Deception

by Victoria Saccenti

“That’s right. You guys are different.” Dan shrugged. “I didn’t serve.”

  “Outsiders can’t relate.” Joe upended the container over his head. When the last of the liquid drained out, he shook his head dog-style and swiped his forearm over his face. “Dude, I’m heading home first. I need a shower. No way in hell I’m going out in public smelling like a goat.” He pulled out his eye patch from his pocket, placed it over his scarred eye, then reached for his muddy gloves next to the pick mattock.

  “You’re not backing out, are ya?”

  “I said I’d go.” Joe slapped his gloves together. Specks of dry dirt floated and fell on the grass.

  “Excellent.” Dan held up a thumb. “I can meet you there in twenty. I don’t wear makeup in the afternoons.”

  “You don’t, huh? Funny guy.” Joe stuffed his gloves in the zippered pocket of his cargo pants and picked up his tools. As he walked to his vehicle, he slapped Dan’s shoulder.

  “Hey, is it safe to leave the potted hibiscuses here?” Dan asked, flipping the bill of his cap forward. His sodden blond hair gleamed in the sunlight.

  “Yep. It’s a good neighborhood. The residents watch out for each other. Everyone knows the Conways are remodeling their landscape. No one will dare pinch them. ’Sides, those pots are freaking heavy.”

  “Awesome. More grunt work. Ha-ha, no pun intended.”

  Turning a deaf ear to Dan’s complaining, Joe tossed his tools and leather gloves into the truck bed. As he climbed into his seat, he hollered at Dan, “Stop whining. The pots won’t kill you. I have my methods to move them around.”

  Dan grinned. “Counting on it. Hey, save me a spot if you get to Pete’s before me.”

  “You got it,” Joe called out and shut the door. He settled behind the steering wheel, preparing for the driving ritual. He unhooked his brand-new sunglasses from the rearview mirror—the pair had been custom-made to fit over his eye patch. He propped the oversized shades on the bridge of his nose, then loaded his favorite Nine Inch Nails CD into the player, turned the volume to full blast, and took off.

  The Terminator—Dan’s nickname for Joe’s F-150 Black Ops edition—devoured the miles along Michigan Avenue, past a blur of slash pines, myrtle oaks, and sycamores lining both sides of the avenue. He turned west on West New Nolte Road, and half a mile later, he rolled into his sandy unpaved driveway.

  He stopped at the porch to remove his muddy work boots. Soiled socks in hand, he padded toward his bedroom. He reached his bathroom, then turned on the shower as he tossed the socks next to the foot of his dresser. Shuffling from one foot to the next, he stripped off his clothes and underwear. A rank pile of sweaty garments grew in size. Waiting for the water to turn hot, he pitched the leather eye patch onto his bed, snatched his dirty clothes, then weaved through the kitchen. He entered the closed-off garage and stuffed everything into the hamper.

  As he returned to his bedroom, the phone rang. He checked the number on the caller ID display. Dear Mom and her overdeveloped instinct. Late or early, she knew when he came home. Was it mother’s intuition, luck, or technology? At times, he wondered if—without his knowing— she’d set up a silent alarm system that went off as soon as he stepped foot in his house. He let the call go to voice mail. The speech was always the same: “You know, Joseph. The place has barely enough room for one person. It’s hardly comfortable. I don’t see why you can’t live with us, in a proper home.”

  To hell with that noise. Small and all, he loved this place.

  “I wish you’d give up, Mom. I am home,” he murmured at the blinking red dot, as if his mother could hear him at the other end.

  The peaceful cottage—tucked behind dense bushes of orange jasmines growing unchecked, a pink bougainvillea climbing up the left post of the attached carport, and clumps of Formosa palms in every corner—had become available a week after his return from hell. One would think it had waited just for him. He saw it and fell in love. If his plans worked out, by late December, he’d have enough dough to make an offer and buy this slice of heaven.

  After four years of chasing a treacherous, slippery enemy through arid mountainous regions, the airy, well-maintained bungalow was healing medicine for his soul. The place had tremendous light thanks to oversized windows in every room—a major plus for someone like him. In the irony of wartime quid pro quo, he’d gained depth perception issues when he lost his eye attempting to rescue Billy. Some exchange.

