Completely Mine: Bliss Series, Book Four

by Hall, Deanndra

Half a million dollars. I raised half a million dollars. Oh, shit. Everybody else on the committee will be pissed at me because they’ll have a hard time following my act. Know what?

  I don’t care. I raised half a million dollars to treat sick kids. As we all stand talking and laughing, I look across the room and see a face I’ve missed all evening. When she smiles at me, I don’t care what everybody else there thinks of me. Knowing she’s proud of me is the only thing that matters.

  * * *

  We don’t get home until after two o’clock. There were all kinds of lists to run through for the catering company, decisions to be made about leftover food―they took it to the local homeless shelter―and checks to be distributed for all the services. By the time we get home, I’m beyond exhausted. “What’s on the calendar for tomorrow?” Cirilla asks as she slips on her gown.

  “Nothing. And I’m glad. I don’t think I could work even if I wanted to. We’re sleeping in. Come on. Get in here.” She slips under the covers and cuddles up next to me, and my world is right.

  “I was so proud of you tonight,” she whispers and kisses my cheek.

  “Thank you. And thank you for coming, even though I didn’t get to spend a single second with you. Just knowing you were there made it all okay.” My fingers drag through her hair and I kiss her crown. “Good night, sweetie. I love you.”

  “I love you too. Night, babe.”

  The next thing I know, my eyes are opening and there are little beams of light coming in around the window. I glance over at her and she’s still sound asleep, so I leave her lying there and go to the bathroom. By the time I get back, she’s awake. “Hey,” she says, her voice coarse with morning waking.

  “Hey yourself.” I slip back into the bed and pull her to me, and next thing I know, her gown is gone, my briefs are gone, and she’s riding me. God, this is a great way to wake up in the morning. We’ve been together four months now, we’ve both been tested repeatedly, and she takes birth control pills, so condoms are a thing of the past, and the sensation of filling her with my warmth and stickiness is something that makes me feel like a man. When we’re both spent, she scoots up against me again and off we go to slumberland.

  I wake up the next time and I can tell it’s later. How much later, I don’t have a clue. I grab my phone and look at the time―eleven forty-one. It’s almost lunchtime and I have to admit, I’m hungry. “Hey, baby, we need to get up. It’s almost noon.”

  “I don’t wanna get up. I wanna sleep,” she whines.

  “Nope. Gotta get up. We’ll be going to the club later and we need to get a little bit of work done before then.

  I spend all afternoon answering calls, congratulatory calls, calls telling me what a wonderful job I did and how much good that money’s going to do. I’m thrilled. It’s more than I could’ve ever hoped for. But I don’t get any of my work done. Eh. That’s okay. It’s one day.

  The club is busy. It’s a Saturday night, after all, and I spend all night pouring drinks while Cirilla chats with some of the subs and keeps the place straightened up. The last of the members is wandering out when Larry, one of the old-timers, comes back in. “Here. Forgot to give you this. It’s the newspaper story from this morning about that event you did. Good job! Thought you might want an extra copy.”

  “Thanks! I haven’t seen it, so I appreciate it.”

  “You’re very welcome. Well, goodnight,” he says and walks out. I just slip it into my bag and don’t think about it again.

  We both get up on Sunday morning, knowing it’s a no-work day, and lounge around, me in my pajama bottoms and a tee, her in a little cotton summer gown. We have that southern breakfast pizza delivered and sit down to watch a ballgame that afternoon.

  For some reason, I think about that newspaper article mid-afternoon, so I rummage around for it in my bag while she’s making some dip or something. The article covers the whole front page, and there are a lot of pictures there, but the one in the center of the page, full color and huge, is me, the seven actors, and the two recording artists. The caption reads, “Seattle native returns to blow out HQSeattle’s annual charity event.” It tells about the event itself, the entertainment, the food and beverages, the tattoo artists, everything. There are quotes from Felicia, from some of the guests, from the mayor, and from me. “Whatcha got there?” she asks as she sets the bowl of whatever it is on the table.

  “Newspaper. Larry handed it to me last night, said he thought I might want it. Look at this. It’s a huge story about the event,” I say, pointing at the page.

