We are free.

CHAPTER FORTY

Good

“I believe now, there’s a reason why I’m here.

It’s to try to do good, it’s to try to do better.”

—“Free Now” by Sleeping with Sirens

Six years later . . .

I’m sure everyone’s curious about what it’s like to be married to me. It’s awesome, if I do say so myself. In many ways we’re just like other couples. She gently scolds me for leaving dirty dishes all over the house, and I have to sit through cheesy chick flicks. But it’s so much more than that.

Anna was there for me when I typed an anonymous letter to the FBI and Atlanta police department, detailing the work of Marissa, her location, and as many of her accomplices’ names as I could remember. It was a risk, even anonymously, because if Marissa caught wind of the letter she could have easily tried to find me, to kill me.

I spent seven months worrying, listening out, watching for her goons, and not letting Anna out of my sight. And then the news hit, causing an international media blitz. It was the largest bust the world had ever seen. It shed light on sexual slavery around the world. Anna stood behind me squeezing my shoulders as we watched the news that night. Tears streamed down her face as Marissa was led away in handcuffs. Then Anna wrapped her arms around my neck and kissed my cheek, whispering, “I am so proud of you.”

Six weeks later I held Anna as she cried against my chest when we lost Marna. Baby Anise was born healthy and thriving, but she would never know her mother.

“She’s in heaven,” Anna said, wiping her eyes. “An angel came down and took her.”

I’d swallowed hard as I held Anna, both relieved and saddened. While some curses for our kind were lifted, others remained. We still feel the weight of our sinful Nephilim natures, but we’re no longer condemned straight to hell when we die.

Like other couples, Anna and I are a sounding board for each other on work issues and other problems. As a social worker, Anna is still trying to save the world, but she’s held back by the system of rules and regulations. I comfort her when she cries about frustrating cases of child abuse, when it becomes too much for her to bear.

As for my job, in Lascivious’s fourth year of success, Raj went off the deep end and OD’d on a mix of drugs. An accidental death, but the band never came back after losing him. We went our separate ways, and I’m now working with Jay on the business end of the industry, making music and learning about producing. I do miss the rush of being onstage, but at least Anna doesn’t have to deal with girls grabbing at me after events.

Though it was a complete turn-on when she once grabbed a girl’s arm backstage, saying, “Excuse me, but that is my husband you’re trying to grope, and I suggest you keep your hands to yourself.” She’d said it with Southern charm, but I could see in her stance that my girl had been ready to throw down.

I rewarded her well that night for saving me from the groper.

And I suppose that’s where we differ from other married couples.

We spend a lot of time in the buff. It’s not really fair to compare, since we’ve been through so much together, seen so much in our lives. We don’t have the same worries that other people do.

But what can I say? Life is good. Every time I see Anna’s little arse wiggling as she washes dishes, or see her bending over the tub to scrub a corner, I become more and more glad she refuses to hire a maid. I know, I’m swine. I am a master of the sneak attack from behind. I prowl as she’s stirring or baking or rinsing, and then I pounce. I’m all over her and she’s screaming, “Kai—!” and trying to get back to doing whatever thing she’s doing at that moment.

But I’m quite persuasive.

One year ago, as we lay together on the couch, she ran her fingers through that small patch of hair in the middle of my chest. A pang of old worry crept in.

“Do you suppose I should get rid of that?” I asked. “Shave it off or laser it or something?”

She’d looked at me with confusion. “What? This hair? Why? I like it.”

She’d laid her head back on my arm, and I held her tighter. I am a lucky bastard.

That’s why I tried not to blanch when she hesitantly brought up the idea of adopting from Malawi. She puts up with a lot of shit from me, so I fought back my initial instinct to run screaming at the idea of a tiny person invading our content little bubble. A lot would change.

No more walking about naked.

No more shagging Anna anywhere and everywhere I pleased.

No more playing the drums at night as loudly as I want.

No more blasting music with colorful language.

No more shagging Anna anywhere and everywhere—oh, wait. I said that. But it’s worth repeating.

I’m still a selfish bastard who doesn’t care to share, especially where Anna is concerned. But I long ago learned that she doesn’t belong to me. She allows me to hold her heart, but she’s not fulfilled if she isn’t sharing her love and kindness with as many people as possible.

I know she misses Patti like mad. I do as well, so I can’t imagine how it is for her. I know Anna is craving a family, and the more she talks about it, the more I start to vaguely see her vision as something . . . nice.

You can teach him drums and music, and dress him in tiny rocker clothes, and show him how to skateboard, and . . .

Then she mentions a set of brothers, instead of just one child, and I think she’s trying to kill me. She claps her hands, and her face is so filled with joy that I throw my hands up and sigh. Why the hell not? Let’s do it.