Broken by Lies

by Rebecca Shea

  There’s a group of four men outside one of the rooms, smoking and laughing, and my heart rate increases. Leave me alone, just leave me alone. But as I approach, they all fall silent. Stepping around them, I keep my eyes focused on the sidewalk. My heart pounds wildly in my chest, and my pace quickens as I glance again at the numbers.

  127… 129…

  135… 137… 139…

  My panic begins to ease slightly. Only three doors away. Chancing a quick glance over my shoulder, I hear the squeaky hinges of a door opening just as I run square into the person exiting. I startle and try to step back as I begin apologizing profusely, but firm hands grip my shoulders, not allowing me to move.

  “I’m so sorry,” I gasp. The keycard falls from my hand and lands at the feet of the man I nearly ran over. Looking down, my eyes take in his expensive black shoes, the keycard resting on the ground just in front of him.

  His hands release my shoulders, and I lunge for the keycard, but he’s too quick, reaching down and picking it up before I can get to it. His tan fingers wrap around the cheap plastic as he stands up. In shock for a moment, I finally pull myself up and meet his amber eyes.

  “Are you okay?” He narrows his honey-colored eyes on me, and I take in his gray dress pants, black shirt, no tie. His hair is short, but slightly wispy on top—a little messy, not perfectly in place. His skin is golden brown, as if he’s been on a tropical vacation. His tan skin makes those amber eyes pop against his dark eyelashes. His square jaw is sprinkled with just enough hair to show he hasn’t shaved today, but it’s his dimples that take my breath away. He’s so well put together I’d guess he was in his thirties. He may be the most beautiful man I’ve ever laid eyes on, but he screams money, power—danger.

  “Are you okay?” he asks again, tilting his head at me as I drink him in.

  “Oh, um… yes, sorry… just nervous.” I look away from him and down to my fidgeting hands.

  He glances behind me at the men on the sidewalk and then back to me as if piecing things together. “Are they harassing you?” He gestures with his head.

  “No.” I shake my head. “I’m just tired. It’s been a really long day. I’m sorry I bumped into you,” I say timidly. I extend my hand, palm up in an unspoken gesture for him to return my keycard. My hand shakes as he looks between the card in his hand and me. His thumb flicks at the little yellow sticky note before he turns around and walks toward the door marked one hundred forty-three. He inserts the keycard and pushes the door open, holding it for me.

  My heart stammers in my chest as I approach cautiously. I notice the expensive watch on his wrist, which peeks out from his dress shirt, and the light, luxurious smell of what can only be designer cologne. The scent paralyzes me—so intoxicating that I want to press my face to his neck and breathe him in.

  Everything inside me—my good sense, my gut—screams at me not to walk toward that door, but I go against my better judgment. In three quick strides, I’m standing at the open door to my motel room as his amber eyes follow me. Brushing against him, I slide by and reach for the lights on the wall just inside the door. Only a small bedside lamp illuminates the room. I notice the musty smell as I glance around at the old furniture.

  “Close this door and lock it,” he says, pulling the keycard from the door. He steps just over the threshold and into the room, reaching out to me with the keycard. “Don’t open this door for anybody. Understand?”

  I swallow hard and nod. His fingers are warm against my palm as he places the keycard in my hand. My fingers instinctively close and trap his hand in mine. Rooted in place, he scans the room as if searching for something or someone. With no other words of warning or even a goodbye, he pulls his hand free and steps back through the door, closing it behind him with a loud bang.

  Did that just happen?

  I scramble across the old stained blue carpet to the large window. Leaning across a small table, I pull down one of the slats of the cheap metal blinds to look for the beautiful stranger. I easily find him standing just outside my door, his mobile phone pressed to his ear. His full lips barely move as he speaks into the slim phone. Catching my breath, I let go of the blinds and move quickly back to the door, at first fumbling with, but eventually inserting the chain lock just as he instructed. Glancing through the peephole, I watch him step away, then I lean back against the door, closing my eyes and burning the memory of his face into my brain.

