Chapter 11
It's been two weeks of Brenda living with Dylan. Two weeks of pure swoon worthy bliss, readjusting, relearning her life with her husband. The hot summer days come to Brenda like driftwood on the sea. Stretched out before her, slow and lazy. She's shared fourteen gorgeous mornings with Dylan. Fifty cups of coffee. Kissed him approximately two hundred times. Hugged Steve as he moved back to his place and hugged Brandon as he moved into the bed and breakfast in town. Driven into downtown Nashville by herself. Seen her therapist once. Watched their wedding video twice. Watched two of her movies.
These last two weeks with Dylan have done more for Brenda's brain and her health than anything else. Every day Dylan finds another way to make her feel safe and secure. Every day another way for him to capture her heart. And though the migraines are still there, she hasn't had a nightmare since she and Dylan started sharing a bed. But it's still not enough for her. She wants more. Wants to remember her work. Her husband. Herself.
Sure, she didn't expect it to be easy, but she expected something. Wanted that little light inside of her to click on, rewind her right back to the past.
So now, Brenda's determined to jog her memory. Literally.
She sits on the front step of the porch, lacing her running shoes. Determined to do something the old Brenda would do. Run. She doesn't know what she expects to happen. Maybe she'll trip over a new brain while she's out.
Yeah, that'd be helpful. The crunch of gravel catches her attention. Smiling, Brenda tilts her face to the morning sun. It's Dylan, walking across the yard, a bucket of feed under his arm. Her stomach warms at the sight of her strong, lean country man caring for their horses and chickens. Hard to believe this ranch man, was a California surfer. It sucks she can't remember that side of him, she bets that was equally as sexy. She's falling for Dylan. Fast. Falling for him over and over again. The way he wakes before the sun, the way he sings in the shower, the way he looks at her like she's his spotlight.
Brenda thinks back to when she first met him at the hospital, how there was a pull she hadn't felt in a long time. A pull she didn't know the meaning of. But now. Now she knows.
Soon, he's in front of her, setting down the bucket in the gravel drive. Dylan eyes her bare legs with appreciation, then lifts his gaze to her face.
"Taking a run?"
She nods, tightening a lace. "Thought I'd try to jog my memory."
Dylan extends a hand. Brenda slides her palm into his electric touch and he pulls her to standing. As he takes her in his arms, Brenda shivers at Dylan's lean hands, running down her sides to palm the small of her back. They move for each other's lips at the same time.
Brenda, standing on tiptoes. Dylan, dipping his head. They kiss, warmth kindling in her body like a rising flame. She pulls away with a breathless laugh.
"If you're trying to get me back in bed, it's not going to work, Dylan."
His grin is wicked. "Just tryin' to warm you up."
His hands drift to the waistband of her shorts, holding her tight against him.
Brenda wiggles away and tosses him a look. "Uh-huh."
"You know." Dylan's eyes cast downward, they run down her entire frame to her feet, then slowly cast back to her face. Brenda's core aches and her stomach flutters under his stare and naughty smirk. "In high school, before we started dating…I ran into you jogging. You had on shorts and a sexy little tank top just like that one."
"Did I now?" Her little hand goes to her hip. "And…did you get some then?"
Dylan pouts, "No." He says disappointed, "You had hideous hair. You tried to go blonde and it…wasn't pretty…but I do remember those shorts and I did get you to ride on the back of my motorcycle." He raises his brows.
"I don't think I want to know this memory. Let's leave the embarrassing ones about bad hair out."
Dylan chuckles and steps towards her again, his lips kiss down her neck, up to her ear, "Even with hideous hair….you were sexy as fuck." He whispers in her ear. Heat and want spread down her body making her tremble and whimper. She shakes the lust from her brain. She pushes him gently. He smirks knowing what he's doing. Her hand comes to his chest, pushing slightly, "Nope." He laughs.
"Well damn…..it was worth a shot."
She's trying to focus on the task at hand. Dylan pawing at her is so not helpful.
His mischievous look softens. Frown lines cut deep across his brow.
"I don't want you pushing yourself, Bren."
"I know. I'm not." Her lips curve as she feigns an exaggerated stretch. "Although, are you sure I really enjoyed this?"
"Sometimes you could be a bit of a masochist," he says with a wiggle of his brows.
Brenda squints her eyes in the direction of the forest, considering her route.
