by Rebecca Shea
“I need a little space. I need to be able to go for a walk, go to the grocery store, something.”
“It’s not safe,” he argues.
“It’ll never be!” I yell at him. I’m agitated and upset, and I can’t take it anymore. “You’ll never find Antonio. I have to be the one to decide if I’m going to live in fear of the Estradas, or take a chance and live my life.”
“It’s not just about you anymore, Emilia. Don’t you understand that?” He yells back at me.
I go silent for a moment, gritting my teeth. He’s right, and I hate it. “I do understand. But I will always live in fear of the Estrada cartel. With or without Antonio, there will always be someone from the business to fear. I can’t just stop living.”
Sam closes his eyes and rubs his temples aggressively. Sighing, he sits back in his chair, propping his foot over his opposite knee. Sam’s gestures, his posture, even his behavioral characteristics are so much like Alex’s, it’s eerie.
“You remind me so much of him,” I tell him softly.
He pauses as he runs his hand over his face, his fingers resting on his chin.
“He used to get so frustrated with me for the very same things and rub his temples.” I crack a small smile, remembering. Because that’s all I have now—the memories.
“Obviously, we both care about you… very much,” he says, folding his hands in his lap. “And obviously, we’ll both do whatever it takes to protect you.”
We’ll both do whatever it takes to protect you.
What does he mean by that?
It bothers me that he speaks of Alex like he’s still alive. Like he’s here. And it frustrates me that he shows no emotion toward the brother he just lost. Even though their relationship was strained, they were still brothers.
“Do you wish you’d had the opportunity to reconcile with him?” I ask, knowing I may not like the answer.
He shifts uncomfortably in his seat, and his eyes drop to his hands. “I have no regrets for the choices I’ve had to make in regards to my family,” he says quietly. “He’s my brother by blood—but I don’t believe there would’ve been reconciliation between us.” Abruptly, his eyes become dark, lost in thought. I feel his pain, and my heart hurts at his admission.
The backyard is dark, the only light filtering through the glass doors from inside the house and the small twinkling lights from the pergola, but I can clearly see the regret in Sam’s eyes, even though he believes his denial. We sit for minutes not saying anything, just absorbing our reality—a life without Alex, a life without a brother he never got to make amends with.
“Let’s go inside,” I say somberly.
Sam lifts his head and looks at me. I stand up and reach out my hand to him. He hesitates for a moment, then takes it, my hand, my peace offering. But instead of standing up, he pulls me into his lap. I want to leap out, but I don’t. I like it too much, his arms around me; safe, warm. My legs dangle over the side of the chair. His head rests on my shoulder, and I can smell the faintest hints of beer from his breath mixed with the light scents of his cologne—all masculine and sensual.
Sam’s fingers trail softly down my arms, igniting goose bumps across my skin. His touch is tender, yet firm, and I’m at war with myself. Part of me wants to pull away from his touch; another part of me wants to fall into it. He’ll never be Alex. Ever. But right now, he is a safe place for my heart to land. His touch causes me to visibly shiver.
“You okay?” he asks, his fingers pausing on my forearm.
“Yeah,” I respond.
“You shivered.”
I nod.
“Do you want me to stop?” he asks, swallowing hard. My eyes fall from his soft brown eyes to his pink lips as his tongue sneaks out to wet them. He’s not Alex, I remind myself.
“I should go inside,” I admit, gently pulling my arm from his grasp.
“You didn’t answer my question, Em.”
I pause, conflict coursing through me. There’s no denying I feel things with Sam, maybe for him too. And I feel guilty for allowing that. I’m mourning Alex, the man I love, the man I’m certain I can’t live without. The man who I’m dead without. Yet here I sit, in conflict as his brother makes me feel alive.
I shake my head slightly and decide to answer honestly. “Do I want you to stop? No. Do I need you to stop? Yes.” I slide off Sam’s lap, my bare toes hitting the concrete pavers, his arms falling from around my waist. I take off to the safety of the house, where I can momentarily escape my conflict.
“Emilia,” Sam calls after me, but I can’t turn back. It’s too much. Too soon.
My fingers struggle with the door handle just as his tan fingers cover mine. He turns the handle and my heart races inside my chest. He pushes the door open, and I step inside, greeted by a rush of cool air. Sam steps in behind me, locking the door. We stand inside the dim living room, staring at each other, our faces wrapped in emotional conflict.
Taking a step forward, Sam trails his fingers along my jawbone, from my ear down to my chin. Then he lifts my chin with his thumb and forefinger and, without hesitation, leans in.
The moment our lips connect, I lose myself in him. His soft lips devour me gently. He kisses and nips at my lips as my head falls backward, allowing him greater access. He walks me backward slowly as he continues to kiss me, my back finally meeting a wall. His firm chest presses against mine, and his hips hold me in place. Where Alex was aggressive, Sam is sweet. He takes his time exploring my lips.
I gasp for air when his lips suck gently on the tender skin of my neck, and I can feel his growing erection press against my stomach. My knees weaken when he finds that spot behind my ear and nips gently. I begin to lose my balance and slide down the wall. And just as Sam always does, he catches me. Because he never lets me fall. He’s my safety net in a world full of danger.
He pulls me up and holds me in place, between his firm chest and the wall. His hands are tangled in my long hair as he peppers my lips with soft kisses. It feels so good, I can’t stop. But I need to. After a moment, I find the strength and resist, finally pulling away. Our breaths are ragged as we come to the realization of what’s happening and a look of pain and apology flashes across his face. His hands fall from my hair, and he pulls away from the wall.
