Light of Day

by Allison van Diepen

  “Gabby . . .” He took a small step back. He looked down into my face, his eyes questioning.

  Oh my God. He’s going to kiss me.

  Please do it. Please.

  My knees faltered as he bent his head toward me. His lips were white hot on mine, and we opened our mouths to each other with a scary, almost maddening need. I couldn’t think or breathe or do anything but kiss him back.

  My body was glued against his. He pulled back for a split second, as if attempting to stop what was happening, but then we were lost again.

  At some point, he ended it, but we were still holding each other, our chests rising and falling together.

  “Sorry,” he said, clearing his throat. “Got caught up.”

  How should I respond to that? I wasn’t sorry at all.

  I saw the frown between his eyes. There were probably rules against stuff like this, I realized. Or maybe I’d been right that he had a girl waiting for him at home.

  “You’re not with someone, are you?”

  “No, I’m not. I just don’t want to mislead you.”

  I understood what he meant. He couldn’t promise me anything, not when he was working undercover. “It’s okay,” I said cheerfully. “I get it.”

  “Cool.” But his eyes glittered with skepticism, like he wasn’t sure that I did.

  LOST

  “I WAS HOPING I COULD stay over tonight.” It was the next day after school, and I sat in Sarita’s kitchen drinking jasmine green tea.

  She hadn’t been expecting me. She’d answered the door in her painting gear, a light blue muumuu flecked with every color of the spectrum. “You’re always welcome, Gabby. Spare room’s yours. But I’ll be out late with Ben, so maybe tomorrow night?”

  “Well, the thing is . . . I plan to be out late too.”

  “Ah.” Her eyes glittered. “Wanna bypass curfew, huh? Be my guest. But you’d better tell me the details if I’m going to be coconspirator.”

  “I will, but you have to promise not to tell my parents.”

  “I’m like a therapist. Total confidentiality is guaranteed unless someone’s life is in imminent danger.” She held up a paint-stained pinky. “Pinky swear.”

  I laughed. We’d been doing that since I was a kid, when I’d come to her with the things I didn’t want to tell my parents. Sarita knew about every disappointment, every schoolyard bully, every crush. She knew about the roofies incident several weeks ago, and all about my relationship with JC—the good, the bad, and the ugly. She’d been the only one who’d coached me to listen to my own heart rather than the noise around me.

  Mom was probably jealous of our relationship, but I figured that, deep down, she was glad I had an adult I could talk to.

  “You know that missing girl from my school, Bree O’Connor? I’ve been helping an undercover cop look for her.”

  Not a lot shocked Aunt Sarita, but her mouth dropped open. “Really? How’d this come about?”

  “Remember when that jerk slipped Maria and me roofies? The guy who warned me is the undercover cop. Goes by the name of X, and his cover’s a street artist. He’s trying to bust pimps who are targeting underage girls. He thinks Bree’s in one of those prostitution rings.”

  “Oh, God. That’s terrible.” Sarita gave her head a quick shake, as if she couldn’t bear to think about it. “How are you supposed to help him find her?”

  “It’s not so much that I can help him find her. X knows the streets and the club scene better than I ever will. It’s that if we do spot her, I can talk to her, hopefully convince her to make a break for it.”

  She sipped her tea, quiet for too long. “It’s admirable that you’re trying to help.”

  I was waiting for the but.

  “But if anything were to happen to you . . .” A shadow passed over her face. “I don’t know about all of this, Gabby. It makes me nervous.”

  “I’ll be with a cop. He can protect me. If anyone got near me, he’d totally flatten them.”

  She caught the look in my eye. “You’re into this cop, huh? I can’t blame you. I spent a whole decade dating men in uniform.”

  “Oh yeah? You never told me that.”

  “Military guys, cops, firefighters . . . at heart, those guys are pretty traditional. They’re looking for a conventional life and a conventional wife. That was never me.”

  “Me neither.” I was tempted to tell her about the kiss, but I stopped myself. She might not approve—not just because he was an undercover cop, but because she was always cautioning me about older guys. I figured she’d gotten involved with an older guy when she was my age and had lived to regret it.