"You want directions?" There's worry in Dylan's voice. Lifting a finger, he traces the road leading off into the forest. "You follow the ridge—"
"Nope," Brenda interjects. She's waving off any and all of Dylan's attempts to help. She'll let her legs lead her down the road she had so often traveled. Sixth-sense style. "No help. You worry about yourself," she shoots back as she sidles off. "Go write. Do your country boy thing. Coffee's on the stove." Dylan's raising a brow. His expression amused. Brenda blows him a kiss and turns and starts running.
The crisp early-morning air tightens her lungs. Blood fills her veins, pumps her legs. Brenda keeps to the ridge line of thin trees that drops into a thicket of forest. Tall southern red oaks rise like skyscrapers above her.
As Brenda settles into her rhythm, she realizes one thing. She's pretty damn fast. In fact, she's good at this. It feels natural. Like breathing. Like something she's done for a long time. As her legs respond, loose and limber, she tries to remember herself and how she used to be. The thoughts come to her like small pebbles, pattered against her brain. She ran to be fast, to be strong and healthy.
Each morning, she drank a cup of coffee with Dylan before leaving to beat her body, her legs into submission. Brenda had to stay in shape, she was in the public eye, so it was easy to care for herself. Is that right? She doesn't know.
She comes to a stop at a fork in the road. The right path leads down, deeper into the forest; the left leads up to Hells Curve. The narrow dirt curve angling off the highway. She can see the stop sign marking the dividing intersection. Brenda makes a move in that direction but pauses. Her belly dips, a sickening, foreboding sensation.
After a second's hesitation, she turns for the woods. Her feet pick up the pace as she runs across springy earth. Pine needles and loam and moss. Deeper she moves into the canopy of trees, getting thicker the further in as she goes.
Brenda's mind drifts from Hells Curve to Dylan. To second chances. Second chances she might never have had because of…Brenda shudders.
It feels like a dream. Like a lifetime ago that she was anywhere other than here. That she was with Vince. A monster who broke her down, lied to her for months, who stole her memory and her health.
Brenda squeezes her eyes shut. With a thrash of her head, she sprints for the forest. No. No more Vince. She won't think of him, won't give him another second of her breath. He took enough of her life. Never again will he take any more.
Sitting at the kitchen table, Dylan scribbles a pen across the lined page of his journal, unable to stop the flood of words that pour from him. Ever since he and Brenda had sex, something uncorked inside of him. The mental cock block that happened after Brenda's disappearance is no more. His wife was what he needed to get his mind back onto the page, the words, the lyrics. He always knew he lost it when he lost her. And now, with Brenda back, he's back.
Just having her around, seeing her determination to recover her lost memories, has inspired him. Dylan has nothing but fiery admiration for her. His wife's been through hell and back, but she isn't broken. And though he told Marshall no "Brenda's Song," he's still determined to finish it. It needs to be done because Brenda deserves it.
He started writing the song over a year ago, but with everything that happened, it took a back seat. Now back at it, Dylan's found the song's taken a turn into something even more personal, more tender and reverent. It's everything Brenda is.
Beautiful. Precious. Fierce as hell.
Dylan's brain turns to mush as Brenda's face floats into his mind. The last two weeks have been heaven. Better than their honeymoon. He didn't think it possible, but he's more in love with her than he's ever been.
He grins, thinking about this morning. The sight of her in her short shorts. Those slim sexy legs. Her pillowy lips, begging for another kiss. Her big grey eyes, teasing, bidding him closer.
A hard groan of frustrated arousal rumbles out of Dylan, his thoughts taking a torturous road to blue ball town. All he can focus on is Brenda. All he wants is her home so he can worship her in bed.
Dylan sets the pen down and glances out the window for her. A light breeze flutters the curtains. Then, just as quickly as it came, Dylan's arousal dissipates and is replaced with a stab of worry.
"Get a fucking grip," he tells himself. She hasn't even been gone an hour. He's gotta stop worrying. She'll find the road home. She always did.
Dylan turns back to the journal. He closes his eyes, letting "Brenda's Song" float over him.
A whisper of a tune, the lyrics forming and pushing themselves into something new. Something different, but better. Fiercer. Just like Brenda.