  The surrounding foliage gave him enough privacy, as he didn’t go for the sissy-curtains thing, and he rarely closed the shutters. He could lounge around, check his computer, answer business calls absolutely buck naked without offending anyone. He worked hard enough. If he wanted to read a book while scratching his nuts, he’d earned the right.

  Joe slid under the rainfall showerhead and took a deep breath. The steaming water was heaven on earth. Pressing his palms on the tile, he leaned forward, allowing the torrent to douse his aching shoulders and back with liquid pleasure. He considered staying here another twenty minutes, but remembered Dan waiting at the bar and picked up the pace.

  Dan had a thing for the ladies who frequented the local watering hole. In fact, as a show of undying admiration, he’d dated most of them. Since Joe had been released from the military, Dan had invited him for a beer after every job and every single weekend. Joe had always declined. His proclivities required privacy and the right crowd. The local folks and St. Cloud didn’t offer either. But today, Dan had seemed lonely, desperate for company, so Joe agreed. He didn’t think a couple of beers in a likely empty bar would be a consequential breach of rules.

  In a previous lifetime, during his Florida University years, he’d been a regular presence in Gainesville’s bar scene. He lost count of the mornings he woke up drunk, in unfamiliar bedrooms after mindless nights of debauchery.

  But life took a sharp left turn after graduation. He returned to St. Cloud the same day his father was diagnosed with stage-two prostate cancer.

  As his parents drove to Orlando for grueling chemo and radiation sessions, Joe took over his father’s landscape business. Responsibility and disease changed his perspective. He grew up, and, in the process, his proclivities changed. A new Joe emerged.

  The attack in New York and the threat of terrorism awakened in him an urgent desire to serve his country. Unfortunately, while men and women volunteered to do their part, he had no choice but to wait on the sidelines. In 2005, his father’s cancer went into remission, and Joe walked to the nearest recruiting office.

  On Parris Island, he felt ancient and jaded compared to the fresh-faced recruits in his class. There was nothing he could do about the age difference, so he threw himself into the rigors of boot camp, the Crucible, and every method of extreme training in the Marines’ arsenal with gusto.

  He arrived in Lejeune determined to work his butt off and promote through the ranks. Kind of a loner, he slaved day and night to achieve his goal. Then young Billy Dominsky came to base. As it turned out, Billy and Joe were practically next-door neighbors. Billy lived in Kissimmee, a sprawling community nine miles west of St. Cloud. This time, the age difference didn’t matter. A close friendship developed.

  He sighed, thinking of his happy, never-let-them-get-me-down friend.

  I’m so sorry, Billy. I wish I’d understood, buddy… I wish I’d known.

  Joe strapped his watch on and frowned. “Shit. Dan’s gotta be on his second beer.” He spoke to his reflection in the mirror.

  Using his fingers, he combed his growing brown hair into some order, snatched the leather eye patch off the bed, and rushed out as he slipped band and cover into place.

  Never show your scars to strangers. Never.

  Joe pushed the heavy mahogany door and entered Pete’s bar, checking out the place. Clean smelling and spacious, the bar was a nice surprise. Joe had created an erroneous mental image from the seedy joints around Lejeune. Pete’s was a modest version of the popular breweries and sports bars proliferating thirty-one miles to the
north in Orlando. Oversized muted LCD screens broadcasting March Madness basketball games had been strategically positioned to enhance customer viewing from every angle. Vintage baseball posters decorated the walls. Someone took great care of this watering hole, as the cherrywood floors gleamed without a heel or scuff mark. The place was fairly empty except for a couple of soft-spoken guys perched on barstools and Dan—dressed in clean duds, damp hair neatly combed back—waving from a booth.

  Dan raised his half-full mug. “Welcome. Glad you came.”

  “Is that number one or two?” Joe pointed. Slipping sideways on the leather seat, he settled under a black-and-white photo of Joe DiMaggio—circa 1940s—in midswing.

  “My first. I got here a few minutes ago.”

  “That’s a shocker. I thought you’d be on your second, at least.”

  “Dude, I came here to unwind. Go home if you’re gonna bust my balls.” Dan dropped his glass on the table. The beer inside sloshed.

  Joe chuckled. “Lighten up, bro. Just messing with you. I’ll play nice. Hey, Pete’s isn’t bad. Not bad at all. Do they serve food?”

