Fortitude Smashed Read online

  Loraine hollered up the stairs where Shannon and Aiden were changing clothes. “What’re you two doin’ tonight? You takin’ him out to our old spot?”

  “Yeah, Mama, that’s the plan!”

  Aiden zipped up his leather jacket. “We can go to that party if you want,” he said, eyeing Shannon from under his lashes. “All your friends will be there; it isn’t like we have anything else to do.”

  “Chelsea does throw good parties. You sure you want to? She was a bitch, but—” Shannon turned the screen so Aiden could read the text, “—she says she’s sorry.”

  “What was up her ass, anyway? Is she still into you?”

  “Chelsea and I always knew we’d time out this year. She was convinced we’d time out together, had this master plan throughout high school about what we would do with our lives. She’d be a doctor; I’d be an officer. We’d stay here in our hometown forever, and that would be that. Once I grew up, I realized that I wanted more and decided to move away. She didn’t come with me. End of story.”

  Aiden snorted. “But you’re still friends?”

  “Why wouldn’t we be? Chelsea’s got her own issues to work out, but that doesn’t mean I don’t care about her. We were really close for a huge chunk of my life. I can’t make that go away.”

  “How many people will be there?”

  “Enough for us to get lost,” Shannon said, glancing at Aiden. “We’re only here for tonight, anyway. It’s not like we’ll see any of these people for another year, if at all.”

  Aiden shrugged. “Fine, but I get to pick the booze.”

  “Fine.” Shannon grabbed the truck keys.

  26

  Georgia was a jungle. Regal trees lined the two-lane highway like sentinels guarding the forest. The darkness wasn’t as dark, and the moon wasn’t as bright, but the stars—Aiden couldn’t get enough of them. He watched the night sky whirl past the open window in the passenger’s seat of Shannon’s old beater. The 1975 played on the radio—a song about heartbreak, or maybe not, maybe it was about breaking hearts. Aiden didn’t know, but it didn’t matter. He listened to the keyboard and watched the stars pass by, streams of light that dipped in and out of mossy tree branches. He leaned his foot to the side as it balanced on the dash. Shannon sat beside him with both hands on the wheel, staring at the empty road.

  “Where are we going?”

  “Someplace I used to go when I was little,” Shannon said, glancing at Aiden, whose attention was still captured by the stars.

  “Your parents are nice.”

  “They do their best.”

  Aiden turned and rested his head against the seat. Shannon didn’t look away from the road, which gave Aiden a moment to watch him. His face was relaxed, and his skin gleamed from the obnoxious winter humidity. A black beanie—Aiden’s beanie, actually—fit snugly over his head. He drummed his thumbs against the steering wheel, and his eyes shifted to the passenger’s seat where Aiden openly stared.

  “What?” Shannon mumbled, glancing down in an attempt to find the purpose behind Aiden’s staring. “Stop that.”

  “I’m allowed to look at you.” He took in the Shannon Wurther who wasn’t Detective Shannon Wurther: the one wearing his beanie, and a ridiculous red scarf, and an expensive jet-black peacoat, the embodiment of early morning coffee and a summer breeze, someone who had an entire page dedicated to him in his high school yearbook, and went home early from college parties, and never thought he would be driving through his hometown with Aiden Maar riding shotgun.

  “Yeah,” Shannon spat, flustered, “but stop.”

  Aiden lifted his camera and took a picture.

  “Why?” Aiden choked on a laugh. His brows drooped, and a grin twitched on his mouth. “You don’t like it when I look at you?”

  Keen blue eyes narrowed, and Shannon’s lips flattened. He shook his head; his gaze wobbled between Aiden, who was shrouded in shadows, and the road, illuminated by two bright headlights. “That isn’t what I said, and you know it.”

  “Then why do you want me to stop?”

  Aiden’s foot fell off the dash, and he glanced from Shannon to the empty space between them. The bench seat was obstructed by the gearshift, but Aiden slid around it to take up the area along Shannon’s right leg.

  “Aiden,” Shannon made a noise like a wounded animal as he breathed his name. Whether it was a warning or a plea, Aiden didn’t know, but he liked the sound of it.

