Catching Preeya (Paradise South Book 3)

by Rissa Brahm

  Preeya snorted at the pleasant surprise, while Dawn had started out sounding like Preeya’s aunt Champa. She smiled then blinked, almost wishing Dawn had continued on the attack. Strange, Preeya knew, but she felt particularly defensive of her mom today, the day before her father planned to officially replace Jenny Patel in his life—Preeya really could have used the outlet. “Yeah, my mother is pretty unbelievable. It looks like I’m miles from being like her, though. She’s rare and vast and selfless while I’m, well…I’m here.” She motioned with her chin toward the house, Josh in the front guest room. “Here, escaping that.”

  “Don’t beat yourself up, man. Josh is…Josh. And hell, you meant something more than the rest of his lays at some point in time. Millions of chicks across the planet would die to be you. I know—the fan site gathers some pretty vocal crazies. And no one else inspired a number one hit, woman! Come to think of it, you should be getting royalties.”

  “Oh, please.”

  “Seriously, if I were CK’s manager back when Josh wrote ‘Guest Room,’ when you inspired it, I would’ve probably insisted.” Dawn nudged Preeya with her shoulder.

  “Right. Well, yeah, I think I’ll focus on reality, like the cab pulling up.” God, anytime now. Preeya grinned.

  Dawn patted the pockets of her thick jacket. “Let me run inside for my phone and call ’em again.”

  A crash from inside startled Preeya and brought Dawn exploding to her feet. “Grrr…these assholes couldn’t wipe their own asses without me.” Dawn marched into the house and slammed the porch screen door behind her. “For fuck’s sakes, what now?”

  Preeya refocused on the lack of traffic on the road in front of her.

  “Oh, hey…” Dawn poked her head back out. “If the cab comes before I get back out, email me and I’ll shoot you the water-pouring video.” She winked at Preeya. “My email’s on the CK website. And let me know how it all goes down…you know, the weddings, the hunt for your man or for yourself or whatever—” Another clang and a string of fuckfuckfucks interrupted Dawn’s good-bye. “Fuck!” And she was gone.

  Preeya laughed then sighed. “Thanks, Dawn,” she whispered to herself. “And bye.”

  *

  The men got out to the parking lot. Fresh air filled Ben’s lungs. “Hey, can we swing by the hotel for my duffel?”

  “Sure.”

  They slid into Stanton’s sleek, black two-seater. “Car seat friendly, I see?” A sarcastic smile.

  “I’m getting rid of it Friday, before Zoe asks me to.”

  “Surprised she hasn’t yet.”

  “She has, in her head. You know…marital ESP?” Stan shot him an awkward grin.

  Well, you asked him to be candid, didn’t you?

  Ben nodded and found a fine-line smile that led to the billionth thick silence. Jesus, this was going to be a long drive, and if Ben remembered correctly, heavy traffic or not, flashy sports car or not, Stanton drove like a sloth.

  The engine roared to a start. “So where’s the mission this time? I don’t think you said.”

  “Central Mexico.”

  “Jesus.” Stan looked both ways—four times—before rolling out of the parking lot. “With all the cartel news cropping up? Ben, do you have a death wish, for God’s sake?” Stanton sped up a bit on the straightaway, then glared at him.

  But Ben only stared at the road ahead.

  Stanton scoffed. “Listen, I get it. You need to do what you need to do…to get back to living…but first Nepal, then West Africa…it’s like you’re picking riskier locales each trip. People vanish in Mexico, Ben. You’re starting to scare us, man.”

  First, thank God, Stan did not “get it.” The man had no clue whatsoever. Second, Ben scared himself enough for the both of them. “Next left.” Ben pointed. Third, he needed riskier, louder, more souls in need, each one a milli-fraction of his penance.

  Stan grunted, “Thanks,” then threw Ben a look—nostalgic, sad. He could tell his friend missed the old Ben, the high-intensity, driven Ben who used to plan his future—his and his amazing wife’s future—far, far out…and down to the very nanosecond all at the same time. But that guy was long gone. Now, sheer self-apathy flooded his veins. And it made people nervous. It made Stanton nervous, and there was nothing he could do about it—but to be the hell away from them all.

