Because tacky vending machines insulted Milo’s hip, urban dude lifestyle, the employee lounge at NIGHTWIND’s became a tongue-in-cheeky battleground between a sleek, modern Starbucks atmosphere and Arnie’s preferred cafeteria vibe. King and Jon were never around long enough to care, Neal and Rolf knew better than to get involved, and the girls, Izzy and Aliyah, enjoyed the clashing conflict.
Feeding dollar bills into the machine, he took the last two bars of candy and moved on to a pack of Pop-Tarts plus a sleeve of peanut butter crackers. The soda offerings earned a groan.
Loaded down with snacks and a shitty Diet Pepsi, he headed to the elevator lobby seating area. He placed his nutritionally bankrupt loot next to a neat stack of USA Today newspapers on a coffee table sitting beneath a window.
Outside lay surprisingly spectacular views of the Hudson River and the New York City skyline. He might have needled Stan for holing up in a Weehawken Marriott, but the hotel was new and had a lot going for it. His brother’s one-bedroom suite had a full kitchen and a nice view. Not bad for a secret hideaway.
In record time, he did serious damage to a large Snickers candy bar and cursed up a storm when he cracked open the fucking Diet Pepsi, and an explosion showered him with soda. Dammit. A Diet Coke would never dare.
So Stan is sober, he thought with an abundance of surprise.
Of the many things he imagined today’s brotherly reunion would be about, none of them flattering to Stan, hearing his little brother’s shaky amends was not on the list. Chalk this one up on the blackboard under Wonders Never Cease.
After he and his brother turned sixteen, and the home fires turned to a raging inferno of explosive shit, Stan started drinking. He hid from his mother’s suffocating manipulations and their father’s disappointment by engaging in creative drunkenness.
Inevitably, their brotherly bond frayed.
They were in different colleges when 9/11 happened and the whole world changed. For Arnie, it was his sophomore year. By then, Stan’s round-the-clock drinking got him thrown out of every school foolish enough to accept him.
With their dad’s and Stan’s mom’s marriage imploding in spectacular fashion set against the new reality of terrorist agendas and threat levels, their brotherly paths diverged. Arnie’s journey dropped him down the bottomless rabbit hole of the US National Security apparatus. Stan’s road led nowhere and was more like a hamster wheel.
He finished off the candy bar and gave several heavy sighs. For more than a dozen years, he stayed far away from his hapless sibling while his brother existed on handouts and pity jobs. As Stan lacked the drive or motivation to accomplish anything worthwhile on his own, their grandfather stepped in and set him up with a portfolio of franchises to oversee in out of the way Cincinnati, Ohio.
What did Stan do with the opportunity? He promptly bought a shiny sports car and went about his privileged ways.
The elevator pinged. A few seconds later, the doors whooshed open, and two guys in mid-laugh stepped off. They ignored Arnie, continued their enthusiastic conversation, and headed off to their room.
Left alone, he contemplated the Pop-Tarts packet in his hand. If given a choice, his favorite flavor was always going to be the frosted brown sugar. He liked them plain and right out of the pouch. Sometimes he heated it and slathered the pastry with butter. Crumbled over ice cream was another way to go.
The boring strawberry Pop-Tarts from the machine went down easy, thanks to the soda. Looking around to make sure no one was lurking, he put a hand on his stomach and blasted the elevator lobby with a powerful carbonation belch.
Munching away on the second candy bar, he glanced up when a person approached. It was Stan, looking sheepish and pale. His hand trembled when he gave Arnie back his phone.
“Thanks.”
Nodding, he took the phone and motioned for Stan to sit. “Everything okay?” he asked quietly.
There was a long pause. Stan’s eyes darted everywhere. He appeared uncomfortable, and for a horrifying second, Arnie thought his brother might start crying.
Finally, in a mortified voice, his brother replied. “At the January retreat in California, did I really take a leak in the bushes at the Four Seasons? In front of a morning yoga class?”
