Immoral

by Skylar Cross

  The place is even better in person.

  Everything brand new and recently renovated. Fenced and gated. Security system. Hardwood floors. Updated kitchen and bathroom.

  But the best part is the little balcony that looks out over a courtyard with a fountain. It's tiny, but just big enough for one chair and my laptop.

  God, I'm going to get a lot of writing done here!

  Ha!

  "Thank you, Iz," I say as I hug her.

  "You're fucking welcome," she says.

  We stay like that for a minute or so, just enjoying the empty space. My empty space.

  Then we return to her car. Soon we're back in Damien's driveway to pick up my ancient Toyota Corolla that Jasmine had sent to the tire place.

  Security buzzes us in, but my car isn't there. Just a shiny black one in the circular driveway.

  A burly security guy in a dark jacket shows up out of nowhere. He holds a set of car keys in his hand.

  "Annika Spenser?" he says.

  "Yes," I say.

  "Jack Doyle, Mr. Cage's head of security. He and Miss Ryder are in a meeting off premises but said you'd be by to pick up your car. Here are the keys."

  He hands them to me and I take them.

  "These aren't mine," I say. "And my car isn't here."

  "That's your car," he says, gesturing to the shiny black car.

  "No. No. I know my car. That's not my car."

  "Mr. Cage said you might say that. So please don't be offended but he told me to say to you in these words 'Shut-up-and-take-the-fucking-car. It's-registered-in-your-name.' Then he said to walk away and wish you a good day. Please don't hold it against me. Mr. Cage pays me well so I do what he tells me. Nice to meet you, Miss Spenser. "

  He walks off.

  "I can't take this!" I say, calling after him as he disappears into the house through a side door.

  I go over to the car. It's a 2014 Ford Fusion. I open the door and put the key in the ignition. The odometer reads 000042.

  "It's fucking brand new!" I say.

  "Honey, you're living in a new world," says Isabella. "You're movin' on up to the East Side."

  "Huh?"

  "The Jeffersons! Movin' on up. You know."

  "Why am I the only person on earth who doesn't know who The Jeffersons are? And why did two people mention them to me within twenty-four hours? But more importantly, how can I accept a car from Damien? How can I accept a luxury apartment for pennies from Greg Fucking Colton? How the fuck do I tell my mom all this without her thinking I'm fucking all of Miami to get all this shit?"

  "It's time, Annika," says Isabella. "You've got to figure out how to do it. And then do it."

  "I know."

  "Looks like Damien forgave you, by the way. Think you can rest easy about that."

  "No shit, huh?"

  We hug and say our goodbyes.

  I get in my brand new car and start it up. I open the window and squeal again at Isabella as she gets in her Porsche. She pulls out and drives off.

  Just before I pull out, I find the note I wrote to myself.

  Shit, I totally forgot about that damned phone call.

  I put the car in gear and drive home.

  On the way home, I get caught in traffic again. But this time it's sheer pleasure in delightful air-conditioned comfort.

  Chapter 31

  I park as close to the next door neighbor's house as I can so my mom doesn't notice the new car.

  My headache is back too. Two Advils are floating around in me but I need another full night's sleep to recover. Not just from yesterday but from all the excitement of getting my own place and a new car.

  All in one day!

  I'm seriously pinching myself.

  I sneak into the house, crossing my fingers that my mom didn't notice the it. Just don't want to get into it with her right now. Morning will be better. After a fresh cup of coffee.

  "Annika, is that you?" she says.

  "Hi, mom," I say.

  "Are you feeling better?"

  "Much better. Really better. Super better."

  We do our usual recap of the world's events. Gays are having too much fun. The President is a socialist. Miley Cyrus twerking in her little shorts is the ultimate source of evil in the world. I skip over 99% of everything I've done, brushing things off with, "Oh, Iz and I just hung out and watched a couple of movies."

  Amazing how my mom still buys that after all these years.

  We eat dinner, watch a rerun of The Waltons (shoot me now!), and eventually I say good night and make my way to my room.

