If I Had Two Lives

by A B Whelan

“Well, then hire a caterer. You work with them all the time. We don’t have to deal with the food.”

  “Let me ask around. Are you coming home tomorrow?”

  The sound of his car engine starting up drowns out his voice.

  “I should be, but I’ll call you anyway to let you know.”

  “Take care of yourself, alright? Love ya,” he says this last part with no affection in his voice, like an afterthought or out of habit.

  “Yeah, love you too.”

  After I hang up, I google any available nearby hotel rooms. Prior to Doug’s call, I was leaning toward a cheap motel for the night, but now I feel the need for something a bit more extravagant.

  I book a king room at Morongo Casino and Resort with a desert-canyon view and roll out of the parking lot. The spa closed at seven, so I missed any chance of a deep tissue massage, but the bar and pool are still open.

  During check-in, I keep reminding myself that Doug and I haven’t had a real vacation in ages and I deserve a night of relaxation, but guilt completely takes over by the time I get to my room.

  A couple of mini-bottles of wine stacked in the room’s refrigerator rejuvenate my adventurous spirit, however. I shower and head down to the buffet to eat.

  As I enjoy a slice of medium-rare prime rib with mashed potatoes and corn on the cob, I delve into the files once again.

  Blake’s secondary emergency contact listed in his paperwork is a woman named Barbara Sullivan. The relationship and the address aren’t identified, only a phone number with a 951 area code. I make a note to call her, hoping she might be able to tell me more about Blake’s whereabouts.

  Blake Sullivan had no transgressions prior to the assault. After I read through the description of his uneventful life in prison, my expectations of finding anything of value fall to zero.

  I flip the file closed and head to the dessert bar. I wonder what the hell I’m doing conducting an unauthorized search for a missing brother I’ve never known. But it’s too late to stop digging now, especially when so much is at stake. I have to find Blake Sullivan and prove to the chief that, if he is indeed my blood brother, then it was a secret kept from me by my parents and not a stain on my family’s reputation I intentionally tried to hide.

  When I return to my table with a plate of various dessert samples, I check Doug’s Instagram to see if he’s posted about the gathering at the bar. He never disappoints. An enhanced colored photo loads on the screen, showing his highly touched up and altered face that makes his jawline look narrower and his face more defined. He is sitting by the bar, posing between Ethan and a blonde female, his arms looped over their shoulders. The caption reads: You are the average of the five people you spend your time with. I’m lucky to be working with these two insanely smart and hardworking friends of mine. Dozens of hashtags follow: #entrepreneur #boss #agent #businessman #success #workhardplayhard, etc. I stop reading through the list before I throw up in my mouth.

  He never posts a picture of me or us. I guess having an FBI-agent partner isn’t as cool as working with a young and sexy mortgage lender.

  I poke at my cup of tapioca pudding, my appetite drifting away. People laugh around me, enjoying a late-night dinner with friends or family. I’m the only one sitting at a table alone.

  To escape the exposure of my sad little life, I gather my belongings and head back to my room. I change into a bathing suit I picked up at the gift shop on the first floor and go back down to the pool.

  I smuggle a pocketful of mini hard-alcohol bottles into the hot tub, where I lie back, letting the buzz envelop me and numb my racing brain. The strong scent of chlorine is nauseating, and, mixed with the booze, I soon drop into a dream world.

  I open my eyes at the sounds of water splashing. A man, a few years my junior, is in the hot tub with me. His elbows are resting over the edge, his eyes set on me.

  I sit up straight and push my back against the jets, embarrassed.

  “Sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you,” he says, smiling.

  He is not particularly handsome for my taste, but there is a mischievous look in his eyes that I find alluring. He reminds me of the boys’ soccer coach from when I was in high school. I spent endless nights talking about that coach with my girlfriends during sleepovers; about the things we would do to him and would let him do to us.

  “It’s all right. I better get going. I’m getting prune fingers anyway.” I turn my hands palm out to show him my creased skin. “I’ll let you enjoy your privacy.” As I push up from my sitting position, I falter a bit. In a heartbeat, the man scoops me up and steadies me. I avoid his eyes as I sit upon the ledge.