“Uh, yeah,” he slowly answered. “There’s video surveillance of the event. Granddad all but threw a rod when hotel management lodged a complaint. You know him when it comes to public behavior.”
“Oh, god,” Stan groaned. “Did you see it? I mean, me? Did you see me do it?”
Arnie shifted, looked away, and shrugged. “No. I was busy elsewhere.”
Hearing from their dad about what an embarrassing handful he’d been at the family retreat must have fueled Stan’s resolve.
“Look for me to surface in June with a 60-day chip. I’m gonna do it this time, bro. I told Dad about the sober coach I hired. She’ll keep me focused and run interference with April.”
“She?” Arnie’s brows went up.
“I know, right?” Stan chuckled and shook his head. “I can’t believe it either, but before you go getting ideas, her name is Fran, she’s got three grandkids, and her husband does conflict mediation.”
“Impressive.”
“Oh, and she has a 95% success rate with her coaching clients. Fran will snap me in two like a dried twig if it looks like I’ll fuck up her average.”
“Nothing like scary accountability.” Arnie laughed, ripped open the pack of peanut butter crackers, and handed two to Stan. “How many meetings do you go to? Each week?”
Stan grimaced. “Sometimes every day. Having a good sponsor helps, and bringing on a sober coach keeps me honest.”
“What about April? How does your wife figure into all of this?”
Stan’s answer was swift and snarky. “The soon-to-be ex-Mrs. Wanamaker won’t be a problem. The prenup Granddad’s lawyer drew up spells out in black and white what she does and doesn’t get. She knows for this to be civil and pain-free, she has to play nice.”
“Sounds like you have all the cards.”
“That’s what happens when your wife turns up in a video on Pornhub. Her face never appears, but it’s her, tramp stamp and all. The category? Cheating wife takes it up the ass.”
Arnie nearly choked to death when he gasped and aspirated some of the dry crackers. “What?”
“She’s pretty good at it too,” Stan drawled. “The way she took that guy’s cock made it clear she wasn’t a novice.”
Jesus Christ. Arnie guzzled some soda and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “Stan,” he stammered.
“Not once, not ever. Ass sex isn’t my thing, and she never showed any interest.”
“Holy fuck.” Arnie sat back heavily and stared at his poor brother.
“Exactly. She doesn’t want her name associated with the video, and I want an immediate divorce.”
“Be careful, man.”
“See why I need my brother?”
He nodded. “Are you staying in Cincinnati?”
“For now. I have a lot on my plate.”
They stood, shook hands, and embraced for the first time in more than a decade.
“Get your shit together, little brother, and then we’ll see what happens. You never know what else is out there until you give it a try.”
Six weeks later, as promised, they had their brotherly meetup at a baseball game.
“Why are ballpark hot dogs so good? It’s mind-blowing, considering New York has some of the best hot dogs available to humankind.”
Arnie laughed and agreed with his brother. They were inhaling traditional ballpark foods rather than pigging out on the chef-prepared menu available to him as a premier member.
“Aw, crap.” Dripping mustard just barely missed his chin and landed squarely on his shirt. Wiping at the yellow blotch with a napkin just made it look worse.
“Interesting side note to sobriety.” Stan took a slug of Coke from a cup larger than his head, and let out a long, “Ahh.” Then he
sort of burped, but his technique needed work. “Sober tastes better.”
“Is that so?”
“Yeah,” Stan said with a smirk. “I think alcohol either deadens the taste buds or creates a mental disconnect. I had no idea hummus had an actual flavor. When I was drinking, I thought it was just wallpaper paste mixed with soap.”
“Ew.”
“Can I get you gentlemen anything else?” Their pleasant attendant, a college student named Rosie, gave them an expectant look and wasn’t disappointed when Stan asked how much trouble it would be to get a plate of nachos.
“I can make it happen.” Rosie chuckled. “Nachos are on the other side of the stadium, but we’ve got a system.” She held her phone up. “Each section has different options and attendants. Instead of running around like crazy people, we’re coordinating. I can get nachos here in under ten minutes!”