  At least act human, Ben—be nice, a voice said in his head—not his usual mental narrator. Ben gave an imperceptible head shake and cleared his throat. “It’s just been good to get away, Stan. I go where the people need help.”

  At the hotel’s main entrance, Stan threw it into Park and let his lip curl. “Yeah, man. Sure.” He nodded and gripped Ben’s shoulder. “Again, this review will wrap next month and you can finally settle down again. Clean slate, right? Maybe, even, well, in time…start dating? Zoe’s sister—”

  “I’m good alone,” Ben snapped, out of the vehicle the next instant. Just about to slam the car door in the man’s face for such an asinine fucking suggestion, Ben paused—be nice—and exhaled hard. Eyes targeted on the hotel’s automatic sliding doors, he cleared his throat. “Thanks, though. Be right back.”

  *

  “Three minutes, Preeya. They promise.” Dawn yelled through the screen door, startling Preeya again. Then she vanished back inside. From the sound of things, all hell had broken loose—glass-shattering harmony, violent-shouting melody. Josh’s voice definitely took lead.

  Glad to be outside—for three more minutes, God willing. Or else she really might miss this flight. She’d already set her mind for the onslaught she’d get from her father and his family for missing that wedding. But Amy’s, she didn’t want to disappoint Amy. And she couldn’t pretend that another warning from the airline didn’t make her neck muscles spasm. So much for “flying by the seat of your pants,” Pree. Maybe she wasn’t made to live like her mother. But her father’s path turned her stomach.

  She swallowed a knot of disgust and refocused on the unzipped pouch still in her lap. She should close it up and put it away. Abandon her hunt for that one thing.

  A motorcycle whizzed by, then another—still no cab. She struggled to zip the pouch, the photos and postcards all brimming above the zipper’s horizon. She tamped the pouch down on her lap, then gave a pat to the top of the collected crap, and as she did the pouch contents parted in the middle, like the damn Red Sea—and there it was, the thing she’d been looking for, staring up at her.

  A love letter, mocking her in perfect silence.

  Josh had given it to her just before he’d left her and Seattle so long ago. The letter-slash-poem that he’d made into song lyrics. The song that, as of just a year or so ago, played around the clock, around the world. The damn thing drove her insane. “Sun and Moon in the Guest Room.” God, if only Dawn had been with the band back then. She laughed out loud. “If muses got royalties…” She’d have the money issue off her plate, facing harder times since refusing her dad’s guilt funding.

  She exhaled. Royalties or not, the paper at her fingertips was probably worth something. But no, she’d never have sold it. It had been priceless. Had been. She’d always hung on to the stupid letter along with the stupid fantasy attached to it. “Close old doors and bigger ones will open,” Mom had always said. Looking at the letter, she hadn’t heeded her mother’s advice on this one. In fact, not only had she kept the note—pitifully enough—but she’d read it from time to time. Hell, being honest, she’d memorized the letter and lyrics over the years, way before the song got played-out on the radio. But she’d always been a believer, a dreamer, a goddamn romantic.

  And a tad bit of a masochist, too.

  She looked down at the paper in her hands.

  As if on autopilot, she found herself opening the quarter-folded paper with the reverence reserved for an ancient scripture just discovered. Smooth paper stock with worn, frayed edges. A delicate relic, a whole seven years old.

  “You, my muse,” and “my angel-savior with soft, mocha skin. Oh, violet eyes, w
here have you been?” Blah, blah, bullshit, blah. A few more always and in all ways and forevers, it read. And then the best part, the chorus: “Your sun, my moon, entwined in the guest room.”

  For fuck’s sake.

  Preeya rolled her eyes and willed a huge breath into her lungs. Then she held the paper up to her face, blocking the sudden glimmer of easterly sunshine breaking through the clouds. Her fingertips slipped along the top edge, spreading out the page of handwritten crap and lofty promises.

  She blinked. A slow blink.

  Then, pinkies up, she tore. Straight down. Right in half.

  Rotating the rectangle remnants in her determined fingers, she tore again.

  She let out the breath she hadn’t realized she’d held through the ceremonious shredding. She then wadded and crushed the four pieces of Josh’s love letter into a small tight ball of never-gonna-be.