  “I think it’s better if you take a breather before leaving. You don’t want to hurt yourself on your way back to your room.”

  I chuckle idiotically. “That would be embarrassing.”

  “Happens to the best of us. It’s quite dangerous being in a hot tub by yourself. I know someone whose husband drowned in a hot tub while using it alone.”

  It’s a strange feeling to allow myself to talk to a stranger under these conditions. It’s an even stranger feeling to admit to myself that I yearn for company. Doug is out tonight, drinking and having fun with his female associates. If I questioned him about it, he’d say there’s no harm in talking.

  I learn that my companion’s name is Tyler. He is twenty-eight years old. The company he works for installs fire-suppression systems and he is at the casino for a maintenance issue. He lives in Calabasas. None of those details matter to me because he is funny and exciting, but the detective in me can’t stop interrogating him. He doesn’t seem to mind sharing his personal information with a woman he just met in a hotel’s hot tub.

  We order a few cocktails to keep the party going. I’m aware that I’m not supposed to get too friendly with a stranger when drinking alone. Not to mention that I have a boyfriend who lives with me, and I was raised better than to forget that.

  Tyler pulls out an electric vape from his bag, and we take hits from the device like college buddies. I laugh so hard that my side hurts.

  It must be getting quite late, but I don’t want to go back to my cold and empty room. Most likely Doug is still out too.

  Now that I’ve learned my parents have been lying to me my entire life, I feel abandoned. It doesn’t help that since joining the force years ago, my childhood friends and I have slowly drifted apart too. Now I have no one left to trust.

  Lethargy takes over my mood. Tyler moves close to me. His wet naked upper body is steaming in the night air. I lean back against the tiles. Tyler puts his hands on my waist, and I let him. His fingers trail down to my knees. He separates my legs and pushes into their cradle. He starts kissing my neck.

  “It’s okay if I do this?” he asks in a mere whisper, hypnotizing me with his dark eyes.

  I scream NO inside, but I’m too enthralled to move or say a word. Not because I’m afraid of this stranger, but because I want this man close to me, I want him to touch me, even though I know it’s wrong.

  He pulls me back into the hot bubbling water and onto his lap, gently kissing me. His hands go on a discovery tour of my body. The sensation of being wanted and desired numbs my senses. He slips a finger inside me, and we go a step further into adultery. Then the edge of the hot tub scraps my back and the pain shocks me back to my senses.

  I push away from the young man. “I can’t do this. I’m sorry.”

  He looks up at me with puppy eyes. “Did I hurt you?”

  I bury my face in my hand. “No, I-I gotta go.”

  I step out of the pool and wrap myself in a towel, picking up the empty bottles in haste.

  “I shouldn’t have pushed myself on you. I’m sorry.”

  I stop for a second and gather my thoughts. I look Tyler in the eye and clear my throat. “You didn’t do anything wrong. I live with someone. I shouldn’t have …” the last word dangles in my mouth, the sentence unfished. “It was nice to meet you, Tyler. I hope you enjoy the rest of your stay,” I s
ay before rushing out of the pool area and back to my room.

  I pace back and forth in front of my bed for some time, time that seems an eternity, restless from the romantic episode. On an impulse, I get dressed and go down to the casino where I gamble away nearly five hundred dollars on the slot machines in an hour.

  10

  The alarm finds me tangled in the bedsheet and drenched in sweat. The six-hour sleep I managed to squeeze in last night wasn’t nearly enough to cure my hangover. My head is killing me, and I’m in desperate need of a cup of strong coffee and solid food.

  “Damn it, you’re never going to grow up!” I lecture myself as I crawl out of bed to take a cold shower.

  My hair is dripping water onto my naked shoulders when I call reception for the clothes I sent down last night for laundry. I’m tempted to order room service and skip the free breakfast, but spending almost a thousand dollars on this night-out to spite Doug makes me think twice. He’ll call to question me about the money when he checks our joint bank account. He always does. I’ll tell him that the Bureau will reimburse me for the expenses, which usually diffuses the situation.

