Deception

by Victoria Saccenti

  Scowling at Aaron’s head, Kelly untangled his arms and pushed him back. “Down, boy. I’m not a pillow. I hope you didn’t drive here.”

  “Did not.” Without the support of Kelly’s body, he wobbled again, blinked in apparent confusion, then smiled as he reached for the nearest stool. “Mark dropped me off. He’s got business to attend to. I’m not sure if he’s coming later.” He paused. “Hey, Petey, my friend, can I get a shot of tequila with a lime and a side of water?”

  Kelly slapped her palm on the counter. “Water is good. Hold the tequila, love.” She spoke to Pete, who nodded and placed a glass of ice water in front of Aaron.

  “But…”

  “Hush up.” Kelly stopped Aaron’s protest. “And another thing, why would Mark just drop you off here? How’re you getting home?”

  Folding his arms on the counter, Aaron studied the glass. “Well, Mark thought Hunter would give me shelter for the night. Ain’t that right, sweet cheeks?” Lifting his head, he scanned the room until he found Hunter. “If she don’t want me, I’ll walk home… In the rain.”

  “Huh, is it raining?” Two thunderous crashes in quick succession and a flicker of lights answered Kelly’s question. The TV monitors throughout the room lost the image.

  Aaron smirked.

  “Crap,” Hunter muttered. “I’m screwed.”

  There’s nothing like a well-placed guilt trip to manipulate someone. But you are not spending the night in my home, Aaron Miller. Not tonight. No way.

  Joe pointed his knife at the bar. “Who’s the loud muscle guy with the brown hair?”

  Dan looked over his shoulder. “Him? That’s Aaron Miller, a spoiled rich boy. His father owns a law firm here and in Orlando. Miller, Levine, and Bloom. Heard of them?”

  “Doesn’t ring a bell.”

  “He’s Hunter’s current interest. Can’t call him boyfriend, ’cause that means permanence. He’s here today, but come tomorrow, who knows?” Dan lifted his mug, took a swig, then thumped the table with the heavy glass bottom. He swiped his mouth dry with the back of his hand. “Another round?”

  “One more, and then I’m out of here. We have an early start tomorrow.” Joe scratched the itchy twenty-four-hour growth along his jaw. He’d left the house without shaving. “About that fella, you could be right…”

  “Meaning?” Dan waved his mug at Kelly. She acknowledged by holding up two fingers. Dan held up his thumb.

  “My guess is Aaron has fallen from grace.” Joe jutted his chin toward the activity in the bar area. “He tried to get sweet with Hunter, and she bucked like a high-strung mare. I’m not surprised, though. He was clumsy, way over the top. Most ladies don’t appreciate that behavior.”

  “So you’re trained in combat and female psychology. I’m impressed. The Marines are an all-around training outfit.”

  Joe chuckled. “Dude, what I know, I learned from experience. I’ve put my foot in my mouth plenty of times.”

  “Care to elaborate? I never see you with anyone.”

  “I’m not a monk, and I don’t live in a monastery, trust me.”

  Dan’s eyebrows shot up. “Then—”

  “Hold on.” Joe raised a finger. “Kelly’s coming.”

  Kelly swept silently in, exchanged the empty mugs with refills, and left. Joe lifted a finger to get her attention, but she didn’t notice. “Damn, she moves too fast. I wanted the check,” Joe murmured.

  “My treat,” Dan said.

  “Nah.” Joe reached for his wallet. “We’ll split the bill.”

  “It’s only fair, I’ve been hounding you to join me for weeks.”

  Joe shrugged. “Only if I pay next time.” For sure, there would be a next time.

  “You’re on. Now, let’s revisit this ‘I’m not a monk’ comment…”

  “You’re worse than a dog with a bone.” Laughing, Joe settled against his seat rest. “I love St. Cloud, but when it comes to women and my personal life, it’s too small. My parents live here, and my mother knows everyone. That’s all I would need, Brenda Reid snooping into my affairs. It’s not happening, dude.”

  “You haven’t explained a damned thing.”

  “On weekends, I hang out in Orlando.”

  “And?” Dan eyed him dead-on. He expected more details.

  “Well…” Joe fidgeted. How much should he tell Dan? “As you well know, my parents signed over their downtown condo to me. And I see a couple of ladies up there.”