  “Yep. The usual bar stuff, wings, burgers, fries. The chili rocks here. All meat, true Texas style.”

  “Hmmm, getting hungry.” Joe patted his stomach. “Maybe I’ll give it a go.”

  “You should. Here comes Kelly.”

  A handsome full-figured woman somewhere in her midforties walked in their direction. “Who’s your friend, Dan?” She spoke in a sexy drawl Joe couldn’t place. Tall and comfortable in her skin, she leaned her elbow on the booth’s backrest and smiled.

  “Hi, doll.” Dan winked. “Meet my friend Joe Reid. Joe, this is Kelly Jones, Pete’s wife and the real boss ’round here.”

  Kelly turned her plump face and bright blue eyes in Joe’s direction. Her affable gaze studied him, paused a nanosecond on his eye patch, then moved on. “So this is the famous Joe? You do exist after all. Pleasure to meet you.”

  “The pleasure is mine.” Joe nodded. A touch of heat rushed to his cheeks. “Dan raves about your place, and he didn’t exaggerate. I should’ve stopped by sooner.”

  “Happy to hear it, Joe. Maybe you’ll become a regular like Dan. What can I get you to drink?”

  “Whatever IPA draft you have. Please. I understand you serve food.”

  “We do. I’ll bring menus in a sec. Do you want a sixteen or twenty ounce?”

  Joe held up his forefinger. “Twenty is perfect.”

  “Okie dokie.” Kelly left, her burgundy ponytail swishing.

  Amused, Joe followed Kelly’s progress as she passed the bar, called out his order, then came around and dropped off two menu cards covered with smudged fingerprints, and disappeared somewhere in the back.

  “You say the chili is good?” Joe tapped the menu on the table.

  Dan gave a thumbs-up. “Yep. If you like spice, you’ll love it.”

  “You know me, the hotter the better. Like my women.”

  “Hmmm, speaking of spicy ladies…” Dan’s voice trailed off. He focused somewhere behind Joe’s shoulder.

  “What?” Joe turned. Someone had opened the door. A human outline moved within the narrowing flood of light as the front door took forever to swing shut.

  “The hottest of them all,” Dan murmured.

  Joe squinted, startled at the distinct tone of admiration—a hair close to awe—in Dan’s voice.

  A rapid click of feminine heels followed Dan’s comment, and Joe leaned forward. He caught a side glimpse of a stunning woman with glossy auburn hair that swung in time with her steps. As she quickly passed through his line of sight, her sensational breasts elicited instant fantasies. But then, the front door closed, and the room plunged into semidarkness. She disappeared in the same direction Kelly had taken.

  “Mercy… With a capital M,” Joe said. “Gorgeous woman. That’s what I call magnificent hourglass curves.”

  “You ain’t kidding.” Dan sighed and sipped his beer.

  Kelly reappeared, a frosty mug in hand. “Here we are. Any food, guys?”

  “Uh…yes, please. I’ll try the chili.” Holding up the menu, Joe pointed at the image of a bowl.

  “Make that two,” Dan said.

  “Okie dokie.” Kelly picked up the cards and took off.

  “So, dude. What’s the deal with this lady?” Joe had to ask. He could sense a juicy urban legend floating around that voluptuous figure.

  “Do yourself a favor.” Dan pursed his lips. “Steer clear. She’s a looker, no doubt. She’s also a lot of trouble.”

  Joe’s curiosity was piqued. He couldn’t remember a single moment when Dan had been this serious about anything. “Meaning?”

  Dan tapped his fingernail against the glass. “Do you remember Jack Weston from Port St. Lucie?”

  Joe crossed his arms, visualizing the man. Always in a suit and tie, Jack wore his business image year-round, even in August and September—the height of heat and humidity. “Sure I do. Pleasant fella, somewhere in his late thirties. Had a real estate office on Tenth when I joined the Marines.”

  “You came home end of December. That’s almost three months ago. Have you seen him since? Anywhere?” Dan played with a drop of water from his sweating mug on the table. Another fell, and he made a small wet circle on the shiny surface.

  Preparing for a dramatic revelation, Joe settled against the booth’s soft leather. “Now that you mention it…”

  “Of course you haven’t. He fell in love with our siren.” Dan’s expressive thumb came up again. This time, he pointed to the back of the room. “They went out a few times, he lost his head, proposed marriage, and she said no.”