Headed north on a one way trip
I never thought I'd be back this way
I never thought I'd be missing you
Enough to suffer the whole night through
Headed south and I didn't look back
I rode the wind off the beaten track
I tried running from the thought of you
Hunted down by what I know is true
To the north to the south it doesn't matter
Every road leads to you
The still quiet of the morning is interrupted by car engine. Dylan glances out the window, his country morning view replaced by Valerie's BMW.
Knowing his day's about to be firebombed, Dylan gives one last scribble, closes his notebook, and gets up to pour himself a cup of coffee.
He'll never get any work done now. Not while Valerie and her mouth are on a run.
The front door swings open. High heels clack in the foyer. Soon she's in the doorway, her arms crossed, Brandon beside her.
"Looking more homey around here," Valerie sniffs. "Less distraught widower."
Dylan eyes her warily, then Brandon. Since Brenda's been back, he sees more of them than ever before. Taking every opportunity to drop in without notice and grace Dylan and Brenda with their pain-in-the-ass presence.
"Work," he says as they enter the kitchen. "Don't you guys work?"
"I can write anywhere," Brandon snipes. His eyes brush to Dylan's journal, labeled "Brenda."
A flicker of a smile kisses his lips, but it's gone before Dylan can make heads or tails of it. "You of all people know this?" Brandon walks to the counter, "Besides, I'll go back to Washington when Brenda remembers everything."
His voice drops on the word everything. Dylan bristles. Hell no. He isn't letting Brandon bait him into a fight.
The last thing Brenda needs is to walk in and find them arguing like fucking children.
Valerie swivels her head. "Where is Brenda anyway?"
"Running," he says.
Her blue eyes shine bright. "Oh good."
Leaning back against the counter, Dylan cups the back of his neck, trying to will away his annoyance. "So what's up?"
"I want to have a party for Brenda." Valerie helps herself to a cup of coffee for her and Brandon. After dumping in a healthy dollop of cream in hers, she seats herself at the counter. Noticing Dylan's wary gaze, she sighs. "A welcome home so to speak, Dylan. You know it's coming up on a year since her accident, and the shit storm that followed."
"Yeah, I know," Dylan bites back, irritated. Every anniversary that's ever drop-kicked Dylan in the nuts is fast approaching.
The photo of him and Kelly. Her car accident. The plane crash. Just because his wife's back doesn't mean everything hurts less. They lost their little boy; Dylan knows he'll never forget that.
Brandon's lips flatline. Dylan prepares himself for verbal flambé status. But surprisingly, his face, his voice softens.
"You can't keep people from her forever, Dylan. They miss her. Her friends, our parents want to see her. See that she's okay. The phone calls aren't cutting it. It's our parents…Iris too, she called me last night."
"You're right," Dylan cuts in. "You don't have to convince me, B."
He nods and sips his coffee.
"It's a good idea."
Valerie blinks. She was expecting him to put up a fight. Not today. Not about this.
Dylan wants to give Brenda a party. Wants her to feel loved and appreciated and meet her friends and family. He knows she's going stir crazy around here, fed up and frustrated by what she can't remember. She's been cooped up in this house for so long, and that isn't his wife. Not by a long shot. She deserves it. She deserves to live.
The front door clatters. All three of them both turn, expecting it to be Brenda.
It's Steve, wearing a smirk and dark sunglasses.
Dylan can tell by his giant swagger he stayed out all night at the bars. Dylan jerks his chin. "You're late. Where's David…Erica?"
"Erica is late too, Silver is on his way," Steve banters, raising his sunglasses.
Dylan rolls his eyes, of course Erica and Steve went out drinking.
Steve's grinning like he knows how much Dylan's written this morning. Like he knows Dylan's come back to life.
Barking orders, being the mature one. Steve flings his keys onto the table, his eyes bouncing between Brandon and Dylan.
"What're we talking about here? No one's drawn blood yet so that's a plus."
Valerie's eye roll matches Dylan's.
"We're throwing a party for Brenda. A welcome back from the dead party."
Steve settles beside Valerie on a stool. "That isn't inappropriate at all."
Valerie gives him a look. "You calling me inappropriate…wow."
Dylan sighs. Steve's deliberately goading Valerie.
He knows as well as Dylan that their house has always been the epicenter for happenings, for parties, for their gang to gather.
He glances at Valerie. "Barbecue, bonfire. You can plan the rest. I don't care what else you do—but keep it to close friends and family only. Small Val."
"Well, duh," Valerie says. "And here I thought I'd invite the queen of England."
