Page 21 of Rockland

We call it the Parish. Named because we first bought our boats from a little Catholic church on one of the main islands. We still use those boats at times, going back and forth to visit islands as you would drive to a friend’s home in a neighboring town.

We also own a fleet of yachts. Why live on the ocean if you aren’t going to play in it?

Our homes are elegant, tasteful, yet could be described as opulent. Enormous glass windows overlooking the turquoise sea. The waves splashing against the sandy shores of the massive white stone structures. Marble floors, marble counters, only the best quality materials are used during construction. As with the Village, we Bachmans build things to last for many generations. Our future always at the forefront of our thoughts.

Our modest Parish. To Tess, a village of backwards ruffians with no running water. I never bothered to correct her—let her think what she wants.

The brotherhood of the Parish is smaller than that of the Village, as we’ve only been intact for several years. We are a private people, tightly bound by family. Children run about freely, loved by their parents, and raised by everyone. Our men are devoted to their women, our rules for our marriages the same as the Village’s.

In some ways, our day to day greatly differs from that of our New York counterparts. Our lives are more in tune with nature. The sun, sea, sand. Navigating the difficult terrain. Policing ourselves, protecting our family, with no outside political or law enforcement’s influence.

Our marriage rituals are the same. Our grueling initiation process a direct replica.

Except for one thing.

Our skin is permanently marked when we enter the brotherhood of the Parish. Ink on skin to remind us of the lifelong commitment we’ve made. We wear the black swirling tattoo I’ve designed. The one that Tess was so taken with that night…

The night I held her in my arms.

The night I kissed her.

It’s a long flight. I’ve taken the family jet and we’ve had to stop to refuel. When we get going again, I rest my eyes, the attendant closing the blinds for me. I try to catch some sleep—I have quite a task ahead of me, taming Tess.

Her face flashes in my mind’s eye—a grimace on her lovely features at the sight of my arrival. I heave a heavy sigh. Getting one fiery redhead in line may prove more difficult than running an entire community of criminals.

It’s been hours of travel, and now I pull up the shade of the small, round window. I’m greeted with the New York City skyline. We are growing closer to the Village. We circle the family runway, landing without so much as a bump. I grab my bag and head for the doors. The spring air rushes past me, as I make my way down to the car I have waiting.

My old truck.

A billionaire who prefers old beaters to Mercedes. Sure, I usually pick up Tess in one of my sports cars, but whenever I’m back in the Village for an extended period of time, it’s my old jalopy Thunder I have waiting for me.

I climb into the cab, turn the waiting key in the ignition, and let her roar to life. Drive down the familiar streets to my brother’s house—now Tess’s house. I park the truck on the street. I let myself into the rowhome via the black access pad by the door. My prints have always been on this pad. Every house has four people who have fingerprint access to the home—Bronson, the husband, the wife, and the next man in line, should something happen to the husband. Some wives are aware. Some aren’t. We never told Tess—she’d have gone ballistic. Something to do with thinking I’m a total asshole?

I toss my bag down onto the floor in the foyer. I’ve packed light. I don’t think I’ll need to be here long. Just enough time to get her whipped back into the folds of the family, then I can go back to my Parish.

As I enter the kitchen, tension rises in my shoulders. It feels so bare—as if this room hasn’t been used in ages. I open the fridge. It’s spotless, been wiped clean. The alcohol is gone, as per my instructions to Bronson.

But there’s no food.

I open drawers, doors. Nothing. Not a single bit of nourishment is in this house.

My stomach roils. I should have come sooner.

I make a few calls. Roll a few heads. It’ll be taken care of within the hour.

I make my way upstairs to her office. The desk is tidy, but something out of the ordinary catches my eyes. The window ledges, shelves, bookcases, are littered with empty wineglasses. Unease grows within my belly. How much has she been drinking?

I make another call.

I walk into her living room. I’m happy to see the adjustments I’ve ordered are complete. My gaze lands on her new white leather couch. I take a seat. Throw my arm over the back of it. I’ve heard she spent a cool ten grand on it. I’m surprised to find the damn monstrosity is actually comfortable. If I sit too long, I may fall asleep. I get up, stretch. Climb the next set of stairs to be sure the instructions I’ve given for the bedroom have been followed. They have.

All at once, jetlag consumes my body. The long hours I’ve traveled having just caught up with me. I lie down on the bed, folding my hands behind my head. Ignoring the familiar scent rising from the sheets—the lavender soap she orders from France.

I let my eyes close. Just for a moment.

I’m awakened to the sound of shrieks. I jump from the bed, rubbing the heavy sleep from my eyes. I’ve no idea how long I’ve been out. There’s moonlight shining in the windows—I must have slept for hours.

Yawning, I stretch my arms high up toward the ceiling. Loosening my aching jaw muscles. I have a terrible habit of clenching my teeth—a side effect of a high-pressure job. I ignore her as she goes on and on about my rudeness, breaking into my home, didn’t your mother teach you to use a phone, what a brute you are for sleeping in my bed, and how you could have scared me to death—killed me with a heart attack—just like your brother!