Missed

by Tess Thompson

  She had no idea what to say. For one thing, she’d never heard him say that many words in a row. Secondly, he sounded about as opposite of an “uneducated slob” as one could get.

  “That’s very enlightened of you,” she said, finally.

  He looked up, amusement in his eyes. “If you met my mama, everything about me would be perfectly clear.”

  “Given your experiences, I’d bet money you know a heck of a lot more than most.” She topped off his coffee.

  He touched the napkin to his mouth. “The stuff I know—I wouldn’t wish on my worst enemy.”

  “Oh dear.”

  The corners of his mouth lifted in one of his quarter smiles. “It’s okay. I took the gig. The military got me out of poverty. I live with the consequences.”

  “You’re a hero, though. That must mean something to you.”

  “It’s validating when people thank me for my service. But what happens in war is never as black and white as civilians like to think. Whether or not I was heroic is something only God can decide.”

  “I suppose that’s true for all of us.”

  He picked up his plate and mug. “Thank you for the coffee and the cake. You made my day off even better.” He came around the island and set the dishes by the sink. Rafael Soto moved like a stealthy panther, without making a sound and with dexterous ease. When he passed by her, she caught the scent of him—fresh soap and a spicy deodorant. No cologne. He wasn’t the type.

  He knelt by Lily’s high chair. The muscles in his shoulders and back rippled under his thin shirt.

  “How’s your cake?” he asked the baby.

  She held up a sticky hand in response and smiled.

  Rafael straightened and put his hand over his chest. “She’s a heartbreaker.” He touched the top of her head. “This hair.”

  “I know. I hate to leave her, but I have work stuff coming up.” Three weeks without Lily and the sea breeze.

  “When will you be back?”

  “At the end of August. I’ll have some time off before we film the second season of Indigo Road.”

  He shoved his hands in the pockets of his cargo shorts. “Second season’s taking forever to come out.”

  What? He’d seen the show? “You watch?”

  “Yeah.” His gaze flickered to above her head.

  “You’re full of surprises, Mr. Soto.”

  “It’s not my usual type of show, but since I kind of know you, I had to tune in. It’s not every day a guy like me knows a beautiful movie star.”

  “I’m not really a star.”

  “You’re extremely talented. I can’t take my eyes off you.” He cleared his throat. “Onscreen, I mean.”

  “Really?”

  “It’s hard to imagine how anyone could.”

  “I can. Trust me. I hate watching myself. And my voice. I’m always, like, ‘Do I really sound like that?’”

  “Everything about you is beautiful. Including your voice.” He nodded toward the door. “I should go.” He crossed the kitchen without making a sound.

  Everything about you is beautiful. Had he just said that, or had she heard him wrong?

  Do it. Just do it now before he leaves and you lose your chance.

  “Would you ever want to go out sometime? Like for dinner or something?” she asked his backside.

  Almost to the door, he whipped around to look at her. “You want to go out with me?”

  “Yes. I mean, if you want to.” Why had she asked him? He didn’t want to go out with her. If he did, he would have asked her already.

  “I can’t afford much, as far as dinner goes.” His hands were back in his pockets. “Everything I’ve got is sunk into the building.”

  “I’ll cook for you then. In my new apartment.”

  He looked at the floor and tugged on his collar. “I’m not boyfriend material. Not for someone like you.”

  “Someone like me?” What did that mean? She wasn’t good enough for him? Too many ex-boyfriends for a good Catholic boy? Too New York jaded?

  “Hollywood. Old-school glamour.” He glanced behind him, like he was expecting someone to walk through the door. “You didn’t ask how much the rent was.”

  She looked down at the counter and placed her sweating hands flat against the cool granite. Stupid girl for thinking he might like you. “All right. Enough said. Forget I asked.”

  She waited for him to leave, wishing the floor would open and whisk her away.

  “Lisa.”

  She looked up at him. “Yeah?”

  “Trust me when I say, it’s not you but me.”

  “Yeah. No problem. I get it.” She didn’t get it. What did money have to do with anything? Up until recently she’d had less than Rafael.