  (But not my room for much longer. Yay!)

  I take out my Mac laptop and boot it up. I get the note out of my bag. I Google "arelie gutierrez machado brimford ma".

  Top five results are news articles dated January 19, 2011. Three years ago. Each is a variation of the same story. A 33-year old man named Arely Gutierrez-Machado was shot execution-style behind a club off the main street in Brimford, Massachusetts. Worked as a mechanic. Leaves behind three kids by three different women. Lived in Brimford his entire life. No arrests. No suspects. Police say they are investigating.

  Damien a cold-blooded killer? My spidey sense says no. Tough, yes. Kick your ass, yes. Punch somebody, yes. Defend his home with a weapon, yes.

  But kill in cold blood?

  No.

  Not Damien Cage.

  No way.

  Right?

  Right?

  * * *

  I have a dream that Damien sings Nickelback's Far Away then gets into a rocketship that takes off into space, never to return. A crowd is gathered at the launch site. Greg Colton walks up to me and says, "You're a dirty girl." Then the third pool girl walks up to me and says, "You can't even remember my name, you slut!" and slaps me in the face.

  Then I wake up.

  6:03 says my alarm clock.

  Shit.

  I get up, shower, and leave the house before my mom even wakes up.

  Soon I'm parked on Grand near the Coconut Grove Starbucks, a healthy amount of iced caramel cappuccino zapping through my bloodstream.

  In my amazing new car!

  I swear I don't want to get out of it. And I'm being super-duper careful not to spill anything on my new seats.

  Gently, I put my drink into one of the built-in holders.

  Then I close my eyes and take a deep breath.

  Time to make a phone call.

  I used to make my phone calls from the office Dale and I shared but looks like this 2014 Ford Fusion is my office now. Almost as big, actually.

  I pick up my cell phone and dial the Brimford, Massachusetts police department. I take a deep breath.

  "Brimford Police," says the operator. "This call is being recorded."

  "Detective Gomez, please," I say.

  "One moment."

  I take a deep breath.

  "Gomez," says a masculine voice.

  "Hello, Detective Gomez," I say, "My name is Annika Spenser of MiamiImproper.com. We're gathering some background information about an unsolved murder from 2011 and my research shows you were the investigator on the case."

  "You're calling from where?"

  Shit, he had to clarify, didn't he?

  "MiamiImproper.com," I say. "We're a small news magazine here in Miami. The case was the murder of a man named Arely Gutierrez-Machado on January 18, 2011."

  Silence, then I hear keys tapping.

  "Your website is down," he says.

  Shit.

  "Really?" I say. "I'll have to call the office about that."

  "Your last name is Spenser with an S?" he says.

  "Yes, that's me."

  More silence. More keys tapping.

  "I see some of your articles archived on Google," he says. "Most recent is an interview with rock star Damien Cage."

  He chuckles.

  Asshole.

  "Yes," I say.

  "Why would you want to know about the murder of a small-time hood three years ago and fifte
en hundred miles away?" he says.

  I had planned for this question.

  "A tip," I say. "Probably some troll making things up, but I always follow through on leads."

  "What kind of tip?" he says.

  "A phone call I received from an unknown number. Said I should investigate the connection between a Jose Gonzales here in Miami and that murder case."

  I picked a very common fake name on purpose. Don't want to incriminate anybody.

  "Do you have a date of birth for Jose Gonzales?" says Gomez.

  "No I don't," I say.

  "How about an address?"

  "No. He just said Miami."

  Gomez snorts.

  Shit, that's weak, isn't it? Can I get a do-over? Nope, too late.

  "Why would someone call you to give you this tip do you think?" he says in a clearly condescending tone.

  I give my phone the finger.

  "I honestly don't know," I say.

  "Well, there's not much I can tell you, Miss Spenser," he says. "Straightforward murder. Shot execution style in the parking lot of Club Cabrillo in Brimford."