  “Wow…catastrophic event.” Joe chuckled. “That happens, dude.”

  “Not the way she did it. She laughed in his face. Ridiculed him when the bar was jam-packed. Called him an old fool.”

  “And?” Joe took a long sip and smacked his lips.

  “We live in a small town,” Dan continued. “Jack couldn’t handle the embarrassment. Snickers and whispered comments followed him everywhere. He sold his business. He’s in Atlanta now, I think.”

  “Drastic. Still, it’s not uncommon. A guy falls for a sexy lady, but she doesn’t return his feelings. He pushes her, they argue, say nasty things about each other. The same happens in reverse. The eternal tug-of-war between the sexes. It’s older than time.”

  “Life according to Joe Reid,” Dan murmured with a sardonic expression. “Everyday philosophy Marines-style.”

  “Hey,” Joe exclaimed. “I resent that.”

  “My turn to bust your chops, dude. I know what you mean. But what she did was wrong.”

  “All right.” Joe held up a palm. “But you need more than one bad situation to call someone a lot of trouble.”

  “Don’t defend her,” Dan grated. “She’s a ruthless bitch.” A sardonic grin gave way to a full frown.

  Kelly popped back with two steaming soup bowls. She dropped napkins, spoons, and crackers in front of them. “Need anything else? Another round?”

  “I’ll be ready in five,” Dan said. “Is that okay?”

  “Sure. Give me a sign whenever. I’ll be watching.”

  “You’re a doll, Kelly.” Dan smiled, and she walked away.

  “You were saying?” Joe blew on a heaping spoonful. “This looks amazing.” Bite-size chunks of moist, delicious beef made his mouth water. The pungent aroma of chili filled his nostrils.

  “Tastes even better.” Dan stirred his stew, and steam rose from his bowl. “But you don’t get the picture, bro. You’ve been gone on and off for six years. A lot’s happened…”

  “Okay.” Joe put his spoon down and rubbed his good eye. “Enlighten me.”

  Dan stopped stirring. “She’s temptation on high heels.”

  “You’ve managed to resist her charms,” Joe countered.

  “Uh-uh… I came this close.” Dan glared, pressing his thumb and forefinger together. “Watching dudes flock to her saved me. Each one
of those geniuses thought they’d bring her down. Conquer her. Assholes.” He tapped his knuckles on the table. “She bested them all. Sucked them dry and left them at the side of the road begging for more. I get the feeling she doesn’t like men, holds some kind of grudge. Then, there’s Steve and Janine.”

  “What about them?” Joe ate a spoonful. Heat exploded in his mouth. “Geez,” he mumbled as he reached for his beer and took a long swig.

  “Told ya. Spicy.” Dan grinned. “So… Steve and Janine were inseparable, the perfect loving couple. Did everything together. You know.”

  Joe swallowed and nodded. “I remember.”

  “They got engaged a year ago. Had a great party. That’s where Steve met our gorgeous man-eater—”

  “And Steve and Janine broke up. Right?” Joe interrupted. “Which means they had a weak relationship.”

  Dan shook his head. “No, dude. You don’t do shit like that. She knew Steve was engaged. Why would she tempt him?”

  “Hey! It’s not always the woman’s fault. Did she really tempt him, or did Steve believe he could get away with it?” Joe held up a palm. “Maybe he sniffed up the wrong—”

  “But don’t you see? She picked up on Steve’s attraction and lassoed him in. To boot, she betrayed her girlfriend. Broke her heart.”

  “I’m confused. She who?”

  “Janine and Hunter were friends.”

  Joe’s heart vaulted. His hand fell on the spoon, and chili splattered on the table and on his T-shirt and jeans.

  “Watch it!” Dan jerked back.

  “Sorry,” Joe apologized as he wiped the mess with his napkin. He didn’t bother with his clothes; the red stains wouldn’t come off without detergent and water. “Did I nail you?”

  “Almost. What’s the matter with you? It ain’t that spicy.”

  “No, not this.” Joe tapped the spoon against the bowl. “What did you say?”

  “Um… Why would she tempt him?” Dan stroked his chin.

  “The other, the last part.” Joe insisted, rolling his fingers in a backward motion.

  “Betrayed her girlfriend? I… I don’t know…”

  “You spoke a name.”