  It takes me a few minutes to remember why I came here in the first place—bed and shower. But a shower will have to wait. Exhausted does not describe how I’m feeling. I strip down to my panties and bra and pull the covers back on the double bed as I slide in. The mattress is lumpy, but better than the one I slept on at home. I lay in the eerie silence for a few minutes, the stranger’s words of warning on repeat in my head. My heart is beating wildly, and I don’t understand why. I don’t even know this guy, but he ignited a feeling deep inside me—a feeling I thought I’d never feel again. Men were trouble for us Adams women—they had a tendency to skip town to chase their dreams and leave behind broken hearts. I sigh deeply as images of the beautiful man flash through my head. And even though I’m drained, it still takes a few minutes to calm down before I finally fall into a deep sleep.

  I SIT UP straight out of a dead sleep when I hear the banging on my door. I glance at the old alarm clock on the bedside table as it flashes three thirty-seven a.m. My heart is pounding with fear, and my mouth instantly dries. Who the hell could it be? I scurry from the bed to look through the peephole. It’s still dark outside, and I can feel the hot Phoenix air pushing its way through the flimsy motel door. Three Hispanic men are standing just outside, and the older man in the front pounds on my door again, startling me. I hear the squeaky hinges from the room next door open and the three men laugh as they step away from my door and move toward the one that just opened. They’re speaking Spanish. The sound of those squeaky hinges and the thud of a door closing tell me they’ve entered the room and found who they were looking for—not me.

  Thank God.

  I take a step back and lean against the rough-textured wall as I try to calm down. Drops of sweat roll down my temples, and I realize for the first time how hot it is in this room, even though the old air conditioner is rattling away. Pushing myself off the wall, I walk to the small unit and turn the knob to “high.” I let the cool air blow directly on my face. It does little to break the heat in the room. Grabbing my bag from the table, I head to the bathroom to shower. My heart is still racing a million miles an hour; there’s no way I’ll be able to go back to sleep.

  The bathroom is smaller than the one Mom and I had in our trailer. There’s an extra small sink, a toilet, and a shower so tiny there’s hardly room to turn around in it. I reach in and turn the water to cold, but even the cold water here is scalding hot. The showerhead is so low the water sprays my chest instead of my head. Lowering myself to wet my hair, I use the small bottle of shampoo that the motel supplied and lather it into my hair. There’s no conditioner, so I’ll have to fight with the tangles in my long hair. I’m used to this. Even at home, conditioner was a rarely seen luxury. The once white washcloth left for me is stained a dingy shade of grey, but it’s the least of my concerns. I quickly wash and rinse my body of the sudsy soap. Drying off, I send a quiet prayer to my mom. She wouldn’t approve of me doing this, but I have no other options—I have no one.

  The girl in the mirror looks back at me. She looks so lost, and I chuckle at the thought of my lost hopes and dreams. What are those? I can’t even remember. I had wanted to study law, maybe become a lawyer. That was before I realized we were dirt poor, and I had to take care of my depressed mother. We had no car, barely had food, and most of that was given to me by Mr. O’Sullivan, my manager at the grocery store.

  Everyone compliments me and tells me I’m beautiful, but I just don’t see it. I’m tall and lanky with mousy, light brown hair. My eyes are hazel; sometimes brown and sometimes green—but always dull, tired, and lifele
ss. I’m sure if I cared about my appearance, I could make myself look decent. But at home my only concern was working enough hours to keep the shitty trailer and taking a class or two at the community college so that I could eventually consider going to law school.

  When Carter was cleaning out the trailer after my mom died, he found a small notebook with my dad’s name and information in it. When he handed it to me, he did so with hesitation. Everyone in White Lake knew my father, but no one talked about him. I’d heard he was an only child and that his parents had moved away when I was just a baby. The one time I asked about him, when I was around sixteen, my mom told me he bailed on her after she told him she was pregnant with me. And by bailed, I mean he moved away for college to chase his dreams, and my mom stayed behind in White Lake to raise me. She said he was three years older than she was, and in college, and that’s where the conversation ended. Now I have his name, and with the help of the computer and librarian at the public library, I have an address—here in Phoenix.

