"It's no one's fault," Tom says, his arms going around both of us. "It's pure dumb luck."
"Forget about fault for one second," Saxon butts in, "you two need to get the fuck outta Boston."
"And go where?" Emily says. "The whole reason we went with this shoestring budget wedding is because we don't have money for a fancy one. We're saving for a condo. I wouldn't let my parents pay for the wedding because we didn’t want anything elaborate, and they refused to come, which is bullshit and I’m not talking to them because of it. Tom's parents are broke-ass addict losers so they can't help us, and wouldn’t even if they could, and we all know Terra's situation."
"I don't know Terra's situation," Saxon says.
"She lives in a mouse hole in the worst neighborhood in Boston. She barely has room to stand up straight, sleeps with a taser under her pillow, and bear spray on her nightstand. She doesn't even have a couch, let alone a TV, but that's mainly because every spare penny that she doesn't spend keeping her deadbeat, piece of shit, cock-waffle, drunk-ass, meth-head sexual cunt of a father in rehab and halfway houses and group homes, she spends on materials for her business, which despite the demand, still barely pays the rent. It would, if she would leave her shit-stain of a sperm donor to rot in fucking hell like he deserves, but she's too goddamned noble for that shit, despite the hard-ass wild-child thing she's got going on."
I stare at my best friend—correction, former best friend—in silent, horrified shock for nearly a minute.
Tom knows better than to chime in at this point, and I don't think Saxon has a clue what to even say.
For that matter, neither do I.
"You fucking bitch," I hiss, fury searing in my veins. "You gonna spill all my shit to a perfect stranger, or is that it?"
She goes even more pale but doesn’t otherwise retract her statement. In fact, she opens her mouth and makes it worse. "Oh, fuck off, Terra. I heard you screaming. That man was giving you the business like I guarantee you ain't ever gotten it. You hold your shit so close to the vest it's not even funny. You wouldn’t tell me shit about yourself if I didn't already know it all. It's about time something crazy happened to force you out of your shitty little cave of solitude. And I may be a loudmouth bitch, and you may hate me forever for saying that much to a stranger, but that stranger saved your life, my life, Tommy's, Kaleigh's, and Yates's. He's earned some truth, I think, and if I’m any judge of character—which you and I both know I am and better than you—Saxon here is the only man who could ever crack that shell of armor you've got on, and the good lord fucking knows you need that armor cracked or you'll live alone, fucking any Tom, Dick, or Harry you can lie to and manipulate and ghost after fucking because you're too fucking scared of yourself, your emotions, and anything that even remotely smacks of intimacy."
I stare at her. "What the fuck is wrong with you?" I look at Tom. "Tommy, what the fuck is wrong with her?"
Tommy shrugs. "Near death experience? Hell if I know."
"What near-death experience? Did you get shot at? No! I did!"
"So did we! They came through the door, three of them, and they just started shooting! Like, what do we have to do with anything? Nothing! I'm supposed to be happy! This is supposed to be the best day of my life! Instead, I'm hiding in the bathtub, scared of every sound because I’m afraid someone is gonna come through the door and murder us! I just wanted to get married! My parents wouldn't come, Terra. I wanted them here. So what if I didn’t want a big elaborate bullshit American wedding? How fucking petty are they? What the fuck? And now this? I'm getting shot at by assholes in matching tracksuits?"
She starts hyperventilating, pacing back and forth and flapping her hands, each breath a sobbing shriek.
Saxon shoves his gun behind his waistband at his back, crosses the room in a few long strides, takes her by the arms, and stares down at her.
"Emily. Stop." His voice is a snapped command, the kind of authoritative tone you just don't ignore; Emily halts and goes silent. "Breathe in. Slowly. Count to ten. Good girl. Now hold it. Count to five. Good. Now let it out very slowly and count to ten. Good, very good. Now do it again. Nope, no thinking, no talking. Just breathe. Breathe. Slow in, hold it, slow out."
Emily slowly regains control, now crying silently but no longer panicking.
Saxon isn't done, though. "This is my fault, not Terra's, and not yours. This shit is on me, and I'm sorry. Ain't gonna give you your wedding day back, but it's all I got." He abruptly stops and blinks a few times. "That's a lie. Follow me." He snaps his fingers at Tom. "Get your shit, yours and hers. Terra, you too. You wanna change, do it now and do it fast."
"Wh-where are we going?" Emily stammers.
"It'll take too long to explain. You just gotta trust me."
Emily looks to me for the answer. I, in turn, look at Saxon, considering.
"Can we?" I ask him. "Can we trust you? Can I?"
"I'm not a good man, Terra." His voice is pitched low. His eyes, as Kelly green as my dress, beam sincerity. "I'm a killer. I took a vow not to, but that doesn't change who I am. I'm not good. Never been good for much but doing violent shit. What I can promise you is that I won't let anything happen to you, Emily, or Tom."
For once, I have no snark, no sass, no attitude. "Good enough for me. For now."
Emily glances at me, at Saxon, and then finally at her new husband. "Tom?"
Tom just shrugs. "I've never even held a gun in my life. If this dude was gonna do something shitty to me, or more importantly either of you, he'd'a already done it. And if there's dudes with guns who now have any of us three on their radar, then I feel like maybe our best bet is another bad dude with a gun, but hopefully a little bit less bad of a dude." He glances at Saxon. "No offense, big guy."
Saxon does that blink-and-you-miss-it smirk. "Well said, Tom. Talking is done. We leave in two minutes." He glances at an expensive-looking watch. "Starting now. Whether you're ready or not."
Emily and Tom hustle out of the room to gather their stuff. I, however, stay back, sidling up to Saxon.
"I have one question for you." I unbutton his shirt, and my eyes widen involuntarily at the physique on display—hard, bulging pecs like rounded slabs of granite and at least sixty-seven abdominal blocks, each one hand-hewn by Michelangelo himself out of raw marble.