  Dressed in yesterday’s clothes—although washed and steamed—I step into line to get some scrambled eggs, roasted potatoes, an English muffin, and some fresh fruit. The coffee is thin and tasteless, so I pour myself three cups to feel a jolt of caffeine.

  “Good morning,” a familiar voice floats over my shoulder, startling me enough to spill a bit of coffee onto my eggs. “Oh, sorry, let me get you another plate,” says Tyler, reaching for my food.

  I snatch the edge of the plate to prevent him from taking it. “It’s fine. Don’t worry about it,” I say without making eye contact.

  “How’d you sleep?” The manifestation of my shame pulls out a chair at my table and sits down across from me. He waves down the server for coffee and orange juice.

  “Probably as good as you did,” he says jokingly to ease my discomfort.

  I’m not in the mood for sharing breakfast with a stranger who had his finger in my private parts a few hours ago.

  “How long are you staying in the hotel?” Compared to me, Tyler seems incredibly calm. His surfer t-shirt is wrinkle-free. His hair is styled and glossy. He must have spent a decent amount of time in the bathroom to look that good this early in the morning.

  “Actually, I’m about to leave. Duty calls. I-I mean I have to get back to work,” I stutter, crossing my utensils over my half-finished food and finishing my water.

  Tyler’s face drops and his eyes darken. “Too bad. I was hoping we might spend some time together today.”

  I briefly glance at him, then pull some cash from my wallet to leave a tip for the server. “Yeah, taking a day off to have some fun does sound nice, but you know how it is.”

  I’m trying to be nice, but I feel I’m only encouraging his advances toward me, and I can’t deal with this right now. I have to call the Sotos and drive to Hemet to talk to them about my missing brother. I need to clear my name and get back to the vital work I’ve been doing with the team.

  I get up from the table and offer my hand to Tyler. He shakes it with a blank face I can’t read.

  “It was nice meeting you.”

  “You too,” he says.

  From my room, I call the phone number listed in Sullivan’s records as a contact number for Juan Soto. A woman answers in Spanish. I introduce myself, and in return, she hangs up on me. Astounded, I redial the number. The phone rings and rings until the same woman answers in English this time.

  Once again, I tell her my name and that I’m from the FBI. She asks me what I want with her. After I tell her it’s about Blake Sullivan, she agrees to meet me at the location that’s listed on the paperwork.

  Armed with a sense of accomplishment, I check out at the front desk and walk to my car in the parking lot. My stride slows when I notice Tyler leaning against the driver’s door. His arms are folded over his chest and his legs crossed as if him knowing my car was a natural thing.

  I elect to approach him with a stern statement to lay down boundaries. I may have been misleading him with my kindness, but this is going too far. “Look, Tyler, I appreciate the attention, and I’m sorry if I gave you to the wrong impression, but this has got to stop.”

  “Wow!” he raises his eyebrows as he pushes away from my car. “That’s not the Vicky I met last night in the hot tub.”

  I’m getting a bad vibe from this guy. My instinct tells me to draw my gun. I feel its weight on my side, holstered underneath my blazer. I play a few steps ahead in my head to ready myself.

  “You’re right. That was the alcohol taking. But like I told you, I have a boyfriend. In fact, we are about to get married,” which is not true, but I want my relationship to sound serious enough to deter him, “so what happened last night was a mistake.”

  He inches toward me, standing tall and dominating. He is a good head taller than me, which I didn’t notice last night while sitting in the bubbling hot water.

  I sweep my eyes from side to side for witnesses, but we seem to be alone unless there are people behind me.

  He gestures with his hand at me. “Come on, Vicky. We had fun last night. Why stop there? What happens in Morongo, stays in Morongo, right?” He laughs.

  My patience is wearing thin. How many times do I have to tell this guy I’m not interested in him? “All right, big boy! I gotta go. Find someone else to play with.”

  I pop the car open and reach for the handle. A rookie mistake. Tyler slips behind me and pins me against the car door with his hips. “I’m so sick of you bitches always using alcohol and drugs as an excuse for your slutty behavior,” he sneers into my ear, so close I can feel his warm breath on my skin.