  Not with anyone, maybe. The torrential romantic love and adventure she craved in a man—in life, in herself—might not exist. Period. Anywhere.

  And she had to accept it.

  She pulled her arm back behind her ear and threw the paper ball with all her silly and naive delusions—her past—as far out as she could, out toward Lake Washington for the damn thing to sink and drown and die.

  But the wind picked up and carried the wad in the other direction. It landed on the road. Right on the center yellow line of Sandpoint Way.

  Her arm dropped. So did her shoulders. She swallowed back brimming tears.

  A tear fell just as the yellow cab drove up the road with its turn signal on.

  But as if in slow motion, like the most perfect and poetic lyrics to a song, the cab—late by twenty-three minutes—ran right over Josh’s lyrical love letter, smashing it with old, weathered tires into the tar-black street.

  In her heart, a bit of levity. In her head, the cabbie was forgiven for his tardiness. In her soul, a hope, a spark, that something other than deep disappointment awaited her today. Starting by making her friggin’ flight. Then she could be done, again, with these heavy-hanging, weep-me-a-damn-ocean clouds. Seattle.

  CHAPTER 5

  He thanked Stanton with a wave and sighed, glad he’d soon be no-one-at-all in Sea-Tac’s blur of travelers.

  “Be safe, you hear?”

  Ben nodded and waved again as Stan drove off. He glanced at his watch. Early enough for check in, food and a nap at the gate. Good.

  With a new and relative spring to his long stride, he headed inside. He put his bag down to use its wheels feature, popped the handle up, then rolled forward a step while searching for the Jetta Air counter. His hand rubbed his head—freshly shaved—which Jamie had always said he did when he was anxious. He definitely rubbed his head more often these days.

  Another step—and a near collision. He froze there, letting his pulse settle and the train of travelers pass. There were just so many people, a cluster of busy, busy people living and breathing and worrying and hoping their lives away. God, he just couldn’t wait to get to the middle of nowhere again. Where real people—raw, basic human beings—waited for him. Needed him. And he needed them right back.

  He found and got into the fairly long line for check-in, but realized he had not a thing to worry about, it being two hours before boarding. He inhaled, exhaled, then loosened up his shoulders. Much better…

  Until the bickering behind him entered his sound-space. A loud and animated family—definitely not from here—fought over who’d made them late for their flight home to New York.

  “Please, folks, go on ahead of me.” He took his duffel handle and stepped aside. “I’m extremely early.”

  “Seriously, man?”

  “Yes, of course.” Ben nodded, glad to help, and glad to regain some peace during his wait in line.

  “Thanks so much, sir,” the heavy set patriarch said, ushering his family of six ahead.

  Then a set of older couples gave him an imploring look.

  “Sure, sure. I have time.” And after a snowball of tardy Northeasterners cut in front of him—thick Seattle traffic often threw tourists for a loop—he thought about the hectic insanity at arrivals yesterday. The entourage and fans milling around that arrogant jerk. He grumbled the recollection away, then glanced at his itinerary. His first-class window seat would make everything—

  Wham! A large object slammed him square in the back, forcing him to lurch forward. Seriously? He caught himself by planting his left foot, then turned. A female soldier had just heaved her large green duffel onto her shoulder. She apologized to him profusely while he regained his composure.

  “Honestly, no worries,” he told the woman with her fifty-pound bag on her shoulder moving up in line a few steps. He noticed her top hand had a terrible burn scar across her knuckles.

  “Bomb detonated. Wrong wire. But hey, on that one, we all survived.” A slight smile revealed itself behind the all-too-serious stories-upon-stories clinging to those few words. Her eyes. Her steady and deadly tone. “You look like you’ve seen a few war zones yourself.” She searched his face. He shifted his stance, swallowed slowly, radiantly uncomfortable all of a sudden. What had she seen in him to say such a thing? Instead of the pride he might have felt at her comment, one that might have established common ground between them—an NGO doctor and a true combat hero—he felt only a torrent of that seething drug he’d gotten so used to, even hooked on—guilt. It tore through him now in a wave. He’d seen stuff, yes, but he felt more like an onlooker, an observer. A lazy goddamn couch potato in life. First watching Jamie, watching the meds, the decisions, the oncologists, the time. Then the consoling faces. Those haunting, pitying faces. And the accusing ones, too.