She dashed off to fill Stan’s order. His brother watched her with a strange expression. When she disappeared from view, he remarked, “She’s lucky.”
“How so?” Arnie asked. The girl was working her ass off on a hot summer day. He wasn’t sure she felt lucky.
Stan grew serious. “I never had to work. Not to earn an allowance or for gas or to put a couple of dollars in my wallet.” He snorted. “Look where unlimited privilege got me. Rosie is lucky because she’s in the world, getting shit done. Until a couple of months ago, I was a casual observer.”
“But you’re getting shit done, now, right? Dad tried not to, but he laughed when he told me about your divorce situation. We applaud the irony of your wording. Claiming cruel and unusual torment in the breakdown of the marriage took balls. Well played.”
“She can have the money. All of it. She can have the boat too. I don’t fucking care as long as everyone understands who was the cheating spouse. I’m starting over with a clean slate.”
They finished their double servings of hot dogs and were having a good laugh at some pre-game antics on the field when Stan surprised him with a question out of the blue.
“Are you seeing anyone?”
His knee-jerk reaction caused him to blurt out, “What?”
Stan eyed him with a blank expression. “Seeing anyone? You? Like dating or whatever you do for fun. Maybe you’re into sex slaves. Or Japanese geisha robots. Whatever, man. So, are you?”
Sex slaves and geisha robots. Jesus Christ. Was that how he came off?
“Uh, that would be a no, Stanford,” he replied in a snippy tone. “No to the slaves and robots. Don’t be a dick.”
His brother fixed him with a snarky smirk. “Another thing about sobriety? It cuts through the bullshit. I’m not being a dick by asking about your love life. I talk to Dad all the time now, and you’re one of the topics. His favorite thing to wonder about is the status of your sexuality.”
“Oh, for god’s sake.”
“We assume gay is off the list. Your earlier track record with the debutante slut squad and that episode with the contestant representing Atlantic City in the Miss American Boobies competition took care of any doubt.”
He laughed. How could he not? The boobalicious beauty queen Stan brought up was a part of an epic R&R weekend. He was on break after a difficult assignment in Afghanistan and descended on the beach town gambling mecca with a bankroll and the need to let off steam. A fake-boobed Barbie picked him up at a club, screwed his brains out, spent his money, and screwed him some more. The episode wouldn’t stand out at all if not for a strip poker game the casino security did not find amusing. Barbie was half-dressed, but he was down to his briefs and drawing an admiring crowd when they shut it down. It was years ago, but he still remembered the angry dressing down he got from Darnell Senior.
“What is it you and Dad want to know? Spit it out.”
“Why don’t you have a girlfriend? You’re not ugly, have boatloads of money, and appearances suggest you’re a nice guy. So what gives?”
They wanted to know what gives? Well, let’s see, he thought. It was July. He hadn’t been with anyone since January. Six months of celibacy because he couldn’t find Santa Barbara Summer or get her out of his head.
“Nothing gives, okay? It’s just …” His words drifted to silence, and he grimaced.
“Oh,” Stan murmured. “I get it. There is someone, isn’t there?”
“No.” He shook his head. “No. It’s not what you think.”
“What I think, Arnie, is that you’re acting weird. You can tell me anything, bro.”
He could see his brother was trying and had made a lot of progress. In many ways, Stan was a new man. Kicking him in the head with snark might stop the conversation, but it wouldn’t be fair.
“It’s complicated, okay? And I’m not going to talk about it.”
Stan’s stare was unwavering and made Arnie uncomfortable. He wasn’t in the right mental place to share what he was feeling.
The nachos arrived just before the game started. By the third inning, he was lost inside his thoughts.
Every time he considered taking off to look for Summer, he was overcome with doubt and helplessness. Look where? And what if he found her only to learn she’d moved on and didn’t give a rat’s ass about him?
In the buffet of daily life, he had a ton of shit on his plate. King and Dawn’s relationship was heading to the altar. As a result, Jon was due back in time for their August wedding.