Dylan arches a brow. "You know Bren actually met the queen of England right?"
A hint of a real smile curves Valerie's lips. She pairs it with a coy shrug. "Of course she did." Brandon takes an audible deep breath, and stills beside Dylan. He sees them first, and he reaches out to pat Dylan's shoulder.
His eyes follow his and he inhales sharply, his face darkening.
"What?" Steve and Valerie turn to see what the focus is on.
Police cruisers. Two stony-faced cops exiting. Dylan's heart flatlines in his chest.
Brenda.
It's Dylan's first thought. His only one. Dylan rushes to the front door. Brandon, Valerie and Steve on his heels. He's swinging it open before a knock can even sound. Two police officers stand on the porch.
"Can I help you?" Dylan asks gruffly.
"Dylan McKay?"
"Yeah." One of the cops, sporting a beer belly and a grizzled ginger beard, eyes Valerie.
"Are you Brenda McKay?" Valerie clutches Brandon's arm with a shake of her head.
"We're family."
"That's my sister." Brandon adds.
"Is something wrong, Officer?" Dylan grits out, wanting them to get to the goddamn point.
Dylan listens in disbelief as the cops tell him that Vince escaped. Vince is no longer in Florida. Vince's believed to be on his way to Brenda.
Dylan's heart seizes, an aching, familiar fear bubbling inside him. Brandon shoots Dylan a look of panic. But Dylan's already moving for his keys.
"I'm gonna take the truck down into the curve, see if I can find her."
He points at Steve. "You double back on the back road."
He looks at Brandon, "Sweep the ranch on foot." Brandon nods rushing towards the forest.
Then Valerie. "Stay here. Call us if she comes back."
As Dylan rushes out the front door, his heart pounding double-time in his ears, fear has his vision going blurry. All he can think about is getting to Brenda. She's out there somewhere. Vince is out there too.
Wind in her hair. Sun on her back. Brenda feels freer than she has in a long time. In fact, she's decided she likes running. She hasn't remembered anything yet—hell, she knew it was a long shot, but it's there. She can feel it. Memories percolating. Like some forgotten song she used to know. But now it's time to turn back, her body telling her that's enough for the day.
Brenda's legs are as wobbly as cooked noodles. Her mind a fog of dizziness, the slow encroachment of a migraine breaching her brain.
In the middle of the path, Brenda stops. She doubles over and breathes hard at the pain in her side. Then, giving a quick exhale and taking a pace, Brenda looks around to get her bearings. She's gotten turned around a few times, but nothing she can't handle. It's ten degrees cooler in the woods, the sun higher in the sky than it was when she left the ranch. She can hear traffic rushing to her right, which means there lies the road and Hells Curve. Water on her left, which is the river. Which means straight ahead is the ranch. Even if she can't yet see it.
She tilts her face to the trees, letting the sunlight flicker across her face. Somewhere, behind her, a stick cracks. She tenses, listening.
Chickenshit. You're a chickenshit, that's all, she tells herself. It's a bird, a fox, a rabbit. Still, Brenda strains her ears, listening. Then, far off, but not far enough, a slow shuffling. The almost imperceptible sound of footsteps.
The hair on the back of her neck pricks up. Her heart's in her throat. There's a tug in her stomach, her sixth sense finding her, telling her to go, go, go.
Brenda runs, rushing headlong through the forest in a clumsy zigzag pattern. Long branches scratch her arms, her shins. She stumbles once, tripping over roots, nicking her palms, but pushes herself back up. Behind her, she hears it, she swears she does, a fast-paced, panting, movement. Lumbering. Too big to be an animal. Something else. Someone else. Someone close.
Propelling herself faster and faster, Brenda descends a sloped hill. Her breath rattles out like a tin can. She splashes through a mud puddle. Climbs her way back up the steep hill. Here, the trees have thinned. The light brighter.
Brenda pushes her way out of the grove of trees, nearly laughing in sheer relief as she sees the ranch. Thirty feet away. She never stops running. Fear has her fleeing. And she makes a mad dash for the house. The front door rockets open.
Brandon launches himself down the steps, his eyes wild with worry and relief. They make for each other Brenda not even bothering to slow her pace.
Brandon sees it, and his hands come out to brace her as she flies into his arms.
"Thank God," Brandon murmurs, gripping her tight. His blue eyes search her face. "You okay?" He gives her a shake when she doesn't respond. "Bren?"