  She’s smiling as she bends over the table to look at it, but in an instant she whispers, “No. No, no, no, no, no. Oh, no. No-no-no.” I can hear the panic in her voice. “Did this hit the wires?”

  I look at the byline. “Yep. National news,” I say with a grin. “What’s wrong?”

  Her finger is shaking as she reaches out and puts it on the front of the paper. I look down and, clear as a bell, I see it.

  Her face in the background.

  “Oh, babe, no. It’s okay. I’m sure nobody will notice you in the background.”

  She’s already started pacing. “No, no, no. They’ll find me. They’ll see that in the national news and they’ll find me. Oh, god, what am I gonna do? What am I gonna do? Oh, god. Oh-god-oh-god-oh-god-oh-god-oh-god. No, no, no.” Now she’s not just pacing―she’s wringing her hands too.

  “Baby, it’s―”

  I’m shocked when she bats my hand away. “NO! You don’t understand! They’ll see that and they’ll find me! When did that come out?”

  “Apparently yesterday morning …”

  “Oh, shit. I’ve got to do something, but I don’t know what. What am I gonna do?” Her panic is palpable in the room.

  “Get dressed. Let’s go to Dave and Olivia’s. We can stay there until we figure out something else, okay? Calm down and let’s go.”

  “Okay, okay. That’s good enough,” she says as she runs into the bedroom. “I’m taking a quick shower. You probably should too.”

  “Okay. Fine. Just try to calm down. It’s all gonna be okay, babe. I promise.”

  “Okay.” She disappears into the bathroom and a few seconds later the shower starts, so I head to my bathroom and climb into the shower.

  It’s a quick shower. Less than ten minutes, maybe not even that long. When I come out, it doesn’t strike me for a few minutes, but then I realize something.

  The apartment is completely silent.

  Oh, god, no, my brain shrieks and I run to her bedroom. The bathroom light is off. Her towel is dry.

  Her bag is gone.

  No. No, no, no. She ran. Darting back to the bedroom, I grab my phone and call her number. And that’s when my world goes south.

  It’s on the counter. She left it behind. No. This can’t be happening. “Cirilla?” I call out, but there’s no answer. “Babe, come on. This is silly. Please, come out? Cirilla?” As though she were a five year old, I check under the beds, in the closets, everywhere. That’s when I find it.

  There’s a safe in the back of her linen closet too. It’s open, and it’s empty.

  I can feel my heart stopping. It’s going to quit beating any minute now. I just know it. My chest constricts and it’s hard to breathe. Then I remember―her car. I can find her that way, I’m sure. I grab my keys, run down the hallway to the elevator, and take it straight to the parking garage.

  There, sitting right beside my BMW, is her Jeep. I touch the hood―it’s cool. It hasn’t been started. That’s when I know for sure.

  She’s not coming back.

  My feet feel like cast iron as I drag upstairs and wonder what to do next. That’s when I spot it, a folded piece of paper on the counter. In scribbled handwriting, it says, I’ll be fine. Don’t worry about me. I love you, Brian, Always remember that. Cirilla

  I want to scream, to beat my head on the wall, to cry, to storm out of the building and chase her down and find her, but I realize she’s been hiding for years and if s
he’s intent on getting away, there’s no way I can find her. What do I do? I have no idea. Life without her seems impossible, and I can’t remember what it was like before this relationship took off. My mind is in a spiral when the phone rings, and I grab it and snap out, “Hello?”

  “Brian?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Hey,” Clint says, “just wanted you to know that we saw the article. Good job! Didn’t want to call you yesterday because I was afraid you’d be exhausted and―”

  “Have you heard from Cirilla?”

  There’s a long pause before he says, “What do you mean?”

  “I mean, have you heard from her? Has Trish heard from her? Has she called? Is she there?”

  “Uh, no. I mean, why would she be here?”

  “Have you talked to Steffen? Or Dave?”

  “I talked to Dad a little while ago, but he didn’t say anything about her. Brian, what’s going on?”

  “She’s gone.”