  “Chelsea seems awesome, too,” Aiden growled, which earned him a pitifully wilted look. Aiden walked his fingers across the top of his knee. Shannon swatted his hand. “I bet you two were the pick of the patch.”

  “I’m driving.”

  Denim was rough against the tip of Aiden’s fingers. He ignored Shannon’s whining, slid between his legs, and gripped the inside of his thigh. “No shit.”

  Shannon squirmed. One hand locked around Aiden’s wrist, the other kept steady on the steering wheel. Aiden bit back his smile and watched Shannon’s cheeks tint and his mouth loosen.

  “Aiden, I will crash the car. Don’t.”

  “Live a little.” He dragged his lips across Shannon’s jaw.

  “I’m trying to by not crashing the car, which you will most definitely make me do if you don’t quit—”

  He grasped Shannon’s chin and pulled just enough to steal a kiss. Wide eyes blinking at the highway, Shannon tore his face away. The distraction hadn't lasted long enough to veer them off the road, but the truck did accelerate, and that distracted Shannon enough to allow Aiden to slide his hand up another inch.

  “What’s wrong with you?” Shannon snapped. His knuckles whitened on the wheel.

  But Shannon lacked assertiveness, and Aiden returned to his ministrations. Skeletal fingers skipped over Shannon’s waist and tugged at the button of his jeans—not unfastening, but putting pressure where it shouldn’t be. Shannon’s Adam’s apple bobbed, and he chewed on his lip; his gaze was fixed on the darkness ahead.

  “Why don’t you like me looking at you?” Aiden leaned close to Shannon, until his mouth was inches from the scarf protecting his throat. Shannon’s obsession with control gave Aiden the chance to play far too many games with his reservations.

  “Fuck you,” Shannon whispered. His clenched jaw hollowed the space below his cheek bones. “I like you looking at me, but you don’t just look at me. That’s the problem.”

  Shannon Wurther was too reserved to acknowledge that his cracked composure was an engine revving. Watching Shannon’s restraint come apart was unconventionally sexy. Aiden pressed his palm down, and Shannon gasped, lashes fluttering.

  Aiden’s tongue darted across his lips. “You’re right, I don’t want to just look, I—”

  His statement was cut off when Shannon wrenched the wheel to the right, sending him tumbling into the passenger’s seat. The back of his head smacked the door. His camera whacked him in the chin. He yelped—one foot on the floor, the other on the seat, knee crooked and body bent. He caught a cruel smile curl Shannon’s lips.

  “You’re an asshole!” Aiden tried to sound serious but he laughed.

  The tires gripped the dirt road, tossing pebbles and mud behind them as the truck lumbered deeper into the woods. Trees stood all around them, covered in shadowed green moss and winter ferns. Huddled together at the base of bulkier trees, courageous flowers fought the cold. Aiden sat up, looked out the window, and rubbed the sore spot on the back of his head. His brow furrowed, and he sneered at Shannon, who said, very simply, “Stay over there.”

  00:00

  Shannon could’ve killed him. It was hard not to, almost as hard as it was to stop him.

  He glanced at Aiden, whose long limbs were covered in familiar dark clothing and whose attention was held by the trees that rushed past the window. Shannon could’ve let him—he could’ve stayed still and tried to focus on the road. The though
t twisted low in his stomach. No, he would’ve crashed the truck. He most certainly, without a doubt, would’ve gotten in a wreck.

  “A lake?” Fingers tapping impatiently on his cheek, Aiden cradled his face in his palm. He sat up straighter and peered out the window. “Is that where we’re going?”

  “Yeah, it’s tradition.”

  “Are we going in the lake?” Aiden’s eyebrows shot up. He turned and cast an unsure glance at Shannon. His top lip twitched, and he chewed on one side of his mouth.

  “Yeah, we’re going swimming in freezing cold water in the middle of the night.” He couldn’t help it; he laughed. “No, Aiden. We’re not going in the lake; calm down.” Shannon pulled up in front of the large body of water, grabbed the gearshift, and gave it a couple shoves before it clicked into park. The lake’s edge was overgrown, riddled with unearthed roots and thick vines. Branches swooped low over black water. Dusty moonlight reflected from ripples. “We’re here to find lightning bugs.”

