by Lena Maye
“No.” His forehead wrinkles, his fingers lazily drawing an eight on my thigh. “Maybe? I don’t know. I didn’t feel like I had much to disappear from before. It was more like I wanted to go somewhere.” He tugs his necklace off, dropping it in my hand. “That’s why I got this. It’s just some Indonesian coin, but it makes me think of places far away.”
I run my fingers over the smooth, cold edge of the coin. “And now?”
He rises up to his elbow, looking down at me. Blue eyes intense and focused. “And now I’ve got the charter and my father.” He says the last part tightly, and I shiver. He sighs. “I don’t want to deal with that asshole. But the charter…”
“It’s okay if you don’t want to do it.”
“Is it?” he asks roughly. “What happens, then? Sebastian doesn’t want to deal with it. My father can’t. What happens to the Heroine if I don’t do it?”
“I don’t know,” I admit. “What would your mother have wanted?”
He turns, rolling so that he’s on his back. “She loved this boat.”
“Didn’t she love you too?” I study the side of his face, the tension creating a knot in his jaw. “Would she have wanted you to feel so tied down like this?”
“I don’t know,” he says quietly. “And there’s no way to ask her anymore.” He takes the coin from me and drops it on the side table, then lays next to me again. But he stares up at the ceiling, lost in thought.
Then he snaps to life, turning his head toward me. “Stay?”
I shake my head. “Probably not a good idea. I have to get up early, and I’ll wake you.”
“I can handle that.” He rolls so he’s on his side next to me. His bicep flexes as his hand smooths across my stomach and around the edge of my navel. “How early are we talking?”
“I have to be at the bakery at four.”
“That’s nothing.”
“And I need to text my brother.”
He raises both eyebrows. “Your brother.”
“He got into town yesterday. He’s staying at my apartment.” I sit up and slide down to the end of the bed, leaning over the edge to grab my jeans and pull my phone from the pocket.
Dean crosses his hands behind his head, watching me.
I sit up. My bare ass was probably bobbing in the air as I reached for my phone.
He clears his throat, adjusting himself under the sheet. “All of those are perfectly acceptable conditions for staying the night.”
I crawl back up and poke him in the shoulder. “And I’m hungry.”
He sits up. “That’s something I can take care of. It’s another part of my keeping-you-alive-so-you-can-tie-me-up-later plan.”
“There’s a plan?”
“Hell, yes.” His lopsided grin is adorable. And a bit mischievous.
My shift at the bakery goes swiftly, everything running on its usual schedule. Bread, cupcakes, Ms. Joanna for her baguette, Benny unlocking the backdoor, and stepping in with an apron in his hand. We exchange awkward pleasantries and move straight to discussing the food order for the quickly approaching Kites & Cupcakes Festival. Then I fill my coffee and slip away, glancing toward the empty place where the Heroine usually sits. Dean said he had another full day this morning when he walked me to the bakery.
That’s right—walked me to the bakery. At 3:45 this morning. It would be a lie to say I hadn’t thought of him every second during my shift.
When I get home, Anthony takes the box of cupcakes I extend to him and dives in.
“These are amazing,” he says around a mouthful. I brought him a sampling of the bakery’s new savory cupcake line. Although I’m not sure he’s actually tasting them as much as inhaling them. He looks rough—bloodshot eyes and smelling like liquor, and I’m sure he spent most of the night at Mitch’s.
I sit across from him while he eats, pulling out a notebook where I started my letter before. I smooth the paper flat and take a deep breath.
Anthony studies me over the box and the notebook. “So tell me about this boyfriend of yours.”
I shake my head. “You really want to know?”
He shrugs. “Kinda. What’s his name?”
“I, um…” My stomach twists—hard. I tell myself that it shouldn’t, but it does.
And I’ve got Anthony’s full attention now.
“Dean Archer,” I say, because there’s no getting around it.
He doesn’t react like I expect him to. Not that I know what I expected him to do—yell that I’m crazy? That it’s wrong?
All he says is, “That’s interesting.” Then he takes another cupcake, but he chews thoughtfully. “You know, I had a girlfriend once. Not like just a girl I fucked. Like a real, true girlfriend. Or at least, that’s what I wanted her to be.”
I look up from my blank page. “Recently?”
“Before. Around the time that your boyfriend’s father was with us.”
I shudder, memories flashing before I can keep them at bay.
“Her name was Melissa,” he continues. “That’s who I was with when Mom left you alone with Charles. I’d walked her to the park, and we sat on the swings and talked, and then I twisted my swing so that I could kiss her.”
“I didn’t know,” I say quietly. I’d always wondered where Anthony was that day. This isn’t what I would have guessed. How different would his life have been if he’d had more experiences like that? If he didn’t reduce his relationships to girls he fucked versus one girlfriend he kissed on some swings. “I hope you find something like that again, Anthony.”
He finishes the last bite and tosses the cupcake foil into the box. “I didn’t kiss her. I left her there. Found you standing over Mom’s latest a few minutes later. And then everything changed.” He toys with the edge of the now-empty cupcake box. “What was I supposed to do? Bring her to whatever home we were squatting in and introduce her to Mom? Tell her not to worry about the man handcuffed to the mattress?” He pushes the box away from him.