  Dan’s mouth slackened. “You sly devil. Two women at once?”

  “Unbelievable.” Lowering his voice to an angry hush, Joe narrowed his good eye. “There you go making up stuff. Dudes are worse than chicks. Not that it’s any of your business, but I date one at a time.”

  “I didn’t mean… That wasn’t…” Dan stopped babbling and dropped his gaze. His face had turned beet red.

  “We have dinner at the village in Winter Park, go to a club downtown, maybe, spend a relaxing weekend, and then I come home to work. It’s simple and easy. We have similar tastes. We enjoy each other’s company without commitments, nothing more.”

  “Makes sense,” Dan murmured. “Is that how you know about women?”

  Joe snickered. “In part. But, dude, you’re not fifteen. Haven’t you learned how to treat a lady yet, what makes them tick, or what pisses them off?”

  Dan exhaled a loud breath. “Yes. No. They’re so complicated.”

  “Good Lord.” Joe shook his head. “The trick is listening to their cues, the little hints, which can be subtle, I’ll admit. Nevertheless, that’s the doorway to paradise.”

  “That’s all?”

  “Yep.”

  “And Aaron was clumsy, you say.”

  Joe nodded. “Sure was.”

  “Be careful, Joe.”

  “Now you lost me.”

  Dan frowned. “Hunter’s real easy on the eyes. She’s also dangerous. She’s a heartbreaker. You’ll understand when she dumps Aaron.”

  Joe stiffened.

  Yeah, the seductive woman had slithered out of a back room, and he’d followed her movements. She’d cast an unexpected furtive glance in his direction, and all his senses woke up. She was interested in him. It was obvious. Did the presence of fresh male meat at Pete’s Place entice the predator in her?

  He had a sudden flash of insight.

  No. Not a predator. This was something entirely different about her. A trait likely no one had noticed or explored before. Joe had held her eyes captive as he’d engaged in a visual foray. He’d sent her a silent command testing her defiance or compliance. Her eyelids fluttered as she wavered, revealing an exciting possibility, then the stupid muscle dude interfered, and Joe lost the connection.

  Time passed in silence. Joe eyed his friend, composing his thoughts and stilling his face into the impenetrable mask he used on weekends. “It’s all your fault,” he snapped. “As soon as the girl entered the bar, Daniel Barton, you went off like a fire alarm. I’m human. I can’t help it if you got my curiosity working overtime.”

  “I’m to blame, seriously?” Dan hit his chest with his knuckles. “That’s rich.”

  A little more relaxed, Joe chuckled. He held up two fingers at Dan. “You gave me not one, but two sob stories about Hunter’s evil felonies and hinted at other misdemeanors. How can anyone resist?”

  Not me. And I intend to discover everything she hides.

  CHAPTER THREE

  DESPITE THE COTTAGE’S dark interior, Joe weaved around his furniture with unerring accuracy. He’d visualized his path before he left Pete’s Place and thought of nothing else on the drive home. In his mind, he’d already pulled down the canvas seabag—crammed with government-issued gear during his training at Parris Island: uniforms, fatigues, boots, assorted underwear, plus a few silly military knickknacks he’d acquired at Camp Lejeune’s souvenir shop. Most importantly, packed among his belongings, he hoped to find a letter that would confirm or deny all suspicions.

  He stepped inside the garage as he automati
cally yanked down the chain hanging from a ceiling housing. A single lightbulb flickered on. The weak yellow hue did its best to illuminate the long room, along with Joe’s tool rack and elevated cabinets at the far wall. He completed the search through his gardening equipment in a minute. With the long-handled saw in hand, he located the green duffel on the top shelf. He flipped the saw upside down. Standing underneath the chrome wiring, he snaked the handle through and gave the seabag a swift tug. The heavy duffel tumbled to the cement floor as he jumped out of the way—a cloud of dust floated in its wake.

  Resisting the temptation to open it right away, Joe returned the saw to the rack, snatched the bag by the side handle, and sped to his living room. He dumped the contents on the sofa and began separating the confusion of musty-smelling garments and other items compacted and tangled around each other.