  Within a fraction of a second, I pull my Glock from the holster underneath my jacket and press the barrel hard into his neck. “Back off!”

  He quickly staggers away from me, and while pointing the gun at him with one hand, I push open my blazer and flash my FBI identification badge tucked inside my blazer at him.

  He quickly ducks between two cars and disappears from my sight. I search the area for him with the tip of my gun, millions of thoughts running through my head. This predator should be arrested before he hurts someone—if he hasn’t done so already. I catch the back of his light-pink shirt dashing across the sea of cars. I could shoot him—I’m a good shot.

  I lower the gun in my hand and holster it. With my heart hammering in my chest, I take a big breath and look around to find somebody who might have seen us. An older couple is dragging luggage a good hundred yards away from me. They argue as they tread on, oblivious to my presence.

  I should go back to the hotel and collect information on my assailant. But if I do, Doug will likely find out about last night. “Stupid! Stupid! Stupid!” I bang my head against the car.

  A greasy palm print with visible fingerprints on my window catches my eye. Driven by shame for my lack of professionalism, I remove my makeup bag from my purse and brush the prints on the window with dark eye shadow powder. I lift the fingerprints with pieces of clear tape and set them on the back of one of the documents I received from Smith’s.

  The ridges and details of the prints are clear and visible. I place the evidence carefully into a bag I find in the glove compartment. I’ll be looking up Tyler in AFIS when I get back to San Diego. If that’s even his real name.

  I spend a bit more time sitting in my car. The right thing to do would be to call the local cops or at least conduct a preliminary investigation on my own. My instincts tell me to settle with the fingerprints for now. That despicable human being was confident enough to approach me and pin me to my car in broad daylight. I’d bet he has other registered offenses. He won’t get away. I’ll catch the bastard soon enough.

  11

  I call Doug from the car on my way to Hemet to see the Sotos. It’s a little past nine in the morning, but Doug’s voice is chirpy and alert.

  “What time did you get in last night?�
�� I talk to the speaker as I make my exit from Interstate 10 to Highway 79.

  “I don’t remember. Not that late. How was your night?” Doug says, gasping for air.

  “Why are you breathing so hard? What are you doing?”

  I hear the familiar sound of weights thudding onto the hardwood floor.

  “Working out. I won’t have time to hit the gym today. I have to prep Angela for the open houses this weekend.”

  “Okay,” I remark, dismissing the fact that my boyfriend often works with attractive and smart women. “Did you ask your friends about the Fourth of July party?”

  “Yep. We’re good to go. What time will you be back?” Doug asks between gulping down some drink.

  “I’m on my way to interview a witness about a case I’m working on, then I’ll be heading home. I’ll pick up burgers and sausages for the barbeque and see you at home around four-ish?”

  “Wow! You are cutting it close. You do know that the house needs to be cleaned, right? I want to remind you that inviting people over was your idea.”

  I stab at the horn before I answer, to alert a man on a wobbly bicycle swerving in the middle of the lane. “Freaking idiot!” I blurt out, navigating around the shabby-looking guy, who is either drunk or high.

  “What’s going on? You okay?” There is actually concern resonating in Doug’s voice.

  “Yeah, I’m okay. This place is a whole other California, I can tell you that. I don’t know how people can live like this.”

  “Are you alone?”

  “Yes, I’m alone. Why?”

  “Aren’t agents supposed to travel in pairs?”

  “I’m alone in the car, but I work with a team,” I lie.

  “Any Chris Hemsworth look-a-like man-in-black hitting on you?”

  “Don’t be ridiculous.”

  “Jeez, Vicky, take a joke! Well, I gotta bounce. See ya later. Don’t forget to pick up a few cases of 805 too.”

  Doug disconnects the line without giving me a chance to tell him that I find his jealousy flattering. I’m just a little too unhinged today to appreciate it. Maybe it’s better I didn’t tell him. Doug is so conceited he’d never believe I’d cheat on him and his feigned jealousy is no more than a meaningless statement.