  Instead I told her about Miss Lisa’s prediction at the psychic fair. “She said the person I was supposed to help was in a place of darkness, but I could help them break free. That was the same night Bree went missing. It can’t be a coincidence.”

  “My thoughts exactly.” Unlike my mom, Sarita wouldn’t automatically dismiss the words of a psychic. “All right, Gabby. I’ll give you a key.”

  I smiled. Tonight was a go.

  Ten o’clock. The Phoenix.

  Posh and exclusive, the Phoenix was a go-to for celebs coming to Miami. Although the club was notorious for brawls between hip-hop artists, the violence only made the place more popular.

  Turns out the club was a favorite among high-rollin’ pimps too.

  I’d left the car at Sarita’s and taken a short bus ride downtown. Parking was almost impossible to find around here, and anyway, I hoped X would drive me home. With any luck, we’d be bringing Bree home too.

  I met him outside the club. The sight of him blew me away. He was dressed GQ—pinstripe blue shirt, low-rise jeans, brown leather shoes. He was clean-shaven, and had used a touch of product in his close-cropped brown hair. I knew before I got near him that he’d smell of some sexy cologne, and God, did he ever.

  I wished that I could step right into his arms, pull his face down to mine, and transport us back to last night’s incredible kiss. But his body language—hands in pockets, keeping his distance—told me not to. I reminded myself that this was his job. And getting involved with a minor would be against the rules.

  X took my hand and we walked up to one of the doormen. I was holding my fake ID, but the doorman didn’t bother with it. He pounded knuckles with X, lifted the velvet rope, and waved us in. I wondered if he knew that X was undercover, or if he knew him some other way.

  X took my ID from me and studied it. “Carlita Gonzalez, twenty-two. Guess I’m with an older woman tonight.” He examined the picture. “Close enough.”

  I paused. Older woman? He must mean that his cover was supposed to be younger than twenty-two. He couldn’t possibly be a cop and be twenty-one, could he?

  “My friend Maria’s sister,” I explained. “She gives us all her old IDs.”

  “My big brothers weren’t so generous. I had to steal theirs.”

  So he had older brothers too, not just a younger one. I wanted to ask more about his family, but I didn’t have the chance. He led me forward into the crowded darkness.

  Unlike the tourist trap that was the Space, this club was long and narrow, a maze of connecting rooms. I had the sudden memory of going into a haunted house when I was thirteen, and freaking out as creatures emerged from all sides. The décor was black and red wine, from the velvet couches to the curtains lining alcoves. As we walked through the different rooms, I counted six bars, manned by half-naked female bartenders who looked like supermodels.

  X ushered me to a cozy corner table where a tall, tattooed guy was chilling. The guy didn’t look like a cop; most of the exposed area of his body was inked.

  “Hey hey!” He bumped fists with X.

  “Manny, meet Gabby.”

  “Hola, chica.” Manny smiled appreciatively, eyes drifting over me. I pulled down the hem of my dress, which had ridden up as I sat down. Like X, I was done up for the club scene—short black dress, faux-leather jacket, big, glossy curls, and dark, chic makeu
p.

  “So, Gabriella,” Manny said, rolling his r and rubbing his goatee. “What are we drinking? Soda? Juice box?”

  I could see that he was playing with me. “Club soda with lime.”

  “Fancy. I’ll go get it. Shitty table service ’round here.” He bounced out of his seat and went up to the bar.

  X spoke close to my ear. “Milo was seen here last Friday night, but Bree wasn’t with him.” The feel of his breath on my neck made me shiver. “If we see her, I’ll find a way for you to talk to her. You won’t have a lot of time. You should have ready what you’re going to say.”

  I nodded. “I know Bree. She’ll talk to me.”

  I glimpsed the doubt in his eyes. “You’ll need to convince her to go somewhere with you, somewhere safe, where you can talk more. Don’t say anything about involving the police or her parents. Nothing that could faze her.”

  X could be wrong. From what I’d seen of Bree’s family, they were warm, supportive people. But I guess if Bree had been through a lot of trauma since her disappearance, the thought of her parents could overwhelm her.