“She’s not here anymore.” I’m not sure what else to say.
His head snaps up. “She will be.”
“I don’t believe that.” I tap my pen against the paper. “I can’t believe it. I can’t keep living my life like she’s going to jump out from around the next corner.”
He pushes back from the table. “You can’t deny the possibility. And what are you going to do? Bring your boyfriend over for a family dinner? Introduce him to the woman who kidnapped his father? You’re left with the exact same choice I was on that swing with Melissa.”
I shake my head emphatically. “She’s not getting out. And even if she does, I’m an adult now. I can make my own choices.” I take a breath and start the letter. The first sentence falling easily.
My name is Ella, and my mother is Mira Jacobs—a woman convicted of kidnapping and attempted murder.
I start to write another, and that one’s easier too. It’s like telling Dean has snapped everything into perspective. What’s part of the past. And what’s part of the present.
Anthony snorts and takes out his orange candy tin. “You can’t actually believe that. It doesn’t matter what choices you make, it matters what choices she makes.”
“You don’t think… she would do something? To Dean?” My fingers tremble as I clutch the pen.
“You’re right that she might not get out,” he says. “And I really hope that’s the way this plays. But if you’re wrong, she’s going to come back here, and who the fuck knows what she’s going to do? Do you know? Cuz I certainly don’t.”
38
Dean
Ella’s question about my mom keeps running through my mind. Although there is a hell of a lot of other things running through my mind as well. Things are good. Like really, really good. And not just the sex—which is mind-blowingly fantastic—but this whole dating thing. I’ve never been anti-girlfriend, but I’ve never been one to stick around either. Knowing that Ella’s going to be there at the end of the day—it just feels good. I keep using that
word, but that’s the best one I have to describe it. Being with her, having her ask about my day every single night, cupping my hands around her ass when she’s riding me, it all feels so damn good.
It’s not just her either. I’ve had enough coming in from the charters to sit down with Paul and hammer out an agreement that provides for my father’s care without me having to oversee him for dinners.
And Renee’s started helping on the charter during Sebastian’s last few days. She’s still got some learning to do—I can’t leave her to take the charters by herself like I could with my brother. But she’s eager to learn, and she’s got a good head for sailing. Dev wasn’t all that comfortable with the new arrangement since Renee’s given him nothing but cold shoulder ever since we took the Heroine overnight. But like I told her before, he’ll get over it. Although part of me can’t stop wondering if her cold shoulder had to do with the appointments she’s had in Upper Bay. She’s assured me that it’s nothing significant. Just some iron deficiency that’s easily solvable.
But the best part—the absolute best part of everything—the way Ella laughs. She teases me. Sends me texts with autocorrect failures.
She’s fucking vibrant.
And the feeling that things can only get better with her deepen when I wake her up one morning to walk her to the bakery, and she rolls over and snuggles into my side.
“Mmmffffft,” she says into my shoulder. She’s warm and naked next to me, which pretty much makes this my second favorite time of day. The first favorite being when she was newly naked the night before.
“What was that?” I cup her chin and tilt her face toward mine. “You’ll be late for work.”
Her eyes open sleepily. “I took today off,” she mumbles. Then her eyes close again, and she throws an arm over me. “You said Sebastian’s leaving this morning and you don’t have any charters, so I arranged to take today off. In case you wanted to spend it together.”
A second later, her breathing evens. But I’m sitting there, starkly awake, my heart pounding so damn hard. And I have to tell her, even if she’s half-asleep and won’t remember later.
I nudge her. “Ella? Are you asleep?”
She opens one eye. “Trying to be. I finally get to sleep in.”
“Yeah, okay.” I pause, sitting up a little and pulling her against my chest. “I’ll let you do that. Just… thank you.”
She smiles faintly up at me. “You’re welcome.” Her hand slides across my chest, falling down since we’re propped up a little. And then she suddenly sits up.
“What’s wrong?” I look around, wondering what startled her. “Are you okay?”
Then she cups my dick, and I’m the one who jumps.
“You’re so hard,” she mumbles. Still partly asleep, but I can see her shifting awake. Letting out a yawn and stretching her neck like she does every morning.
“You apparently haven’t noticed, but it’s morning.” I clear my throat and then gasp when her hand slides under the sheet.
“I’m noticing now.” She strokes me, and as always, I’m instantly turned on, my eyes falling to her tight nipples. I bend to take one into my mouth, and she pebbles against my tongue.
She whispers my name and then reaches for my hand, placing it over my dick. “I want to watch you.” She runs her hand up and down my stomach, and over to my ink, following the path of the rope with her fingertips. “Remember when you talked about masturbating over me? I want to watch.”
Fuck. I love her being this bold and direct.
I don’t hesitate. I do what the woman—my woman—asks.
Ella
The festival is tomorrow, and I’m not ready. Dean’s promised me like a thousand times that everything is going to come together. Everyone tells me the same thing, actually. But it’s hard to listen when there is so much to do.