  “That was the most Georgia thing you’ve ever said to me.”

  “My mama fries the best catfish in town.”

  “Never mind,” Aiden sighed, snapped his fingers, and pointed them at Shannon in the shape of a gun. “You win, that was the most Georgia thing you’ve ever said to me. But I’m sure it’s true.”

  “You just wait until tomorrow. The only place you’ll hear people sound more southern than at church is at a barbeque or a football game.” Shannon cleared his throat, shoving his accent back. Being home thickened it in his mouth and made it nearly impossible to avoid.

  “We’re actually going to church?” Aiden laughed.

  “Mama says we’re goin’, we’re goin’.”

  “You’re a professional with that voice. I see that, now that I’m hearing it,” Aiden said. He stood at the edge of the lake with his hands tucked in his pockets. “I like it when you don’t hide it.”

  Shannon stood beside him, overlooking the water. “Why?”

  “I feel like I’m witnessing a part of you that you don’t show everyone else. Usually the things people hide about themselves are the best parts.”

  “Or the worst.”

  Aiden smirked. “Or the worst.”

  Shannon nudged Aiden’s shoulder and pointed toward a path that led into the woods. “If they’re out here, they’ll be in that clearing. C’mon, we’ll have to stand still for a few minutes once we get there or else they won’t light up.”

  “I’ve never actually went looking for bugs before. Usually I avoid them.”

  “We’ve done it since I was little.” Shannon bumped his shoulder against Aiden’s as they walked down the path, through long grass, around two giant trees, and under a low-hanging formation of knotted branches. Aiden held his phone out to light their way, but as soon as they came into the clearing, a small oval patch of grass surrounded by bushy ferns and mossy stumps, Shannon put his hand over it. “Put it away; our eyes will adjust in a minute.”

  Aiden blinked at him and slid his phone into his pocket. They stood, staring up at the stars. Shannon listened to Aiden’s impatient sigh and took a step closer when he started to fidget. Shannon took his fingertips, touching each one reverently, from Aiden’s thumb that jutted from his palm, his crooked index finger—broken one too many times—to his middle finger, long and sloped beneath his second knuckle.

  “What are you—”

  “Shh,” Shannon hushed, “you’ll scare the bugs.”

  “I’ll scare the bugs,” Aiden repeated, snorting a laugh. He spread out his hand for Shannon to play with. “My hands have seen some things,” he added, “probably too much.”

  “Like?”

  “Artwork that wasn’t meant for them,” Aiden said gently. He rested his head on Shannon’s shoulder. “Jewelry that wasn’t meant for them, people that weren’t meant for them. An excessive amount of alcohol over the years.” He paused. “Blood,” he rasped, “some that was mine, some that wasn’t. Years ago they saw drugs, some expensive, some not.” He laughed at that and leaned back. “My hands can attest to my recklessness.”

  Shannon laced their fingers together. “What people?”

  Aiden chewed on his lip. He stared at Shannon, and Shannon watched him battle between answering or staying quiet. Silence won. Aiden flipped Shannon’s hand in his own, bringing the tips of Shannon’s fingers to his mouth.

  “What have these seen?” Aiden traced Shannon’s knuckles. They looked dark against Aiden’s chin; spidery shadows crawled over his face.

  “Not enough.” Shannon swallowed. His index finger tapped the tip of Aiden’s nose. “Lakes and streams and rivers, the ocean, blood, some mine and some not.” He glanced at Aiden, but Aiden was staring at his hand. “People I barely remember; places I don’t want to go back to.”

  “What places?”

  Shannon thought of his father. He thought of gunshots, and red and blue lights, and sirens. He thought of the background noise of his childhood, a symphony of cicadas—and Lloyd’s stern voice when he was twenty years old. It comes with the job, son. One day you’ll pull that trigger.

  Aiden’s lips parted. “Shannon,” he whispered. Dots of light were reflected in his eyes.

  Shannon followed Aiden’s gaze to a handful of fireflies hovering above their heads. A couple of them blinked, surrounded by an effervescent glow, hazing the darkness like steady, frozen flames. Shannon found a few more and one settled close to Aiden’s cheek.