  "Do you have any leads?"

  "That's privileged information, Miss Spenser. As a reporter you should know that. But what I find more perplexing about your phone call is the fact that I'm working on a very similar case. In almost exactly the same location. Two weeks ago. It's been in all the papers."

  "What's your local paper?" I say.

  "The Eagle-Tribune covers the region. It's all there. So you think this Jose Gonzales had something to do with it?"

  He says Jose Gonzales like he knows I'm full of shit.

  "I don't know", I say, clearing my throat. "Well, thank you for your time, Detective Gomez."

  "If you uncover anything with your investigation," he says with another shot of sarcasm, "please call us, Miss Spenser."

  "Thanks," I say and hit End. "Dickwad!"

  I throw my phone on the passenger seat.

  Shit.

  Oh my God, that was a clusterfuck!

  He Googled me and found my article on Damien. While not much, it might get him thinking about Damien. I hope I haven't created a problem for Damien by making that call.

  Fuck! What if I just brought a world of hurt down on Damien's head? I really didn't think that through, did I?

  Did Damien kill this Arely guy?

  I take out my laptop and sign into the Starbucks free wifi. I Google "brimford eagle tribune" and find the newspaper's website.

  A few more clicks and there it is. Angel Rosario Suarez, 31, killed execution-style behind Club Cabrillo on Main Street in Brimford on June 28, 2014.

  Shit, where was Damien on June 28?

  L.A.! That was the day at the pool with Tara, Tiffany, and... what's-her-name.

  Did he really fly to L.A.? Or did he fly to Boston?

  Why would a rock star who lives in Miami be killing small-time Latino criminals fifteen hundred miles away?

  Makes no sense.

  But I'm alive in a whole different way. I'm a reporter. I love mysteries that need to be solved. My brain is fully active, looking for clues and strands of clues.

  God, I love being intelligent!

  Time to do some more digging.

  Chapter 32

  "How does it feel to be in your own place?" says Delphina.

  She's wearing a little more makeup today. Hair a little different. Same style clothes, but I swear she's dropped a couple of pounds.

  "Great!" I say. "Even though I haven't actually moved in yet."

  Delphina frowns.

  "I thought you said you've already decorated," she says.

  "I have," I say as I look down at a spot on the rug and pick my nail. "But I haven't actually spent a night there yet."

  "So let me get this straight," she says. "You've had a new apartment for three days. Which you've furnished and decorated. But you haven't left your mother's house yet. Have you even told your mother?"

  I never noticed the color of the carpet before. It's kind of a light pink. Very odd.

  "Umm... no," I say.

  "Annika," she says, "you're making progress by leaps and bounds in almost everything in your life. I'm very proud of you. I can see the change even in the short time we've been meeting. But you know and I know there's one area you need to focus on. One area that's truly holding you back."

  I bite a nail and stare at the waterfall in the picture on the wall. Wonder where that is.

  "I know," I say. "I'm working up to it."

  Delphina does the head-tilt go on thing. Shit, I'm starting to hate that.

  "It's just that," I say, "It's like... okay, I have this memory of being a little kid. My mom and I driving to my grandparents' house in her rusty old car. My grandma would take care of me while my mom went to work. It was a struggle. But she did it. She took care of me so well as a single mother. I feel like I owe it to her not to leave her all alone. I mean... who else can she talk to?"

  "Doesn't she have friends?"

  "A couple. But she's very... reclusive. She doesn't have friends like normal people have friends. She talks to them on the phone but they never get together. I'm her friend. I'm the one she always wants to talk to."

  Head-tilt. Nod.

  I look at the carpet again. Still light pink.

  "Then there's the cancer," I say.

  "You said the doctors removed it all," she says.

  "Yes, they did. But if it came back while I'm not there..." My eyes are filling again. Dammit I'm sick of crying! "... I'd feel like it came back because I caused it."

  "How could you possibly cause cancer, Annika?"

  I snort because the question is so absurd.

