still filled with the muffled noises of his game, hearing none of this. “I think you loved him so much that … that the day we all thought he died … you …” She sighs. “Brock, you died, too.”

Those words.

How they break Brock’s heart in half.

“I … died …” he recites.

“Yes, you did.”

“I … died … and then … came back.” Brock’s eyes well up. Tears? He touches his face, pokes his left eyeball, draws his finger away to find a dot of liquid at the end. “It was … all like a dream. I should … should forget it ever happened. Things are okay now.”

Jessica half turns to him, eyes on the road. “What?”

“I … died.” Brock starts to breathe funny. Something inside is trying to come out. He grips his thighs, clenches his teeth. The tears dislodge, falling down his face. “I … d-d-died …”

“Sweetheart?”

“I … died … I … died, I … died, died, died …”

“Brock, honey, what’re you—”

He can’t stop repeating the words, over and over. “I died, I died, I died …” If he says it enough, he will remember it’s true, he will remember what happened. And how. He will fight the wall of doubt and disorientation that contains him, he will be free.

“I’m gonna pray for you,” says Jessica, her voice unraveling, tears in her own eyes. “Sweetheart, pray with me, please pray to God, pray right now, right the fuck now, baby, p-p-pray …”

“I DIED!” cries out Brock, grabbing hold of his own head.

Asher pulls out his earbuds. “Dad?”

“D-Dear Lord in Heaven,” starts Jessica, her voice trembling, “p-please take my husband in your most capable, loving hands—”

Brock reaches over the center console, grabs hold of Jessica by the neck. She screams, but not for long. The car veers left, veers right. Brock lunges out. The seatbelt snaps, rips out, loud and popping. Asher shouts out as the car rages off the road in a screaming cacophony of metal and sand.

Red paints Brock’s eyes as he grabs and claws and bites.

Jessica’s screams are swallowed, choked away into the noise of glass and metal crunching. The car lunges and bounces and throws its occupants left, right, to the sky, down to the earth.

Crashes. Stops.

Brock chokes, his mouth filled with something.

Something that is not like gummy candy.

Not like the red jelly in a pastry.

He blinks away red from his eyes, stinging red, not the tears that were there before. He’s atop the driver’s seat, straddling it.

No more screaming. Brock blinks and blinks and blinks.

Something spills from his lips. Jessica’s face comes into view.

Except it’s no longer a face. There’s nothing there.

Only hair. Red. Leather from the seat, shredded into flakes, cushion mixed with hair mixed with red.

And bone.

Brock hears a noise, looks up. The back door of the car is open, his son, gone.

“Ash?” chokes Brock through a mouthful of flesh, of blood. He spits. “Ash? Is something wrong? Did something happen?”

He claws his way out through the driver’s seat, staggers out onto the hot sand and cracked earth. The front of the car is folded against a thick, bent-over cactus, the vehicle partly lifted, front wheels spinning.

Brock stumbles away from the car, still blinking wildly, his eyes searching the blinding white-yellow fire of the desert for his son. “Ash?” he calls out. “Did something happen? Where’d you go? Why are you—??”

He collapses to his knees, stares ahead.

A phone on the ground, screen cracked.

Two earbuds, one near the phone, one farther away.

Like two breadcrumbs, the only breadcrumbs, the shape of his son already far away, running for his life, out of reach, the shape of Asher painted against the blurry mountainous horizon.

“I died,” chokes Brock. “And I came back. It was all …” He swallows, tastes nothing but blood, picks a hair from his mouth, spits. “It was all like a dream. Just forget it ever happened.” He stares into the distance for his son. He can no longer see him. “Things are okay now.”