11 years earlier...
Serena Anderson's eighteenth birthday was a defining day for her in more ways than one. Now an adult, she was freed from the foster care system and allowed to do what life had trained her to do these last few years: survive. Along with her freedom, she was going to be given safety deposit box keys, presumably from her parent's after their unfortunate demise in a car accident when she was six years old. And the greatest thing of all, she was finally able to make contact with her best friend from two foster homes ago, Jackson Rippner.
Jackson had been an oasis in the dry, desert heat of false smiles and superficial care by people who were trying to make up for their own deficiencies. He saw them for what they were just as she had and a bond was forged between them. He had been two years older than her, a cocky, swaggering, lanky teenager that used his good looks and charm to get everything that he wanted. He had taught her a few tricks that he had learned though she knew she would never be an expert at it like he was. But he had allowed her glimpses into who he was and what he truly wanted to become and she in turn had remained an open book for him. They were each other's only friends.
She celebrated her birthday of freedom by leaving the small parish home of the religious minister and his family that had taken her in for the last year. She had always respected charity work (being a charity case herself) but realized that the minister and his wife had merely needed a live-in babysitter for their six children. It looked better for the church that their leader was taking a poor, disturbed orphan under his roof. They had been nothing better than any other family she had lived with, taking what they could without giving the minimal back, and she left without looking back once.
"Hey, Beautiful. You look like you just turned eighteen."
Serena passed a wary glance to the shiny Camaro that had pulled up to the curb of the suburbanite neighborhood of where the preacher's house was located. All it took was a second glance and she squealed with delight at seeing the driver. Jackson was out of the car by the time she bounded over to him and threw her arms around his neck.
"I was just getting ready to call you!"
He laughed in her ear. "I've been driving up and down this street all day waiting for you to leave that stuff shirt's house."
She pulled back and gave him a good look over. The preacher didn't approve of Jackson's "thug-like character" and caught every correspondence she tried to get out to him. This last year had been torture. His dark hair was longer than what she remembered, but still shaggy looking. His face had matured; he looked more like a man than a teenager. He had also traded in his gangly form for a solid, muscular build. The only thing that hadn't changed were those transparent blue eyes. She loved those eyes. "I'll have to pay for all the gas you wasted cruising for me."
"No," he waved dismissively, "it's your birthday. Come on, let's go celebrate."
A slight frown crossed her face. "I have to go to my parent's lawyer's office in the city. I get to finally know what's in that safety deposit box of theirs."
Jackson opened the trunk of the black sports car and Serena dumped her duffle bag inside. "I was going to take you into the city anyway. Based on what you find in that deposit box, you may be paying for your birthday outing."
Serena grinned broadly as she dropped into the passenger seat of the car and clicked on her seatbelt. That was what she had missed so much…his complete and utter honesty. It was a breath of fresh air, unpolluted by false promises and smooth talking lies. "And what if it's not money, Jackson?"
He shrugged, making the movement appear elegant in a way only he could. "Guess we're going to have to party cheap."
"So where is this party?"
"You'll see."
"Who's going to be there?"
Jackson grinned widely. "You'll see."
"Are you sure you want me with you while you do this?"
Serena rolled the small keys around in her sweaty hand but didn't turn to look back at Jackson. "Yeah, I'm sure." Who else was going to face the unknown with her? She didn't know or trust anyone else and she doubted if she ever would. A burst of panic had hit her when the bank manager gave Jackson a hard look before he cajoled his way with her down to where the security boxes were kept. The manager pulled out what looked like a large, metal foot locker and set it on a table in the middle of room.
"Is that everything, Miss Anderson?"
Serena gave a head bob and the manager, who gave Jackson a disgusted look, quickly left them in privacy. All Serena could do was stare at the metal box. This was going to be the only thing that her parent's left for her. The only thing or things that carried her parent's fingerprints, impressions and identity. It was quite frightening.
"Do you want me to open it?"
A part of her did but she knew the responsibility was hers and hers alone. Without saying anything, she slipped the key into the lock, gave it a quick turn and popped the lid open. There seemed to be too much to look at and her eyes kept roving back and forth over the contents. She was dimly aware of Jackson leaning over her shoulder, peering in as well.
"Looks like you will be paying for your own party today."
She probably would end up paying for whatever Jackson had planned judging from the nice stack of money that lined up half of the box. There was a small velvet box that revealed what could only be her mother's engagement ring. It was a platinum band with a small, round diamond set flush in the band. She took it out of the box and slipped it onto her right ring finger before dropping the box back into the metal locker.
"What's this?"
Serena looked over to see Jackson holding a clear, plastic cylinder with a bullet in it. "I have no idea." Reaching down, she dug through some of the money and found a scrapbook and a long case. Putting the scrapbook aside, she opened the case and stared dumbfounded at what was inside.
"Whoa," Jackson was already reaching for it. "Do you know what this is?"
"A gun."
"It's a high powered sniper's rifle." He pulled out the gun and ran a long fingered hand over the stock and barrel. "Damn."
"If you want the gun, you can have it. I'll never use it."
An odd gleam shown through those familiar blue eyes and Serena realized it was a new look, one she had never seen before. Perhaps giving him the gun wasn't such a good idea. But slowly the fevered look faded and he put the gun back into the case.
"You're parent's gave it to you for a reason. Think about for a while and if you still want me to have it, I won't argue."
She nodded. "Time to party?"
"You sure?"
Serena grabbed a few stacks of the money and shoved them into her oversized messenger bag. Jackson put the gun case reverently back into the foot locker and dropped the bullet back in there too. For some strange reason, Serena followed her instinct and picked up the bullet and scrapbook and shoved them into her messenger bag as well.
"Let's go."
Jackson took her to a city bar off of a side street. You would have to know where it was to know it was even there and it made her wonder about the people Jackson was spending his time with now. All of her worries faded though as soon as she stepped through the door of the run down building.
"Surprise!"
Confetti and streamers were thrown in her face, the sound of noise makers temporarily deafened her. The only thing she was aware of was Jackson slowly pushing her further into the room. When her vision cleared and her hearing started to come back she was surprised that much noise came from only five people that were seated at the old, scratched and nicked up bar.
"This is Ken Samson," Jackson pointed to the bartender, a tall red headed, freckled faced man who nodded to her. "The rest you'll get to know. Here," he handed her a large glass with salt crusted around the rim, "your birthday margarita."
She didn't know what Jackson had told them, whether this was her 21st birthday or 18th but she decided that was his business. She took a seat at the bar, next to a red haired woman who looked like Ken the bartender. Holding her cigarette in one hand, she extended a well manicured hand.
"Maggie Samson."
"Serena Anderson."
"You ever drink before, sweetie?"
Serena smirked. "Apparently Jackson hasn't told you who I've been living with."
"Oh," a large blonde man near the end of the bar spoke up, "this is the chick living with the preacher. Sorry, Jackson's our communications man so he knows a lot of people and I kind of tune him out whenever he starts talking about them."
"You tune everyone out, Ben."
"I'm sorry, what?"
The group let out a unison half groan, half laugh and Serena started to feel a kind of warmth that she had only associated with Jackson. She never knew it first hand but had always heard people describe it: a feeling of coming home.