The Five Dollar Mail (Book 1: The Green & Book 2: Lynch's Boys)

137: Thin Line

Cover painting by Angela Taratuta. Chapter artwork of Lily by Liezl Buenaventura. All graphics by me.

"I don't blame you for hatin' me." Saint's words echoed in Lily's mind as she walked away from him. She snatched her spectacles from her face, pressing her fingers to her water-filled eyes. She'd almost laughed in his face for even suggesting it. Hate you, Pete Bari? I could never hate you, Saint. Though not for lack of trying.

I knew he was dangerous, that he would be trouble. That he would lead Jesse to some dark place...how could I blame him for being who he is?

She stumbled around a rift in the rock walls that hid them, pressing her shoulder against the cold roughness of the limestone as she sagged against it, beaten. Wrapping her arms around herself, she sobbed as she sank to sit at the base of the wall.

Her worst fears had been realized in one horrifying moment. Saint still and ashen faced on the floor. She had been so sure that he was dead. Jesse gone and at the mercy of awful people. Maybe he is dead.

It's not Saint's fault, she told herself, and meant it. I let them talk me into it. We all agreed. I agreed.

I agreed because I trusted Saint.

She dropped her head into her hands, her fingers clutching at her scalp.

"How could I?" she whispered.

Because he almost died pulling you out of a fire, that's why. Because he was ready to risk his own life to save Storm's.

Because the man is a hero. Am I so ready to forget that?

She raised her head from her crossed arms, taking in a deep breath and letting it out, watching it curl in the moonlight like silver smoke. The moon was hard and white, caught in a jagged tear in the lightless clouds as if it had torn through like a dull knife. She was shaking, and it wasn't from the cold.

No. I'll never forget that. Ever. But I'm not so ready to see another man I love be killed by his own demons, either.

She was startled by the sharp intake of her own breath and she groaned aloud and shook her head. No. Fear was burning through her like a fever. I can't think like that. I can't love you, Pete. She desperately tried to conjure up how he'd made her feel when she first met him, hoping the memory would give her resolve, would solder and harden her shattering heart. She thought of how rude and frightening he'd been, how angry he had made her later on when he'd confronted Galloway in the kitchen. How nasty he could be to Jon and how that made her feel.

How many times had he come back to the Green from some trouble he'd been involved in? How many bruises had she seen on him? Bloodstains she'd washed out of his shirts? He wore a permanent souvenir of some forgotten brawl in the slight hitch of his otherwise perfectly sculpted nose. He's everything I don't want in my life, in Jesse's life. I know that And now, it may be too late.

I let Jesse go with him alone... It may have cost him his life. If I hate anyone, I hate me.

"He'll get Jesse back," she told herself. "He will." He'll go to hell for him. He'll die trying. Everything else aside, I know that about him.

I wouldn't blame me for hating him, either. But I don't. And I can't seem to force myself to.

He'd reached for her, tried to touch her, and she'd recoiled, slapping his hands away before she was even aware she'd been moving. From his reaction, it was almost as if she'd struck his face, and he'd looked shaken and lost. He had briefly met her gaze, a searing vulnerability in his dark, too-wet eyes and she suddenly realized that it had not been she who he had sought to comfort. She wasn't entirely sure he was not on the verge of tears himself.

She'd slapped his hands away because the one thing she wanted more than anything in the world in that moment was for him to hold her tight in his strong, warm arms. To feel the reassuring beating of his fierce heart against her cheek. And that would have been such catastrophe that she knew she'd never recover. 

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