Before she can tell him about the woods, she frowns. Cop cars. Dylan's ranch truck—gone. Valerie at the screen door, red-eyed.
Brenda stares up Brandon. His face spooked and unnervingly pale. "What's happening? What is it?"
Brandon's mouth opens. Closes. Opens again. "It's Vince."
Brenda would have fallen over if Brandon hadn't already been holding her up.
Brenda sits on the couch, numb, barely breathing, as she listens to the two detectives tell her that Vince Williams has escaped while in transit from the courthouse to the jail. They toss around terrifying words like fugitive and custody and prisoner.
Beside Brenda, Dylan keeps a firm arm wrapped around her waist as she leans into him for support. Valerie sits on the other side of her holding her hand. Steve, at the window, paces. Brandon in a chair, his elbows on his knees asking the most questions. The reporter in him firm and controlled. Erica crying quietly in the corner, David consoling her.
The big detective's voice rises sharply as he speaks. Clipped and businesslike.
"We have reason to believe that Vince could be on his way to you."
Brenda licks her lips. "What reason is that?"
"In his cell, there were…uh, articles. Clippings about you. And a, uh, note to a, uh…"
The agent checks his notes. "Isabel."
Dylan winces. Across the room, Steve makes a sound of disgust.
"Can I see it?" Brenda asks, summoning her strength. The thin detective with the ever-sympathetic face passes her the note. It's in a plastic bag.
The room falls silent as she reads it. Dylan's body goes as solid as cement.
See you soon, Isabel, sweet Isabel.
Brenda squeezes her eyes shut tight at the mention of her old name, of what that monster used to call her. The words are familiar, and instantly, Brenda's reminded of the diner. How she tried to escape and even then she wasn't free. How Vince's rough hands wrapped around her throat like they never would let go.
Slowly, Brenda shakes her head. She keeps her voice steady as she asks, "Why is he doing this? I don't…I don't understand."
The detectives look at each other, then Brenda, then at Dylan. The grizzled, beer-bellied detective says, "Mr. McKay, does the name Anthony Marchette ring a bell?"
Dylan goes stone cold solid once again, more than before.
"Are you fucking serious?" Brandon cuts the silence with an angry tone. He looks at Dylan, Dylan eyes are already burning his.
"Who's Anthony Marchette?" Brenda asks confused looking between her brother and her husband. Dylan squeezes Brenda into him reassuring her.
"Marchette is dead…he killed himself." Dylan says hate in his voice.
"We believe Vince is Anthony Marchette. We found a record of Vince Williams being employed by Marchette financials as a security guard about 20 years ago. We also have a record of an Isabel Williams employed as well. Vince's wife. She worked in Marchette's home, as a housekeeper for many years. Her and Marchette were in some sort of romantic relationship after his wife died. She passed away due to an unknown medical condition. Vince…the real Vince mysteriously disappeared."
"So what you're trying to say is Marchette faked his suicide? Killed Vince Williams and took his identity? Then stole Brenda and turned her into this Isabel Williams? Why would he die that?" Brandon eyes flick to Brenda then back to the detective's.
The slender detective takes a deep breath, "We have a witness, an old employee of Marchette that can testify. We can't tell you his name but they have close intel that Vince is actually Marchette. And knows everything."
Dylan is silent, Brenda can feel him shake as he holds her.
"Bruno." Dylan whispers.
The detectives look at each other but don't comment.
"Marchette has been following you guys closely, he had articles going back to the 90's of your father Mr. McKay, Brenda's career, the murder of his daughter hidden in his cabin. We believe it's for some sort of revenge or maybe a stalker situation. We're not 100 percent."
Dylan winces, heartbreak and sorrow clouding his eyes. Brenda feels Dylan shaking uncontrollably and holding her tighter. "We found everything from play ticket subs from Brenda's plays, to your wedding announcements the newspaper. He's been close…watching…"
"Enough," Dylan snaps, he doesn't want to hear anything else. He's angry at the detectives, the investigation. His fury's been on a low simmer ever since he got back to the house. Brenda had never seen anyone's face so panicked and crazed before. When he saw her standing on the porch, he rushed for her and held her in his arms like it was the end of the world. But this fury in Dylan's eyes is new to her. She has never seen it and something in her gut tells her even with her broken memories she hadn't seen it then either.