  "I know," I say, "but that's exactly how I feel. I think I'm convinced her cancer is going to return if I move out."

  "Isn't that a bit irrational?"

  "Yes it is, I just read that sometimes once people are separated they die from a broken heart."

  "But you're just moving across the bay, not to China."

  I snort again.

  "When you or I say it here in this room," I say, "it sounds ridiculous. But in my head it's so real. Not to mention this whole thing with Damien is so confusing."

  Head-tilt. Nod.

  "I've been having a lot of fun," I say. "Well, a lot of sex I mean. Which is fun. But none of it with Damien. Even though he's encouraged it. It's so weird. I feel like I'm having sex with him through other people, if that makes any sense. He wanted me to get with Isabella, the pool girls, and Jasmine. Which was all very liberating and eye-opening. I don't regret it. It's just that..."

  Head-tilt. Nod.

  I swear one of these days I'm going to do it back at her. She probably wouldn't even notice.

  "It's like he's keeping me at arm's length," I say. "There's this incredible sexual tension whenever I'm with him. Thick as a big storm cloud full of lightning bolts. But he holds me in place, never letting us step into it together. Then he fucks other girls."

  "And you think he doesn't have feelings for you because he won't have sex with you?"

  "No, I get it. I'm smart. The girls he has sex with are throwaway girls, and I get the feeling that maybe... just maybe... he doesn't want to throw me away and that's why we haven't had sex. Wow, that was a mouthful."

  "You mentioned before there is some sort of a mystery girl who nobody talks about."

  "Yes. She must have done a job on him. He seems to have some sort of problem letting go of her."

  "Perhaps he never will. Are you prepared for that possibility?"

  The waterfall in the picture just remains in its frozen moment of captured flow. I look at my nail. It's bleeding.

  "I don't know," I say.

  Chapter 33

  "This is more like it," says Damien, reading from his iPad.

  We're sitting in a movie theater. Yes¸ a movie theater built right into his house! But why wouldn't Damien Cage have a movie theater built right into his house, right?

  "Really g
ood," he says. "Some amazing phraseology here. I like how you drew a comparison between the meteoric rise of Eon Sphinx to the booster separation of a rocket. I think I'm hard."

  "Thanks," I say. "Came to me in a dream."

  He turns and looks at me with that goddamned Lord Byron underlook again.

  Tingle.

  Then he returns to reading.

  Today he's in a white sleeveless shirt with a pointy collar. Open at the front. Naturally. Gotta keep those abs on display.

  I can't help but stare at his chest tats through the opening as he reads. There is no fat on this man. None at all. As he breathes, his chest muscles protrude and contract like he's doing bench presses.

  Tingle.

  I uncross and recross my legs.

  He turns those amazing baby blues back at me. God, each time it's like a hit of a drug. A happy drug.

  But are these the eyes of a cold-blooded killer?

  I look deep into them while twirling my hair.

  Definitely not.

  More than ever, I'm convinced that the phone call I received is some prank. I couldn't find any connection between Damien and Arely Gutierrez-Machado. I've resolved to forget about it completely.

  "Good job, Annika Spenser from MiamiImproper.com," he says as he shuts down the screen and leans back.

  "I didn't tell you," I say, looking over at some empty seats. "There is no more MiamiImproper.com."

  "Not surprised," he says. "They were using a business model from the 1990s."

  I haven't asked him about helping Steve yet. Don't know why. Maybe it's because deep down I know what he just said is the truth.

  He continues to stare at me.

  My breathing eases. That's the effect Damien Cage has on me. Total calmness. Total rightness. I'll do anything for this man.

  He folds his hands and stares at the floor.

  "You know," he says, "the last time you were here I got a little freaked out," he says. "Didn't mean to."

  "It's okay," I say. "It's all behind us... in large part thanks to Jasmine. And the car is amazing. I really don't deserve that."

  "Yes you do. Besides, I can't be responsible for you dying in that ancient heap you drove before."

  "Well, thank you. I love it."