  “I’ve hurt you. I’m sorry.”

  “No, it’s fine. Really. I misread the signals.” Just leave, please.

  “You can fill the paperwork out and bring it by whenever you can.”

  “Will do.”

  He turned to go, but then stopped and returned his gaze to her. “The reason I don’t smile is because my teeth used to be gray.” He tapped his mouth. “I got these Hollywood teeth put on a year ago. I’m still learning how to smile.”

  She nodded. There was a time she needed to learn how to smile, too. During those dark days she wasn’t sure she ever would again. “I understand perfectly.”

  “See you around.”

  And with that he was gone.

  Lisa stood shoulder to shoulder with strangers under the unforgiving August sun. Mist from the sprinklers strategically placed around the fairground’s concert arena was the only relief from the heat. Dust covered her feet and ankles. The air smelled of beer, popcorn, and sweaty bodies.

  They were waiting for the last act of the day—headliner Wyatt Black.

  Lisa smiled at the woman next to her.

  “Popcorn?” she asked.

  “I’m good. I’ve got my beer,” Lisa said.

  “I’m Cheryl. Seeing Wyatt was on my bucket list,” she said. “My husband got these tickets for my fiftieth birthday. He was supposed to come, but he got called into work.”

  “I’m sorry. My best friend was supposed to come but she’s sick.”

  “Well, we can be each other’s dates then,” Cheryl said.

  “Done.” They exchanged another smile.

  She wished Pepper could be here. Sadly, those initial sneezes were indeed the beginning of a cold. This morning she hadn’t been able to get out of bed. Lisa had borrowed Maggie’s car and driven by herself. It was fine, she’d told herself during the hour it took to get to the festival from Cliffside Bay. Being alone was good for her. She needed to do more things alone. Twins were never alone. Then she’d become a triplet with Maggie and Pepper. She had to learn to be comfortable doing things solo.

  As Wyatt Black took the stage, the crowd roared its welcome. Wyatt Black was the hottest thing in country music. Classically good-looking but with a bad-boy aura, he crooned a love song like no one else.

  After the audience applause lessened, he sang the opening notes of his current hit. She and Cheryl locked arms, strangers united by their love of music. Lisa noted Cheryl’s sandals, a little ragged and faded. Her husband had probably saved for months to afford these tickets.

  The crowd sang along with Wyatt. They all knew the lyrics, as though they’d helped write them. His was the voice of the people in this audience. Hardworking Americans felt a kinship with this man. He was them. Wyatt had grown up in a trailer in the woods with his single mother. The odds to break out of the cycle of poverty were stacked against him. Yet he had. By writing songs that gave a voice to the poor, the working class, the disenfranchised. His lyrics were about real struggles: money problems, heartbreak, family, love. They were deceptively simple, in Lisa’s opinion. The words and music combined with Wyatt’s soulful voice touched a chord in people, made them feel less alone in a terrifying world. Women swooned for him. Men felt as if he were their brother.

  H
er thoughts drifted to Rafael. He’d misjudged her. She understood the people in this audience far better than she did the people she’d met in Hollywood. These were her people. If he weren’t so prideful, Rafael might have taken the time to see beyond outside appearances. He had no idea of the dark places she’d been. Now he never would. Whatever. He was just another jerk, like all the guys she liked.

  A popping sound interrupted the music. Was there something wrong with the sound system? Wyatt continued to sing for a moment, then stopped, looking confused. Crew rushed onto the stage and pulled Wyatt and the band off arena. The popping sound continued, like the loudest popcorn maker ever made.

  Someone shouted, “There’s a shooter.”

  That was the popping noise. Bullets. A shooter.

  Bullets rained from the sky.

  She and Cheryl looked in each other’s eyes. “We have to get out of here,” Lisa said as her beer fell to the ground.