"This is fucking bullshit. He should be locked up. He is a fucking murderer and you had him." Dylan cradles Brenda's hand in his lap, his other hand covering it protectively. "He should be in a fucking jail cell, and he escapes? I don't goddamn believe this. How the hell does this happen?"
"I don't believe it either," Brandon butts in impatiently. "When are you going to get him? What are you doing to keep my sister safe?"
For once in a long time, Brandon and Dylan are on the same side. Both pairs of eyes boring holes into the detectives.
Steve, listening, stands off to the side, watching out the window for Vince or Anthony whoever.
"Mr. McKay, Mr. Walsh, I understand your concern—"
Dylan shakes his head, his expression growing darker each time the detectives open their mouths. "No, you don't understand my concern. My concern is this monster, who's out there, waiting on Brenda. This man hates me, he has mob ties, he is dangerous. Tell me what you're gonna do, and tell me now," he demands, his voice cold as steel.
The thin detective nods. "We've issued an APB here and in other states. We're planning to post a surveillance team to keep watch on your home. The FBI is coming in."
Brenda shoots a pleading look at Dylan. The last thing she wants is cops swarming her little place of peace and paradise.
"No," Brenda says, adamant. Dylan's lips thin out. "No, Dylan." She squeezes his arm, looks at the detectives.
"It's not even up for discussion Brenda." Dylan voice is cold as steel, it makes her flinch, he's never talked to her like that before.
"You'll find him though…before he comes here. Right?"
Silence. Long silence.
"What?" she yells, her heart hammering.
"Who the fuck is Anthony Marchette!" Brenda gets up. She practically stomps her foot, mad as hell and so confused she can't see straight. She looks around at the gang.
Everybody…all eyes have fallen to the floor. "What is it?" She cries.
Dylan takes a deep breath, he takes her hand, "Sit please Bren."
Brenda sags and falls to the couch again. "Anthony Marchette…tried to have my father killed. For a long time I thought he had actually succeed. He tried to have me killed too…but." Dylan covers his eyes and quickly wipes tears from his face, "But he killed his daughter instead…on accident. She was driving my car and someone shot her thinking it was me."
Brenda's fingers hit her mouth, "Oh my god" The wheels in Brenda's head turning, "She was a friend or? Why was she driving your car?"
Dylan closes his eyes and breathes out, when they open tears fall down his beautiful face. "She was…" A breathe comes from Brandon and it makes her look at her brother, the look he gives her is one she'll never forget, sadness, sympathy, knowledge, compassion.
Her attention goes back to Dylan, her hand comes to the side of his face, "What baby?" Brenda whispers emotionally.
Dylan's eyes implore hers, "I'm sorry baby, I'm sorry." He breathes, after what seems like forever, "She was my wife Brenda." his voice low, "His daughter was my wife." His voice breaks.
Brenda's hand drops from his face, her flinching back like she was slapped in the face. The room so silent you could hear a pin drop.
"What?" Dylan reaches for her as she pulls away. "You were married…before me?"
Dylan quickly wipes a tear and nods, "Yeah…in college, many years ago." He reaches for her again, but Brenda puts her hands up and stands. "Brenda…I can explain everything." Dylan stands to pleading.
Brenda sobs out a laugh, she looks around at the only family she knows, all there expressions the same. The all know, sympathy and pity stares back at her.
"Mrs. & Mrs. McKay?" The detectives interrupts the awkward silence, Brenda scoffs hearing her married name but they both turn towards them. "We, uh, have reason to believe he's already here," the overweight detective says in a brusque tone. "A stolen car with Florida plates was found deserted ten miles from your ranch."
Brenda's heart plummets. Here. Already here. Her mind veers to an hour earlier. Holy shit, the woods. The snapping of twigs. The shuffle of footsteps. That was him. He was after her, so close he could've caught her. He could've taken her back to her awful life. He could've killed her. Her stomach lurches, and so does Brenda.
"I'm gonna be sick," she says, slapping a hand across her mouth. Dylan leaps out of the way, letting her pass as she rushes for the bathroom. She barely has enough time to slam the bathroom door shut before she collapses.
A wave of dizziness washes over her as she doubles over and wretches into the toilet. Cold scrambled eggs and black coffee. Groaning, Brenda dips her head to wretch one last time.