  “What do we do now?” Aiden whispered.

  “We’re supposed to ask them something. Don’t ask it out loud, but just ask. You should have an answer before next winter.”

  “So we’re wishing on lightning bugs?”

  “Basically, yeah.”

  Aiden slid Shannon’s hand to his cheek and held it there. Shannon cupped his face, and looked around as more and more winter fireflies lit up the darkness.

  Magic. That’s what he’d always assumed they were.

  He looked at Aiden, whose lips curved and whose eyes darted around.

  “What’d you wish for?” Aiden tilted his head back to look at the whirling specks of light above them.

  “I can’t tell you.”

  Shannon didn’t wish for anything, that was the truth. He’d been in the same spot last year, catching fireflies in his hands and whispering questions to them through the slots in his fingers. Alone and curious and hopeful, he’d asked them about his Rose Road: Will they be as magical as this? Will they be extraordinary? Will they change me?

  They’d answered him in October, three resounding one-syllable words, yes, yes, yes, and Shannon didn’t need to ask anything else.

  27

  They arrived at Chelsea’s party carrying a bottle of champagne in each hand, a case of beer under Shannon’s arm, and a bottle of bourbon under Aiden’s. Her house was exactly what Aiden assumed it would be, a castle fit for farm royalty: Craftsman style, too big to live in comfortably, high-gloss painted white picket fence around the property, perfectly trimmed suburbia-chic lawn, and cars of all shapes and price tags parked in and around the driveway. Music thrummed from inside, where lights flashed and balloons tapped against the ceiling.

  Chelsea swung the door open with a pleasant, unmistakably Ivy League smile plastered on her face. “Oh—” And there it went, fading right along with her practiced excitement. “Shannon.” His name was a question, and Aiden arched a brow. “You came? You guys came! Wow, yeah, please come in.” She stepped to the side; her square wedges wobbled against the polished tile of the entryway. A strapless cream dress hugged the slight curves that accentuated her thin figure. “That’s… quite a bit of alcohol.”

  “It’s New Year’s,” Aiden said matter-of-factly. Of course they brought quite a bit of alcohol. It was a gift, a pleasantry, a proper way to say “nice to meet you,” even if the pleasantries were faked and the niceties were forced.


  “Well, thanks for bringing stuff. You guys totally didn’t have to.” White and pink nails waved at Aiden. Her over-plucked eyebrows were a chemical shade of blond. “Are you ready to have some fun? God, it’s been so long! It’s so good to have you back in town.” This, she said to Shannon.

  “It’s nice to see you too, Chels. Thanks for the invite. Kitchen?” Shannon started walking before she said yes and bumped his shoulder against Aiden’s as they wound their way through the crowded house.

  Shannon Wurther’s hometown was filled with the spirit of what he left behind, that was easy for Aiden to see. He watched conversations pick up between groups of people huddled near the couch and caught several hawk-eyed folks looking Shannon up and down before they inspected Aiden—searching for his pedigree, he assumed, or scanning him for weapons.

  Chelsea’s home was just as put together on the inside as it was on the outside, and even with the clutter of red plastic cups, beer bottles, and shot glasses littering every near-flat surface, Aiden could tell it was the space of an organizer. The floor was covered with throw rugs, which he assumed she’d purchased for the sole purpose of protecting the ivory carpet from the party. A DJ played music from a top-of-the-line paper-thin laptop hooked up to three bulky speakers. Empty picture-hangers dotted the walls where she’d removed family pictures, paintings, or other hanging décor that could be broken, or stolen.

  “Cups? Glasses?” Shannon craned to look in the cupboards—which were labeled with white stickers: Cups, Plates, Tupperware, Stemware down to Spoons and Forks. Aiden fought not to peel them off and rearrange them. Poor Chelsea might have a panic attack if he did.

  “What about them?” He looked at Shannon and popped open one of the champagne bottles.

  The cork hit the ceiling and sped back at him. He ducked and winced when it knocked an empty plastic cup off the counter. Shannon shot him a tired, but patient, smile. Aiden tilted the foaming neck of the bottle over the sink, put his open mouth under it, and hummed around the taste of sparkling dry champagne.