  Lisa grabbed Cheryl’s hand. The crowd surged, this way, then that, both the individual and the collective searching for shelter. Bullets, one after the other, with no space between, pelted the crowd. Someone pushed her from behind and she stumbled. Cheryl jerked and fell. Lisa knelt beside her. A hole the size of two fists had ripped open her chest. Blood soaked into the dry earth.

  A man shouted at her. “You have to run.”

  She looked up to see a gray mustache and eyes the color of a muddy river. A cowboy hat shaded his face.

  “But she’s hurt. I have to take her with me.”

  “I’m sorry, sister, but she’s gone. C’mon now.” He lifted her to her feet, the strength of him like an electric shock that shook her awake. “Hold tight to my hand.” She gripped his fingers and tried to run, but in truth, he dragged her. She fixed her gaze on the back of his brown boots. Don’t lose sight of his boots. Don’t let go of his hand. Around them people passed. The awful cracking sound continued, louder than the screams.

  Someone tumbled into her. She fell face-first. Blood covered the grass like morning dew. She sobbed and tried to rise to her feet. The man lifted her into his arms. He ran with her clinging to his neck. “I’ll get you out of here. I promise you. Just hang tight.”

  They ran with the surging crowd.

  3

  Rafael

  * * *

  Rafael saw the news feed come across his computer monitor during the last few minutes of his shift at the Mullens’. There had been another mass shooting. This time a gunman had unleashed ninety shots every ten seconds into the crowd attending an outdoor concert at the Marion County fairgrounds. That was an hour north of Cliffside Bay. Too close to home. Any mass shooting was too close, but this one hit him in the gut—country music fans—his people.

  Wyatt Black had been performing when a lone gunman fired an automatic rifle into the crowd from the roof of the building next to the arena. The cops had taken the gunman down, but dozens were feared dead and hundreds wounded.

  A chill went through him as he watched the aerial footage of frightened concertgoers running from the fairground’s arena. The sound of relentless gunshots mingled with screams. Automatic rifle does it again.

  When Michael, his night guy, arrived at the security booth, they watched the footage together.

  Dozens believed dead. Trauma units of Marion County overwhelmed with the numbers of injured.

  A phone from an attendee had taken footage of Wyatt Black reacting to the first sounds of gunshots. Rafael could tell by his delayed reaction the singer hadn’t at first realized they were under attack. He’d stood there for a moment, guitar hanging from his neck, until his crew had rushed onstage to get him and his band out of danger. In Rafael’s experience this wasn’t unusual. Most people didn’t recognize the sound of bullets. Why would they? America wasn’t supposed to be a war zone.

  Neither Rafael nor Michael spoke. What could they say to the sight of hundreds of innocent people being gunned down by a madman? Like Rafael, Michael was a former cop who had retired after an injury. He now walked with a slight limp from taking a bullet in his right thigh. They had seen more than most could even imagine in their worst nightmares. Yet the sight unfolding on the screen was as bad as anything Rafael had ever seen, including his tours in Iraq and Afghanistan searching for evil men who hid in caves and wished for the Western world’s demise.

  The television reporter gave updates as aerial coverage replayed footage of people rushing from the arena.

  The gunman is dead, taken out by an on-duty, armed policeman. Without his quick action, the death toll would be even higher.

  Michael sighed and shook his head. “I thought about going to that concert. But I didn’t want to take the time off.”

  “Me too. Big fan of Wyatt Black,” Rafael said.

  “That poor bastard will never be the same.”

  Rafael silently agreed. The shock and terror of something like this would haunt him the rest of his career. Rafael understood all about demons. He had a few of his own.

  He turned from the television to take a quick look at their security cameras. All was quiet. “I should go. I’ll make my last rounds and be on my way.” He slapped Michael on the back and headed out of the booth and up the paved driveway toward the main house.

  He walked the grounds on foot, ensuring that every inch of the Mullen property was secure. He took in everything, scanning for discrepancies or anything that looked odd. The house was quiet. He knew Kara was home and inside with baby Simon, because she’d come through the gate around noon after getting groceries. Brody was scheduled to return from a trip later that night. No one came in or out without him or Michael allowing them to do so. He walked the edge of the yard to ensure the electronic fence was secure. All good there, too.