As she hangs on to cold porcelain, her memory stretches, long, backtracking. Vaguely, it comes to her: this same position, Brenda gripping tight to the toilet bowl, violently heaving. Dylan, at her side, brushing her hair back, holding her strong and tight and protected.
Brenda frowns, trying to process the memory, but her attention's taken.
Dylan's voice cuts through the closed bathroom door. With a groan, Brenda uncurls herself from the toilet. She flops back against the tub, wiping her mouth. Outside the door, hushed whispers float. There's a soft tap and then the door's opening.
Dylan's worried face appears. "Bren, you okay?" he asks, scooting into the bathroom to sit beside her. She can't even lift her eyes to look at him. Married…he had another wife. One he loved and lost.
"You loved before me." Brenda looked at him tears in her eyes.
He shakes his head, "It's not like that Brenda." Dylan grips her hand, "Listen to me please. You were my first and only love. We broke up, you moved, I met Toni. Her father…her fucking father killed my dad. I was trying to nail his ass, I met her. We got married, he took a hit out on me and killed her instead the following day. I was fucking married for one day. She wasn't you Bren…I'm suppose to be with you. After she was killed, I left LA and went to London…for you. You were my person, you helped me, you are my best friend. And after a while that friendship went back to being romantic." Dylan brings Brenda's fingers to his lips, he kisses each one tenderly, "Because I love you…I've always loved you. I never stopped."
Brenda's head tilts to the side. She takes a deep breath and looks straight ahead. "And Vince…is this Marchette? He took me to get back at you?"
"Brenda…I'm sorry. I thought he was dead. This all happened when we were like twenty years old. He showed up…at her funeral, wanting me to kill him. His guilt was so heavy. I refused…told him we were even. His daughter was dead and my father was dead. That was it. I never talked to him again." Dylan freezes, "Oh fuck." His head falls into his hands, "Oh fuck fuck fuck."
"What Dylan?" Brenda pleads.
"Fuck." Dylan shakes with anger, "We're not even." He whispers, "My dad is alive. His death was staged by the FBI. Marchette set a car bomb to kill him, but my dad started working with the FBI. He is in the witness protection program. Marchette must have found out. Oh my god. It all makes fucking sense. The one thing he can take away from me…to make us even. Someone who is as important to me as a daughter is to a father…is you."
Hopelessness fills Brenda like a balloon. She had barely begun to get over Vince. She had just gotten her life back. With the start of therapy. With Dylan. And now…now what chance does she have?
None. She'll never be free. Not as long as Marchette is out there. Marchette and his McKay vendetta. She is a fucking McKay. And proud of it.
Brenda takes a shuddery breath, forcing herself to admit what she already knows. "It was him. In the woods today."
Dylan's jaw flexes, his eyes blazing with rage. "What?" He hisses..
When all she can do is shake her head, Dylan pulls her body toward him. He clutches her close as she sags in his arms. Her entire body is trembling.
"Brenda." His voice is powerful. Fury filled and determined to protect her. "Tell me what happened."
"Someone followed me when I was running," she whispers. "It was him. I know it was. He wanted to—" The thought's so awful, tears well up in her eyes and she lets out a desperate sob.
Dylan gathers Brenda to him, cursing viciously. Brenda quietly weeps into her husband's chest, her hands clutching at his shoulders as if her life depends on it. She continues to shake her head, continues to sob at the one fact she knows to be true.
"He won't let me go, Dylan. He won't…he won't let this go."
Dylan closes his eyes, that fucking son a bitch. Marchette's vendetta is no match for his love for Brenda. He knows. He has been following them for years. He knows that Brenda is more important than anything in this world. That she is the most important thing to him. That Brenda is more important than his own daughter was to him. But not more important than Toni would have been to her father.
Dylan glances up as Brandon's frame darkens the living room. Dylan's on the couch, Brenda asleep on top of him. Seeing them curled up together, Brandon says nothing, only raises his eyebrows to signal he wants to speak to him.
Grudgingly, Dylan untangles himself from Brenda. Careful not to wake her, he covers her with a blanket. Before he goes to his brother-in-law, he studies his wife's face. She's finally settled down after the visit from the cops. Now, she sleeps, although not easy. Her brow's pulled into a small furrow. Her fragile face graced by shadows. She's worried. Hell, they're all worried.
Dylan follows Brandon into the brightly lit foyer. Brandon keeps his voice low. "She okay?"