  Although he was aware how Central Florida’s extreme heat and humidity affected clothing and stored items, he hadn’t found the courage to discard anything. That was tantamount to disrespecting a past that was ingrained in his soul.

  Now he congratulated himself. In this mess, the proof he needed would eventually appear.

  His cell phone vibrated in his back pocket. He paused the frantic rummaging to check the message and smiled. A familiar notification flashed across his screen.

  Where are you? Why haven’t you answered my message? Worried. Call me. Going to bed soon.

  As usual, Momma Brenda was dumping her guilt trip on him. He remembered her earlier call. He’d bet anything a dramatic voice mail waited for him on the business answering machine.

  Technology was great, although, at times, it made everyone and everything too accessible, and Momma—unlike some women of her generation—had taken on the daunting mysteries of the internet, computers, and electronic gadgets with uncanny talent. Worse, she was sneaky. Twice, she’d made a big production because he’d ignored her texts. When Pop chuckled at Joe’s mortification during her latest tirade, he caught on to Momma’s cat-and-mouse game. He’d forgotten to turn off the read receipt option in his phone. Momma had been quietly using that particular function against him.

  Well, he could play her game too. Without opening Messages, he placed the phone on the end table and left it there. He’d call her in the morning, give her a simple excuse, and make it up to her in the near future.

  Joe resumed his search. Unfolding his garments, he inspected pocket after pocket, fold after fold, explored the insides of his worn-out boots, bleached almost white by the merciless Afghanistan sun, and instead of what he sought, he found a couple of stuffed grunt rolls.

  He sighed as doubt crept into his mind. Where the hell… He couldn’t possibly have left it behind. Could he? Did he trash it as he packed?

  “No. It’s here,” he muttered to himself. Frustrated, he upended the seabag and shook it—more forcefully this time.

  A waterproof pouch fell out.

  “Aha!” he exclaimed as he held it up in triumph.

  With trembling fingers, he unzipped the pouch and carefully pulled out folded maps, documents, and several envelopes. The peculiar scent of stored paper and dust triggered the memory of life out on patrol. His heart took off in a wild gallop. He was instantly transported to a distant inhospitable land:

  Deep in the Taliban stronghold of the Helmand wilderness, Joe waits behind a medieval perimeter fence—crumbling remains offering little cover. Just like every other fucking structure in this godforsaken country. He scans a battered compound a hundred yards away through his binoculars, while a merciless August sun bakes him and the rest of his squad. On this afternoon, the combat utility uniform, body armor, helmet, and weapons seem heavier than seventy pounds and hotter than ever. Crouching next to him, the tripod of his M249 SAW firmly on the ground, his bud Billy whispers an endless string of dark jokes. The gallows humor, which rarely works, is meant to ease the tension before Joe confirms Taliban presence and the attack and screaming begin…

  Breathing in and out, Joe wiped a cold, sweaty palm over his face, slipped off the eye patch, and tucked it in his pocket.

  Relax. Deep breath. It’s over. You’re home…you’re home.

  The comforting surroundings of his cottage gradually came into view. The erratic thumping in his chest slowed.

  Yeah, against the odds, he’d made it. He’d come home.

  Billy had not.

  Frowning, he separated a thin packet of overused crinkly maps from the rest of his papers, then sifted through several soiled envelopes until he found the one he sought. Envelope in hand, he walked to his office, sat at his desk, and turned on the lamp. For several minutes, he read over and over the first line in the address, Lance Cpl. William Dominsky, trying to visualize Billy’s face. His stomach heaved at the bloody image that came up…

  Scrunching his good eye shut, he shook his head to dispel the memory and exhaled a full breath as he carefully pulled out the handwritten sheet of paper. Using caressing strokes, he spread it open under the light.

  Up to this point, Joe had contained any premature anger or refused to pass judgment against a woman he didn’t know at all. Dan not liking her wasn’t enough for Joe. He needed hard evidence to condemn anyone—presumption of innocence and all that.

  The moment of truth had arrived.

  In his fingers, he held the crucial letter full of cold, unfeeling words. He hadn’t read it when it arrived, but he’d seen and heard Billy’s reaction. The author hadn’t considered the sense of isolation and constant danger his friend experienced day to day, the impact of her cruel sentiments on his state of mind, how easily a man’s desire to live could be snuffed out.