  “Our exit route?”

  “The back door of the club. Past that Exit sign.” He pointed down a dark hallway. “From there, we’d take her back to my place.”

  “Okay, makes sense.”

  “Whatever you do, don’t talk to Milo or anyone with him, male or female,” X warned. “If things go wrong, stay near me or Manny. We won’t let anything happen to you.”

  Manny returned with three drinks. X took his Coke from him. “I’ll be back in a little while. Hang with Manny.” And with that, he disappeared into the club.

  “Guess it’s just you and me, sweetie pie.” Manny lifted his drink. “Cheers to that.”

  “Cheers. Lot of ink you’ve got there, buddy.”

  Manny ran his hands down his arms with fake sensuality. “What can I say? I’m a canvas of artistic beauty. You got any?”

  “No. My parents would freak. And I can’t think of anything that would be meaningful enough that I’d want to keep it on me forever.”

  “I got a love/hate relationship with them, you know? These tats saved my life a few times. And they’ve almost gotten me killed too. So I guess it evens out.”

  X slid in beside me then. “Milo’s here.”

  A chill went through me. “Bree?”

  “I couldn’t tell. I want you to walk by his table. He’s got some girls with him. None of them look like Bree to me, but I can’t be sure. If she’s going out, she’d probably make herself look different.”

  My pulse kicked up. “Where is he?”

  “In the next room.” He nudged his chin in the direction he’d come from. “He’s in a booth with two big guys and three girls. He’s Hispanic, twenty-five, black collared shirt. Looks like a college athlete. Doesn’t look like what he is. Make sure you don’t stare, don’t draw his attention.”

  I nodded, and got up.

  X put a hand on my arm. “If she’s there, don’t stop, and don’t make eye contact. Just come back this way and let me know.”

  “All right.”

  Taking a breath, I slowly walked into the other room, sipping my soda as I went. The room was packed with people, and X’s description of Milo was pretty generic. But then I saw him.

  Doesn’t look like what he is. Milo looked like a rich college boy, not a pimp. It made sense—he wouldn’t have been able to lure Bree if he were decked out in fur and covered in bling. He was clean-cut, dressed sharp. In fact, he looked like an older, more polished version of JC. Maybe that was part of the appeal, I thought dismally. Bree had always had a sweet spot for JC.

  One thing was clear—Bree wasn’t with him. The three girls at Milo’s table were heavily made up, but I would’ve recognized Bree immediately.

  “Then where is she?” I asked X once I got back to the table.

  “He must be worried someone will spot her. Guess he’s gonna keep her in hiding for a while.” He sighed. “I know you’re disappointed, Gabby. This is what we deal with all the time. You think you’re making progress, then the pimps switch it up.”

  I gritted my teeth. “What about the other girls with him? Maybe I could talk to one of them if they go to the bathroom. Find out where Bree is.”

  X shook his head. “No way. Milo’s girls are loyal to him.”

  Manny gave me a sympathetic look. “Pimps have got PhDs in manipulation. That’s how they do what they do.”

  “But—it makes no sense!” It was hard to believe that Milo’s girls were so devoted to him when he was selling them for sex. Who would put up with that?

  “They see him as their protector,” X said, putting a firm hand on my arm. He probably didn’t trust me not to do something stupid.

  My fists tightened. I wanted to march right up to Milo’s table and punch him in the face. I wanted to demand that those girls tell me where the fuck Bree was.

  X must’ve sensed my mood. “We’d better go now. I’ll drive you home.”

  I didn’t argue. If I stayed here much longer, I really might do something stupid. I got up. “Bye, Manny.”

  Manny gave a somber wave. “Bye, chica.”

  Outside, we headed for his car. I was so frustrated I wanted to scream. With every step we took away from the club, I was getting farther and farther away from the answers I needed.

  X opened the door for me, then got in. He started to drive, heading south. “I’m staying at my aunt’s tonight on Twenty-Seventh Street.”

  “Sure.”

  I didn’t trust myself to say more. I’d probably take my frustrations out on him, and he didn’t deserve it.