After Brenda fell apart in the bathroom, it took both Dylan and Brandon to coax her into getting some rest.
"No, she isn't okay," Dylan says flatly. He slicks a hand through his hair and decides to be honest with Brandon.
"Brenda was finally feeling alright and now this." Slowly, surely, she was coming back to herself. Eating again, putting on weight, remembering small things, growing closer to Dylan, to her family. What this could do…it could break her. And it most definitely put the brakes on Dylan telling her anything about the past, about the baby they lost. Telling her about Toni was a lot and probably not even a thought in his mind to share with her, it just wasn't important, not in the grand scheme of things. A complicated story that resembles a movie and not real life. Thankfully beside the shock at first, she had taken knowing about Toni as well as she had the first time. A little hurt, a little jealous but sympathetic, loving and supportive.
Brandon glances out the window where, across the street, two cops are stationed. Dylan doesn't like it any more than Brenda does. Their family being watched, under surveillance but it's absolutely needed.
The police searched the woods but came up empty-handed. The knowledge that that mother fucker is after Brenda, watching her, waiting for the perfect opportunity to strike, fills Dylan with blind fury. All because of his hate for him…for his family. Brenda doesn't deserve any of this.
"What do we do, Dylan?" Brandon asks.
"We keep things normal," Dylan finally tells him. "We have to or it'll be too much for her."
Dylan glances over his shoulder. As he stares at Brenda, he's reminded of the promise he made. To not let anything happen to her. To protect her. And he'll damn well do just that. That piece of shit will not take his wife away from him. Not Brenda, his one and only wife in his mind. He'd rather die himself.
He looks at his brother. "I'll tell you one thing, though—I'll put that son of a bitch in the fucking grave if he comes after her."
Brandon's face is as cold as his. "You're goddamn right."
"Brandon?" A quiet voice has them turning their heads. Erica, her purse in her hands, hangs back in the hallway anxiously, abnormally subdued. She's shook up by this afternoon's events. Brandon slides his hand over Dylan's shoulder, squeezes.
"I'm gonna make sure Erica gets back to her place okay."
"I think that's a good idea." To be honest, Dylan worries about his sister too. Erica is a McKay also.
Dylan follows them out onto the porch, watching, waiting until they make it safely out of the drive. Letting out a breath, Dylan braces his arms on the railing.
The evening air is warm, the last day of June. The sun dances, descending into flares of light purple, orange, pink. Dylan bristles at a noise behind him. He's turning, his fists reflexively clenching, when he feels Brenda's hands, as small and light as sparrows, land on his shoulders. He relaxes at her touch.
"Bren," he murmurs, twisting slightly to take her in his arms. She lets out a sleepy little sigh and curls against his chest. He rests his cheek on top of her dark head. For a long quiet minute, they stand there, entwined. Then Dylan tightens his embrace. Brenda's trembling in his arms.
"You cold, baby?"
"No." She pulls back and looks at him. Her light eyes flash. "I'm angry. I'm so damn angry." He sees it. Her slender frame shaking with rage. Pure cold-blooded fury.
"Me too." he says. "I'm sorry this is all happening. I'd do anything to fix it. It's my fault."
She hugs him fiercely. "It's not your fault."
Dylan scoffs, it is his fault. "I want to take you away from here," he admits. "Protect you."
She smiles. "I hear Hawaii's nice this time of year."
"You haven't met my mother yet…that's where she lives, you may want to reconsider." Brenda breathes a laugh into his chest.
A grin quirks his lips. "As long as we can get there by bus or boat, I'd take you anywhere."
Brenda allows herself a brief laugh before her face hardens again. She holds his forearm, staring deep into his eyes. "I won't run, Dylan. We live our life. Marchette thinks he can control us. And he can't. I won't let him. I won't sit my life out. Not anymore. He has taken too much from us already. He has taken too much from me."
As Brenda speaks, steel, strength in her voice, Dylan's reminded that she is more a victim in this than he is. He tortured her, hurt her. She's a survivor and he's proud to be her husband. And he knows one thing. He'll protect her with everything he has. That son of a bitch won't get close enough to hurt her or him ever again.
Surprised? I had no intention to even think or bring up Toni lo but this chapter had a mind of it's own. Too weird? Or now makes perfect sense? I really want to know what you guys are thinking. I write smut...love stories...this is so different for me. lol Hope it's ok. Next chapter we find out about the picture and more suspense.