  I sit at the small table in the room, dressed and waiting for the sun to come up. Pulling out the paper map that I got on the city bus last night, I map out the route to my dad’s house. He lives in North Central Phoenix. It’ll take two buses with one transfer, an easy trip from here, so I relax a little as the sun begins to peek through the blinds at around a quarter to six. I stuff the book I was trying to read back into my bag and pull out my wallet. Not wanting to leave my bag in the open, I shove it in the top drawer of the rickety, faux wood dresser and take a deep breath.

  Time to go meet my father.

  Thirty-five minutes and two buses later, I’m standing at the corner of an intersection in a gorgeous neighborhood full of massive ranch homes. Downtown Phoenix rests in the backdrop behind these perfectly manicured lawns. I walk the winding neighborhood streets to the address scribbled on the piece of paper that I’m clutching in my hand.

  The area is quiet as I stroll nervously toward the house at the end of the street. I recheck the address. This is it. The house is gorgeous; stucco with stone columns that create an enormous front porch. A black Mercedes Benz SUV sits in the driveway and giant clay pots full of colorful flowers line the paved sidewalk that leads to the front door. Hesitantly, I walk up the flagstone sidewalk and stand just outside the enormous wood door. My heart races as my fingers hover over the doorbell before I finally press it and take a step back. I take a few deep breaths, willing myself to calm down when I hear the shuffling of footsteps. My mind races with fear and unanswered questions. Will he know I’m his daughter? What will he look like? Do I look like him? With the click of the deadbolt, the front door swings open.

  I gasp. There’s no mistaking that the man who greets me is my father. His hazel eyes meet mine, and I can’t help but notice how tall he is, like me. He has to be at least six foot four and fit. He is lean but muscular. I can see his build easily through his fitted dress shirt and tie. He has dark brown hair with a sprinkling of gray along each temple. In his suit, he looks every part the distinguished businessman I assumed he’d be—everything my mom was not.

  “Can I help you?” His voice is hoarse, and he clears his throat as I stand and take in my father. His eyes narrow slightly as if he might see a hint of recognition.

  “Hi,” I mumble as I wipe my hands on the bottom of my dress. Realizing how ridiculous I must look, I pretend I’m smoothing out the skirt rather than wiping my sweaty hands. “Um, I’m Emilia.”

  “Emilia?” He tilts his head and studies me.

  “Yeah, Emilia,” I repeat. He genuinely has no idea who I am. “Oh God, you didn’t even know my name?” I drop my eyes. He opens the door wider and steps out onto the front porch as if to get a better look at me. Finally, his eyes widen in recognition, and then he glances around as if looking for someone else.

  “She died two months ago,” I whisper. He inhales sharply. “I’m sorry to stop by like this, but I didn’t have your number, and honestly, I didn’t know if you’d want to see me… but…” I fidget with the hem of my dress as I stumble over my words.

  He stands firm and watches me. His jaw muscles tighten as his eyes take me in from head to toe—judging me. He doesn’t speak. He just looks at me. “How did she die?” he asks me quietly as he glances over my shoulder, scanning the street behind me.

  “Suicide.” I answer him like it’s something he should know. But he wouldn’t know. He didn’t know anything about her life, about our life after he left. He nods his head. “I don’t have anyone now that she’s gone, and I just wanted…”

  “You need to leave.” His tone is firm and commanding, but not loud. “Now.”

  Leave? I’m completely caught off guard, and I struggle to speak. Tears burn at the back of my eyes, and I instantly feel my chin begin to tremble. “I came all the way from Illinois. Can we just talk for a few minutes? Please.”

  He shakes his head once. “Now is not a good time.”

  “When will be a good time?” I ask quickly, in a panic, as he backs toward his front door.

  “I don’t know. Please don’t stop by unannounced again,” he says before promptly closing the large front door with a loud bang.

  Tears fall as my throat tightens and a quiet sob escapes. I wipe my cheeks as I step back off the front porch and stumble my way down the driveway. I don’t want him to see me crying. I never needed my father growing up. As much as I wanted him, and as much as I’d like to say I don’t need him now, I do. Disappointment and hurt fill the space in my heart that I opened up to love my father.