  The sun loomed high in the early August sky, and the sea was as blue as he’d ever seen it. However, the pit in his stomach ate away at any sense of solace or stability. Since he’d returned from his last deployment in Afghanistan and had officially retired from the military to become a cop, it seemed that war had come to his own country. An uneasiness had permeated his America. He longed for the simplicity of his belief system when he’d joined the Navy SEALs at eighteen. Now it seemed that everything he’d fought for and believed in had been for nothing. America was divided. The shouts of dissent were louder than the muffled cries of those who still believed that mutual understanding, that listening to one another, did more to move a society forward than accusations and hatred.

  If only everyone had seen what he’d seen—done what he’d done to the innocent—perhaps they would have more appreciation for their own homeland. He rubbed his shoulder where the bullet had ripped through muscle to exit through the other side. The wound no longer hurt. Rafael was one of the lucky ones. The people taken down by an automatic rifle wouldn’t be so lucky.

  As he did every night, he entered the Mullens’ pool house to make sure there were no intruders. He knew it was next to impossible there would be, given the security gate and invisible fence that surrounded the property, not to mention that either Rafael or one of his staff guarded the entrance twenty-four hours a day. Still, it gave him a sense of peace to inspect every space before he left in the evenings.

  He didn’t know who or what Kara had run from, but he knew it was serious enough to have hired Rafael and his team to guard her wherever she went. Throughout the months, his fondness and respect for Kara had continued to grow. She worked in town with Jackson Waller as his nurse practitioner, even though her husband was a millionaire many times over. She loved her work, Kara told him one time. All her life she’d wanted to be a nurse. Marrying a wealthy professional football player didn’t change that. Rafael respected that choice and understood it. Since he was a little boy, he’d wanted to be a soldier.

  Despite the summer heat, the pool was empty this afternoon. Often in the summer, Kara and Brody had guests for pool parties. When he’d first started working for them, Brody’s buddies and his brother, Lance, had frequented the pool, drinking beer and han
ging out like rich dudes did. Last year, however, they’d all gotten hitched one after the other and started having babies. Since Kara and Brody’s baby had come last Christmas, they’d entertained less. When they did, the parties were now family affairs, with babies splashing fat legs in the water from the laps of their fathers.

  Rafael didn’t know which of the scenes hurt more—rich guys drinking beer in the sun, lovers wrapped around each other in the pool, or families playing together. All filled him with an unquenchable envy. He hated that he was a jealous man. Truly, he wished he was the type who never thought about how his life compared to others. Sadly, he wasn’t that evolved. As much as he loved Kara and Brody Mullen, he couldn’t help but feel inadequate and inferior in their presence. Even their baby was perfect, with big brown eyes and a pretty smile like his mother.

  Kara had confessed to him last week that working full-time and taking care of the baby had worn her down, especially since Brody had taken a job as a color commentator for one of the sports networks. He traveled often, leaving Kara home alone with the baby. She had a nanny during the day but refused to hire anyone to help in the evenings or on weekends. Therefore, she’d decided it was time to cut back her hours. “I’m missing too much time with Simon. It all goes so fast,” she’d said to him last week when he saw her playing in the yard with the baby. “I want to raise my own child.”

  He’d nodded sympathetically, although he couldn’t help but think of his own mother, who’d raised him by herself in a rough neighborhood in Oakland while working full-time for the elementary school as the lunch lady. She and her best friend, Ria, had been each other’s babysitters. Ria had taken care of them during the day when Mama worked. Mama had looked after them at night while Ria worked. He and Paulo had been like brothers. Until Paulo was no more.

  No, not today. Don’t go there. Paulo had been dead for so long now—killed in the streets by warring neighborhood gangs while Rafael sucked up sand in Iraq. Who would have thought that Rafael would be the one who lived? He crossed himself and said a silent prayer for Paulo. Rest in peace, my friend. I’ve got a plan for our mamas. Don’t you worry.