  Then he’d traded one immense daze for another. Paperwork and airplanes and caravans and dust and hungry, happy, dirty faces that were just glad to have a meal or a moment’s relief from an infected bug bite. He saw it all. Interacted with it all. A war zone, though? No. Not a war zone like this soldier’s bomb-blasting, hidden-sniper, death-around-the-corner war zone. No, he didn’t possess the real balls, the real courage, the real gumption that this soldier had in spades. Going to defend her country. His country.

  He wasn’t a fighter. Not for his country, not for his morals, not for himself. Worst of all, he hadn’t fought for Jamie. He hadn’t fought for his own love, his own wife. Not really. He’d insisted on upholding Jamie’s desire to die in peace versus his in-laws’ wishes. But he hadn’t fought like he should’ve fought long before it ever got to that point. He should’ve been able to do something more. Fight cancer, fight death, fight her pain and life-draining sorrow.

  “Your shirt and badge.”

  “What’s that?”

  “You look shocked, like you’re wondering how I’d figured…”

  “How you figured…? I’m sorry. Running on too little sleep.” He laughed at his own confusion, sucked into his ever-void.

  She smiled and gave him a subtle nod, as if she genuinely understood that it wasn’t lack of sleep that he suffered from. He suffered from an endless and jumbled game of connect the vacuous dots playing out inside him—dots that never made a coherent picture. “You’re with Doctors Without Borders. Your shirt and badge…” She referenced the lanyard hanging around his neck.

  “Right, yes.” He kept his grip on his duffel’s handle while his other hand moved to close his jacket over his chest. “Been traveling with the organization for the past year. I’ve gotten far more than I’ve given.”

  “A year’s a long time. Good of you.”

  Was that sarcasm? He met her eyes then he shifted his focus to the speckled tile floor and sighed. No, she’d been totally genuine. He let the corners of his mouth curl a bit just to act somewhat socialized. “Again, it’s been better for me than I’ve been for them.”

  “Other way around for me, I think.” She pulled her phone out of her pocket and held it up. “Missed two birthdays for each one of my babies.” The screen shot of her freckled little girl and her toothless little boy made him win
ce behind a forced smile.

  More kids he’d never have. “Cute. Must’ve been hard to be away.”

  “I shouldn’t complain. Other than the hand, I’m back with my limbs, life, liberty, right? And it was an honor to serve. Made my family proud.”

  He smiled at her. She was tough, confident, glazed with a motherly softness, this soldier wasting her breath and words on him. “You live in Houston, or are you continuing on?”

  “Central Florida.” Her low, mellow rasp soothed him. But it seemed the thought of her final destination didn’t soothe her. “You? Where’s home?”

  Home? Nowhere anymore. “Here, Seattle…” He shifted his feet. “I’m heading to Puerto Vallarta, where my sister and her kids live. Then off to Central Mexico for my next mission.”

  “Next in line, please,” a Jetta Air agent called with a listless wave.

  “Safe trip home.” He nodded and extended his hand. They shook.

  “Safe trip…away. And sorry again for the fifty-pound jolt.”

  He watched her head up to the agent and, rejecting the help of the two luggage handlers behind the counter, she tossed the long green duffel on the scale.

  He sighed then tucked his badge into his shirt—no conversation starters. He’d pull it out again to get through security faster, but for now he was ready to not speak to anyone. Sleeping his way to Houston would definitely be the plan.

  *

  After check-in, he headed toward the security line, always easy and quick for him with his badge.

  Minus the default anxiety of checking in and making the flight—and yesterday’s unusual celebrity chaos—Ben loved airports. As of late, going somewhere that wasn’t Seattle for starters. But mostly, the people-watching. Jamie had gotten him stuck on the distraction. Walking, talking stories, every airport wanderer.

  “Sir, please.” The TSA officer waved him forward, looked closely at the medical badge around his neck, then at his passport. “Very good, Doctor. Be safe.”