  Joe hesitated. He didn’t want to read it now either. A quick glance at the signature should be enough to prove her guilt or innocence.

  The wrinkled sheet, stained and smudged, taunted him. He could feel Billy’s anguish. The curious mix of print and cursive was tight and careful; the small flourish at the end of each word indicated a woman’s hand. Giving himself one more push, he read the last paragraph.

  You’re a nice kid, Billy, and that’s the problem. You’re still a boy. Somehow, you got the wrong impression. I like you, but I don’t love you. I’m not relationship material. I don’t know what love is, and I don’t care to learn. Find it with someone else. Grow up and stop begging. It’s not flattering. Let’s avoid an embarrassing confrontation when your tour is over. Don’t come around looking for me.

  Hunter

  “Bitch!” Joe punched his desk as he spit out the curse to himself.

  Heartless harpy, she’d closed the letter with a single “Hunter.” Without a good-bye, a polite farewell, a “take care,” or “be careful,” not even “go jump in the fucking lake.” He flipped the envelope around. The return address had been written in the same script: Hunter Giordano, c/o Pete’s Place…

  No personal address, the epitome of finality. She’d cut all personal ties.

  Burning fury and a crazy sense of impotence roiled in him. Good thing Hunter wasn’t within his reach, ’cause if she were… His fingers trembled with the desire to hold her by the throat and squeeze the life out of her.

  He jumped to his feet, shoved his fists into his pockets, and walked around the desk, trying to calm down. Violence wouldn’t solve anything or bring Billy back. He paced back and forth, ordering his thoughts. He stopped as the answer appeared. He folded the written sheet, carefully reinserted it in the envelope to avoid tearing the brittle paper, and closed the flap.

  Minutes passed. The small notion—the light of a flickering flame illuminated his mind. Slowly, it took shape and grew into an outline, a plan to set things right. Ms. Hunter Giordano had clearly stated she didn’t know love and didn’t care to learn. However, that had been a lot of bullshit on her part. The sort of crap one used to break up with a lover. He’d seen her tonight in action. She didn’t walk around in a disinterested world, detached from everyone, as she liked to pretend.

  Hunter cared. About what, Joe had no clue, nor d
id he give a rat’s ass. She’d been damned cruel and cavalier with Billy’s emotions. She’d endangered the men who fought with Billy, and Joe had lost his eye. Worse, Cooper and Billy had died because of her. Two lives. No matter how you shook it, intentionally or not, she’d incurred a karmic debt. In Joe’s view, a fix was required—retribution, a penance, an act that would restore balance to the universe.

  What better way than to pay Ms. Giordano with the same currency? It was high time she knew love, with all its happy and painful consequences. Apparently, the job to show her had fallen on him.

  Did he want to deal with this shit?

  Not really.

  But could he walk away from the task, drop this despicable letter into a rarely opened drawer, and pretend Afghanistan hadn’t happened? Could he forget the night of Cooper’s and Billy’s destruction? Could he forget his own loss and wounds?

  “No,” he murmured. “I can’t.”

  He’d undertake the assignment. Heartbreak was coming to Ms. Giordano. He shrugged. The universe demanded it.

  Hunter turned her head to the side to escape the alcohol fumes, inhaled deeply, and closed her eyes. Lying on her back, she extended her arms—the only part of her body that remained rigid, the sole outward sign of disgust against the rhythmic penetration.

  Deep within the confines of her mind, she’d set up a wholly independent and separate space for herself. A private room where she could question her ongoing self-imposed punishment, and, if necessary, scream and kick at her metaphorical walls in privacy. The real Hunter retreated there, far, far away from the repulsive act happening to her body, making it a distant event.

  I’m not here. I’m unaffected. I’m miles away.

  In a peculiar juxtaposition, as the invasive thrusts into her sheath shortened and picked up speed, her defensive fantasy slowed and expanded: she was a creature of clay. In this moment, the hardened shell warmed and loosened. Her muscles and tendons softened and turned malleable; joints and ligaments collapsed and disappeared under Aaron’s weight. Her skin melted, pooled, and dried to the consistency of flakes on the sheets. A strong gust of wind could scatter her and her sins throughout the earth.