  “What do you mean, she’s gone?” I know he doesn’t understand. Nobody will.

  “I mean she’s gone. I mean I got in the shower and when I got out, she was gone. Took her keys and the money from her safe and left. A bit of clothing. No phone. Just left.”

  “Did you have some kind of fight?” he asks.

  “No. Did you see the pic on the front page of the paper?”

  “Yeah! It was really good, you and all those celebs,” he answers, his voice cautious. “What about it?”

  “Her face. You can see her face on the right-hand side, almost behind me. See it there?” I hear a rustling. “Look at it!” I almost yell, frantic.

  “Yeah, yeah. I see. What, does she not like having her picture taken or something?” he asks.

  “Clint, she’s running from something or someone. That’s what the frumpy clothes and weird old shoes are about. She’s been trying to stay out of sight. She says if they find her, they’ll kill her.”

  “Who’s ‘they’?”

  “She wouldn’t tell me. She says it’s best if I don’t know anything.” My heart is breaking because I know that the little time I spent eating breakfast pizza with her was the last time I’ll ever see her.

  There’s a deep silence before Clint finally asks, “So what are you going to do?”

  “What the hell CAN I do?” I yell. “There’s nothing I can do! Don’t you see? She made it so I can’t find her! Her name isn’t really Cirilla!”

  “What is it?”

  “I have no idea! Oh, god, I have no idea.” I can feel myself crumpling from the inside out and in minutes, I’m on the floor, sobbing, clutching her phone and praying that she’ll walk through the door, but I know she won’t.

  “I’m coming over there. Let me in when I get there, okay?”

  “Oh, god, Clint, what do I do now?” I whisper through the phone.

  “I’ll be right there. And I’ll bring Dad with me. It’ll be okay, I promise. Let me in when I get there, okay?”

  “Okay.”

  But I don’t. The next face I see is the building super. “Do you guys need an ambulance?”

  “No, I’m sure he’s okay, just upset, but thanks,” the voice says, and I know it’s Dave.

  Hands lift me under my arms and in a few movements, I’m sitting on the sofa, but nothing looks right. The colors are all wrong, and the room is too small. “Oh, god,” I mumble.

  “Brian, tell me what’s going on. What’s this all about?” Dave asks.

  So I spend the next few minutes telling them the story. I say minutes because it was. There’s nothing to tell. I know nothing, so I can’t tell them anything. When I finish, we all just sit there, stunned. “What are you going to do?” Clint asks me again.

  “I have no idea. Wait for her to come back?” I ask weakly.

  “I did, and she did eventually,” Dave says. “Just remember, I sent Olivia away. At least Cirilla left because she wanted to.”

  “She didn’t want to!” I scream. “She felt like she had to! She would never leave me! Never!” And that’s it.

  I cry. I’ve never cried like that in my life. It’s like a piece of me has been ripped out and I’m bleeding to death, like the lights have been turned out and there’s no switch to turn them back on. I’m heaving and crying so hard that I gag, and I don’t care. I can’t help it. There’s nothing left to do.

  And then I think of something and run to the bedroom. I look everywhere, all over the place, and I don’t find it.

  Her ring. She’s still wearing it. That gives me hope, hope that someday, somehow, she’ll come back to me. It’s the only hope I have.

  It ain’t much, but it’s all I’ve got.

  * * *

  I wind up at the doctor’s office on Wednesday, asking for something for anxiety. It doesn’t help at all.

  By Sunday, I’m exhausted and so depressed I can barely get out of bed. Trish calls and tells me she’s coming over the next day to do the things Cirilla would’ve done as my assistant. I tell her I don’t want to work, but she’s adamant. I’m not going to argue with her. I don’t have the strength.

  By the following Thursday I’ve decided to just close her bedroom door. I can’t take the things out, but I don’t want to look at them constantly. The apartment is like a tomb, and there’s nothing that makes it better―nothing.

  I make it through the second weekend by the skin of my teeth. On Monday morning, I go to see Gerald Patterson and I tell him everything I know, which is little to nothing. He tells me that if I need him, I can always call him, but he really has no advice.