  My heart beats rapidly as I retrace my steps back those couple of blocks to the bus stop. The day they wheeled Mom out of our trailer was the loneliest I’ve ever felt—until today. Until right now. Knowing that you have a parent that is alive but rejects you—wants nothing to do with you—has to be the loneliest feeling in the world. But to have your own flesh and blood deny you is definitely the most hurtful. Even when my mom was lost in her world of depression, she still loved and wanted me. We had nothing, but she gave me love. It was all she gave, and yet I miss it. God, I miss it… I miss her.

  PULLING INTO THIS shitty motel off the interstate, I throw the gearshift into park and take the package out of the center console. I stare at the door marked one forty-one and grind my teeth in frustration. This is the last swap. I’m not normally down in the weeds like this, but with half our guys incarcerated or dead in the last week, it’s been left to me to handle some of the dirty work. Fuck. I hate this part of the job—this is not what I do. I have a master’s degree, for fuck’s sake.

  I want this done fast and error free, which is why I’m here. I make sure my gun is loaded, and I slide it into the waistband of my pants. Then I scan the parking lot for anything suspicious before I exit the car and knock on the door. The flimsy wood door swings open, and Hector greets me.

  “Alejandro.” Hector and his guys deal the drugs my family and associates bring across the border. He and my father have been in “business” together for over twenty-five years. And even though my father trusts him, I don’t.

  He nods and steps aside to let me enter, eyeing the wrapped package in my hand. Strutting to the dresser, he pulls a fast food paper bag out of the top drawer. “Es todo lo que hay.”

  “It’s all in here? All fifty?” I open the paper bag and glance at the neatly bound stacks of cash inside.

  “Si.”

  I hand him the wrapped package of pure black tar heroin, and he grins. This is twice in two days that I’ve had to swap drugs for cash. Hector’s men stand quietly behind him while keeping a careful eye on me. All it would take is one word, one wrong move, and they wouldn’t hesitate to take me out. The difference between me and Hector and his men is that I stand out like a sore thumb on this side of town in my Range Rover and my designer clothes. I grimace when I see a young girl who looks no older than sixteen or seventeen stumble out of the restroom and sidle up next to Hector.

  God, have some fucking respect for yourself.

 
I’ve seen enough. Not wanting to draw any unneeded attention to myself, or Hector, I decide it’s best to leave quickly. “I have to go. Gracias, Hector.” I shove the bag of cash into the waistband of my pants, next to my gun.

  “Mijo, I’m sorry to hear about your father’s situation.” That’s a polite way of acknowledging his incarceration. “Thank you for keeping up your family’s end of the bargain.”

  I don’t know if his apology is genuine, or if he’s making a point that our business is weak at the moment. Men like Hector will try to capitalize on my family’s weakness, so I hide my distrust, nodding politely and closing the door behind me.

  As I unlock my SUV, something catches my eye across the parking lot. It’s her. The scared girl I saw last night. The one I can’t stop thinking about. She’s walking toward the frontage road that runs alongside the freeway. Damn, she looks good, and she sure as hell shouldn’t be out here. Wearing a short green dress, her long legs extending for miles.

  I get in the car and back out, again making sure I’m not being followed—worst part of this job is never knowing who might be lurking in the shadows, ready to take me out. I slow down as I pull up alongside her. I can already tell that something is wrong from the way she carries herself. Her head is dropped forward, and her long hair falls gently into her face, but it’s when she wipes the tears from under her eyes that I know she’s not okay.

  Fuck, this isn’t my problem, I think as I pass her slowly. As I pull further away from her, though, something inside me stirs. I step on the brake and watch her through the rearview mirror. Her shoulders are slouched in defeat.

  “Fuuuuuccckkkk,” I hiss as I grip the steering wheel and turn the car around. Rolling down my window as I approach her, I try to sound concerned and not like I’m trying to pick her up. “Hey, is everything okay?”