Although I’m rewarded by the town starting to fill up. The bed and breakfasts are full. Even some of the hotels in Upper Bay are full.
Believe it or not, people are coming. Even the day before, little Portage Bay is overflowing with tourists. Which makes it harder to get everything set—Dean is running charters all day and doesn’t have much time to help with organizing the homemade kites for the kids. But somehow, we manage.
In part, because Anthony helps by calling to get the tents and tables reserved. He even gets excited about the possibility of a snow-cone truck, reminding me of Anthony from ten years ago. How he always drowned his snow-cone with blue raspberry flavor, and it would color his tongue blue. He still spends most of his nights over at Mitch’s, but for the last week, when I get home from the bakery in the afternoon, he’s showered and mostly sober.
How much better would it be if he stayed here? I could let him stay in the apartment.
I pause after that thought. Sure, I’ve been staying with Dean every night, but we’ve never really talked about it. And here I’m debating offering up my apartment to my brother and moving in without asking?
I must be crazy.
Anthony sits across from me, sucking on orange candies and reviewing the festival paperwork the city asked me to resubmit because there was an error. But city board called me directly to say that if the paperwork is resubmitted by evening, they’ll fast approve it.
That’s right—the City of Portage Bay has been lenient with me. And the person who made the call? Ms. Joanna, who I was told argued for me the hardest.
I’m busy checking the vendor lists and calling the tent rental company—which is four tents short. But we handle it, stepping through each thing as it comes up.
When my phone dings, I don’t look over right away, so lost in remapping where every vendor is going to sit with four fewer tents. It dings again, and I look to see Carly’s name across the screen. I snatch the phone up, sure it’s just another “nothing is new” text.
Instead, it’s a CALL ME.
I stare at the words, a bolt of cold running down my spine. Anthony is slouched over the paperwork with his forehead wrinkled up.
“It’s Carly,” I say quietly.
Maybe he hears my tone because he looks up immediately.
I put the phone between us and set it on speaker before calling her.
“Ella,” she says on the first ring.
“Hi.” My voice is small.
“I’m here too,” Anthony says and leans back in his seat, crossing his arms over his chest. His face is impassive. The same face he’d use when we were younger—when we were in those houses with those men.
“It’s good you’re together.” Carly’s voice is firm, no-nonsense. Her lawyer voice. And that terrifies me. “There’s been an incident.”
There’s no noise behind Carly. No shuffling papers, no assistant pushing her to do something, no clicking on her computer.
“Your mother was scheduled for a status hearing this morning,” Carly says. “Usually that kind of thing is done by video, but because of the nature of her paperwork, and the… correspondence the judge has received about her situation, your mother was asked to appear in person.”
She pauses, letting out a breath. “She never arrived. The transport she was in was hit head-on by a passenger vehicle. There were three inmates aboard the bus, and only two are accounted for.”
“She’s missing?” I blurt. “When?” I set my palms on the table, staring down at my phone, which sits between festival paperwork and a plate of half-eaten crackers for Anthony.
Anthony sits across from me, dark and non-responsive. An opportunity. That’s what he said. All she needed was one small opportunity. Like transportation to a courthouse. A driver to bribe. Or a guard she’d done favors for.
“It happened about two hours ago. Transportation has been shut down, and law enforcement is organized. There’s a report of a breaking and entering into a basement apartment not too far from there, and that might have been her. There were some things missing from the house. Money. Clothing. And a firearm.”
Carly’s voice echoes in my apartment.
“A gun?” I ask. “Like a handgun?”
“A .40 semi-auto pistol. There was a rifle too, but she didn’t take it.”
“I’ve never known her to use a gun.” And why would she just take the one? Unless the rifle was harder to conceal, meaning harder to travel with.
Anthony’s forehead wrinkles. He must feel it too. The unease that comes with my mother—it’s doubled by the thought of her having a gun.
“There’s no report of which direction she’s traveling,” Carly continues. “And I doubt she would make it out of Connecticut, but if either of you see her or talk to her, then you need to report it to the police immediately.”
“Okay,” I say, nodding at Anthony. He’s still staring down at the phone, not moving.
“Is there anything else you can tell us?” I ask, my mind spiraling back over what she said. A gun. I shiver.
“There’ll be a press conference in another hour. She’ll be all over the news, so going back to a place where people would recognize her—a place like Portage will be the last thing she does. But I wouldn’t be surprised if she tries to contact either you or Anthony. Just alert the local police, and they’ll take care of it, okay? Ella?”
I clear my throat. “Okay.”
“I’ll be in touch.”
“Wait.” I nod, as if she can see me. “You said the judge wanted her in for the status hearing because there was correspondence.”
“Yes, your letter. But you didn’t cause anything. This isn’t your fault.”
“I know.” I do—I know that very clearly. I’m not responsible for a car accident four hundred miles away. Just like I need to stop feeling responsible for things that happened one room away when I was a child. What she did to those men was her fault. Whether it was revenge or not. Whether it was anger or manipulation.
But that doesn’t mean I’m devoid of responsibility. And I don’t think for a second that this is going to end in a way that doesn’t involve me or Anthony.