  “Manny’s gonna tail him tonight,” he assured me. “If we can find out where he stays, or where his girls are staying, that’ll help.”

  “That’s good. Whatever has to be done—do it. I know you’ve got different operations going on, and you’re probably under a lot of pressure, but don’t give up on Bree.”

  “I won’t.”

  “Tell me one thing, though.” I paused, trying to think of a rational way to say it, then decided I didn’t care. “Can’t you just fucking arrest Milo? I mean, you spotted him with Bree. Isn’t that enough to bring him in? Maybe you could, I don’t know, break his knuckles and make him talk.”

  X looked at me sharply, then he turned back to the road, saying nothing.

  Of course. What could he say? He couldn’t bring Milo in and rough him up. And even if he did arrest him, Milo would probably send Bree far away where no one could find her. But still. The powerlessness was driving me crazy.

  He turned off at the next exit, but instead of continuing on toward Coral Gables, he pulled into the nearest parking lot and cut the engine.

  Anticipation slid through me, taking the edge off my anger. What was this about?

  The air in the car crackled with tension. He shifted in his seat, as if he was working up the courage to say something. As far as I was concerned, he didn’t have to say a thing. I popped some gum into my mouth.

  He looked over at me. “Gabby . . .”

  I leaned in toward the gearshift, giving him the green light to get closer.

  “You think I’m a cop.”

  I sat upright, as if I’d been splashed with cold water. “Of course I do. Sorry, but it’s pretty obvious.”

  “I’m not a cop.”

  I sighed. “Look. I know you can’t confirm it. I probably shouldn’t have even mentioned it, but I’m frustrated that it’s taking so long to find Bree.”

  “I’m not a cop, Gabby.”

  I searched his eyes, not knowing what to believe. “So what are you, then? A street artist named X? You admitted that was a cover.”

  “It is, basically.”

  Then I realized what he was doing. My little outburst had made him think I was volatile—volatile enough to break my promise and talk about all of this on my radio show.

  “I would never do anything to jeopardize your operation. I’ll never talk about it on the ai
r, or to anyone.” Even as I said it, I remembered that I’d already mentioned it to Sarita. But it would go no further than that.

  “You’re not hearing me, Gabby. I’m not a cop. I never said I was.”

  “What was I supposed to think? That you follow around pimps and track missing girls as a hobby?”

  “It’s not a hobby to me. It’s . . .” A light came into his eyes. “It’s a calling.”

  Something inside me stilled. He was telling the truth. And it made absolutely no sense. “Are you an informant, then? You help the police?”

  He shook his head. “Nothing like it. I prefer to avoid the cops altogether. They’re no help at all.”

  I was mystified. “So if you’re not a cop, then what are you?”

  “I’m part of a group. We help girls caught in sex trafficking.”

  “Like, a citizens’ group?”

  His mouth lifted at the corner. “You could say that. We’re called the Destinos.”

  My jaw dropped. The Destinos?

  Everyone knew about the Destinos. They were a badass street gang. Last year they’d gained a reputation for taking down Los Reyes, a brutal gang that had dominated the Miami drug and sex trades.

  “You’ve obviously heard of us.”

  “I know of a gang called the Destinos. Is that the one?”

  “Yeah.” His mouth crooked. “You’ve probably heard that we stir shit up. We do. But we hyped that reputation to scare Salazar and the Reyes gang. Once they were dealt with, we went underground. That’s how we work best. We like to sneak up on the bad guys.”

  I didn’t know how to react. So the Destinos were about helping people? Anyone who knew about them would think they were just another street gang. Sure, they were responsible for taking down Los Reyes, but that was because they were involved in a turf war. Or so I’d thought.

  “I never tried to deceive you, Gabby,” he said regretfully. “I hope you know that.”

  Did I? Why couldn’t he have told me he was a Destino?

  To think I’d walked the streets with a gang member believing he was a cop. I’d felt so safe with him, so sure that he could protect me. But as a member of one of Miami’s most notorious street gangs, he was more likely to be a target of a rival gang than my protector.