  Tuesday morning, I get a phone call from a company I’ve been trying to sign on as clients for a long time. I don’t feel like doing business, but I suppose I have to eat, so I talk to their chief of operations for about thirty minutes. I finish the call, read over my notes, and put them in the file with their other information.

  It’s time for my second cup of coffee when my bell rings. Probably Trish. She’s been coming over every third or fourth day to help me. It doesn’t take me long to figure out that they’re sending her over to make sure I haven’t done something to myself, but I’ll take the help. I hit the button on the com and answer, “Yes?”

  “Mr. Zimmer? Brian Zimmer?”

  “Yes?”

  “We’re with the FBI. We’d like to talk to you if we could.”

  I stand there for a few seconds and think. Should I talk to them? I’m not going to talk to them. I’m going to hear what they have to say. “Yes. Come on up.”

  Two minutes later, there’s a knock at my door and I open it to find two guys standing there in suits. “Mr. Zimmer?”

  “Yes?”

  “I’m Agent Forrester. This is Agent Ringstaff,” the larger of the two men says, pointing to the man beside him, and they both flash badges. “Could we come in and talk to you for a minute?”

  “What’s this about?”

  “Sir, could we just come in and talk?”

  I shrug. “Sure. Come on in.”

  After looking around a little, he asks, “Could we …”

  “Oh, sure, sure. Have a seat.” When we’re all sitting, I ask, “Now, what’s this about?”

  “You know this woman, correct?” he says and hands me a photo.

  It’s Cirilla. Shit. What do I say? my brain whispers. “Uh, yes. I know her.” Something flashes through my mind: Don’t tell them the name she’s been using. “That’s my assistant, Cindy Sanderson.”

  “Sir, her name isn’t really Cindy Sanderson. It’s Sandria Pike.” He spreads a few more pictures out and points to her in all of them. It’s obvious they were taken some time ago.

  “No. Her name is Cindy Sanderson. I know that for a fact. You’ve got her confused with someone else,” I say, shaking my head. They need to go. I want them to go. I don’t want to talk to them anymore.

  “No, sir. Her name is Sandria Pike and we―”

  “Why are you looking for her?”

  They both stop and look at each other,
then the big one says, “She may have information on a crime, and we’d just like to talk to her. When does she work next?”

  Think, Zimmer! “She doesn’t. I fired her two weeks ago.”

  “Fired her?”

  “Yes, sir. I fired her. She was repeatedly late to work and couldn’t keep up her duties, so I had to let her go.” There. That works pretty well.

  “Oh. I see. Do you have a number for her?”

  “No. I provided her with a cell phone, which she had to relinquish when she left, so no, I have no number for her.”

  “And her last paycheck?”

  “I just went ahead and paid her in cash so she didn’t have to wait for a check. It was, let’s see, Monday two weeks ago, and that was the beginning of a pay period, so all I owed her for was the hours she was here that morning anyway. I showed her as being fired on the previous Friday, so I just paid her cash on Monday morning. Oh, god, did that break a law with the IRS? Because I don’t want to get into trouble,” I say, pouring it on thick.

  “That’s between you and the IRS, sir. We have no say over that. But we do need to know where Ms. Pike is. We’d like to have her address.”

  “I remember she said she was moving and that was the reason she was late. But, my god, she moved about every three weeks, so that got old, if you know what I mean,” I say, trying to think fast on my feet.

  “If you see her or talk to her, please let us know.” They each hand me a business card, and for the first time, I realize I didn’t ask them for their credentials. Stupid, stupid, stupid. But the business cards are legit.

  “Well, okay, but she was pretty mad at me, so I doubt I’ll be hearing from her. Is there anything else you need?”

  They both stand, so I do too. “No, sir. Nothing else. We’ll see ourselves out.”

  “Okay. Sorry I couldn’t be of more help,” I tell them as they leave, and when I close the door behind them, I fall back against it and slide to the floor. Shit. FBI. She wasn’t kidding. They are looking for her.

  A good part of the rest of the day is spent sitting and staring at the business cards, wishing I had someone who could tell me what’s going on. Sandria Pike. Where have I heard that name before?