It seemed like his best course of action was to calm down, take care of business at home, and then in the autumn, when things were less hectic, he’d take some time off and go back to Santa Barbara to try to pick up her trail.
Yep. That was what he’d do. He’d get King married off, and then he’d clear the work deck so the only thing he had to do was find Summer.
17
“July twenty-second,” Summer muttered to herself. She scowled at the free wall calendar the people at the clinic gave her. It was supposed to be a happy, happy, joy, joy freebie, but the cheesy stock photos of smiling multi-cultural families rubbed her the wrong way.
“Whoa.” She gasped when a sharp kick next to her belly button gave her a start.
Caressing her big, round tummy, she smiled and took a few deep breaths.
“Easy Tinker Belly.”
Patting the biggest part of her bulging middle, she sent silent coded messages to the baby girl growing inside her.
“Can you hold off on the karate workout until after Mommy eats some breakfast? Thanks, sweetie.”
The sound of toaster ejecting a slice of organic bread signaled food was on the way to her growling stomach.
After slathering homemade honey butter on the warm bread, she sprinkled it with liberal amounts of brown sugar and cinnamon.
Balancing the slice of bread on a paper towel and made her way to the table beside a large window in the living room.
Barefoot and waddling like you’d expect a naturally thin woman sporting a huge pregnant belly to walk, she sighed when her butt hit the chair, and her legs stretched straight. Lately, she’d been concerned about her feet and not just because it got harder and harder to see them.
Waitressing at a small bagel bistro was taking its toll on her feet and lower back. Her six and a half months pregnant belly was huge, and some days, she had zero energy. All the walking, standing, and juggling required to do her job took a lot out of her.
The girls at the clinic were very helpful. They offered loads of practical advice. Exercising in small segments throughout the day and keeping a food journal were easy suggestions designed to help her focus on healthy choices.
Other than the part where she lived in a cash economy, had no credit cards or anything else requiring her to give a social security number, and operated under an assumed name, things were good.
Good, as in safe and okay. What more did she need?
All she had to say was thank god for good people. Cy and Joanne did her a solid by arranging a soft landing in, of all places, the San Fernando Valley. Los Angeles teemed with people. It wasn’t difficu
lt to stay off the radar in a crowd of more than ten million.
Reed, bless his snarky big brother heart, stepped up big time, too. With their dad gone, he felt it was his job to take care of her. The first thing he did reduced Summer to tears. He showed up ten days after she arrived and gave her landlords an envelope with twenty thousand dollars in cash.
Not for rent. Rent was a one-dollar contract because her guest casita was attached to the house of a couple who were old friends of Cy’s.
Native Angelinos Bud and Lynda Gerry were card-carrying baby boomers. Their grown daughter had moved home after college, stayed for eighteen months, and then landed a fantastic career opportunity with a company in Palm Springs. The casita guesthouse addition built for her was empty, so they were more than happy to do a solid for someone in a pickle—especially after Sergeant Major Cyrus Westmoreland vouched for her.
No, the money Reed handed over went straight into Bud’s seven-hundred-pound solid steel safe and was for anything she needed. Her brother insisted that money was the number one way people trying to keep a low profile were discovered. She had her own funds, but accessing her bank account might lead to someone ascertaining her whereabouts.
The reality of her situation came home to roost right then and there. She wasn’t imagining the danger around her. Something about the baby she carried unleashed a whole lot of crazy. Anyone willing to casually hand over fifty thousand dollars like it was nothing was not going to back down or go away just because Summer refused to play along.
Her long inhale and sighing exhale summed up how she felt about the efficient underground safety net for hiding and keeping safe countless women and children who had to disappear for one perilous reason or another. It hurt her heart that such a thing was necessary. Needing the help herself nearly killed her soul.
My god. She was running from heaven only knew what, pregnant, scared, and without a concrete life plan for the first time in her adult life.
“Good times,” she snarled.
She nibbled on a corner of the toast. With morning sickness continuing to be a problem, it was one of the few things she could eat.
Finding Summer (Nightwind Book 3) Page 33