“I can’t do this, Sam,” I whisper.
He exhales loudly as he drops his forehead to mine. “Go to bed, Em,” he says, his voice conflicted.
I’m stunned as he pulls away from me so easily and leaves me standing in the dim living room. I press my fingers to my lips, still numb from Sam’s touch. A million thoughts flitter through my head as I slink down the hallway to Sam’s bedroom. I slow as I pass the bathroom. The water is running, which means the shower is on and Sam is in there.
Conflicted with my emotions, I finally retreat to his bedroom, where I disrobe and slip into a t-shirt. Falling into his bed, I pull the sheet around me and try to sleep. Minutes pass and I hear heavy footsteps echo on the wood floor. Suddenly, the front door slams closed, and the roar of the engine of Sam’s car fades into the distance.
I’M TEMPORARILY STUNNED when the unmarked car I’m riding in pulls up to a small house in the same neighborhood I grew up in until my mom died. In fact, it’s just around the corner. The houses are old, small, but many have been fixed up. The neighborhood is just on the outskirts of downtown Phoenix. These houses are now considered historical. All of them are bungalow style, modest in size, with large front porches. I’m getting the chills from how this house so closely resembles the one I grew up in.
“This is it,” the U.S. Marshal says as he kills the engine. “It’s small but has everything you’ll need. It’s close to the offices downtown for when we need you to come in for recorded statements, and you’ll have twenty-four-hour protection. We’ve been using this house for years and never had a problem. I don’t intend to have one now.” His eyes scan the exterior of the house before he looks up and down the street.
I unbuckle my seatbelt
and open the car door, practically feeling the ghosts of my past rub up against me as I get out. My chest tightens when I think about how close I am to the home I shared with my mom. I glance to my right. Down at the end of the street, on the corner, sits the Newman Market. It used to be Newman’s Bodega, but now it’s been renovated into a small gourmet neighborhood market. When we drove past, I could see the buckets of fresh flowers and a fresh fruit stand on the front sidewalk.
It’s almost eerie. I remember walking these streets as a boy, to and from school and church. The memories are so vivid that it feels like just yesterday I was walking down to the bodega with a dollar in my hand and coming back with a bag full of Mexican candy. I smile at the memory, but then hastily tuck it away.
Pulling my backpack from the back seat, I follow the marshal up the front steps. A porch swing hangs in front of a large picture window and small pots of plants line the concrete porch. He inserts his keys, one at a time into the three locks that secure the front door. Finally pushing the door open, we step through the threshold and into a fully refurbished house.
The interior has been painted, and the furnishings are modern and clean. The kitchen has been gutted and simple, stone countertops have been put in place in addition to white wood cabinets. A small glass kitchen table sits just inside the kitchen. Down the hallway to the right are, I presume, the bedrooms. The setup is almost exactly the same as the house I grew up in.
“Bedrooms are down there,” the marshal points down the hallway, “and out back on the patio is a small workout set up. Weight bench, punching bag, et cetera. We try to make you as comfortable as possible, but this gig doesn’t come with a gym membership.” He chuckles to himself. Bastard.
I point to my shoulder and shake my head lightly. I won’t be working out for a while. He acknowledges me with a short nod and heads into the kitchen. I step away from his tour and walk down the hallway, looking through the bedroom doors. All the rooms are set up exactly the same, but I choose the room that has an attached bathroom. Tossing my duffle bag onto the bed, I pull out the few clothes I have and begin stuffing them into the tall dresser. There’s a television on top of the dresser and a small wooden desk shoved against the wall. A bookshelf holds an array of books from Dan Brown to EE Cummings. The house is small and a far cry from my luxury condo, but it’s cozy.
A moment later, I hear footsteps, then the marshal stops just outside my door. “Fridge is fully loaded. Once a week, we’ll restock, but if there’s anything in particular you want or need, you let me know. One of the guys will pick up anything you want.”
“Thanks.” I offer him a short smile.
“Per our briefing earlier, you’ll always have twenty-four-seven protection. Most of the time, it’ll be one guy. Transports to and from court, you’ll have multiple. You are able to go and do things, but my advice… lay low. You’ve got an advantage that many don’t. No one should be looking for you. Let’s not get cocky and take advantage of that.” He raises his eyebrows at me.
I nod and let out a deep sigh, and he leaves to do a walkthrough of the house. He checks windows, tests security cameras, and locks doors.
Lying down carefully, I support my shoulder and place my other hand behind my head. My eyes dance across the textured ceiling, looking for a place to land. I’m supposed to be thinking about my new name, a career I could be successful at, and the city I’d like to relocate to, but all I can think about is Emilia. Beautiful Emilia. Seeing her stopped my heart today. I wanted to run to her and pull her into my arms—but then I remembered why I’m doing this, to protect her. It was best I let her walk away without seeing me.
A lump forms in my throat as I think about her—being without me, moving on, living the life she’s always deserved. Anger courses through me when I think about who’ll get to love her, hold her, touch her, and raise my baby with her. My anger bubbles to the surface when I think of her with Sam. I know it’s selfish, and I know she has every right to move on—but not with Sam. Not with my brother.
MY EYES SNAP open to the sound of someone banging on the front door. I sit up, reaching for the drawer on the nightstand where I’d keep my gun. My heart is racing, and I panic as I feel around the empty drawer and remember that I no longer have access to a gun. Three loud knocks again, and I wince when my shoulder falls from the support pillow. The house is dark and silent, except for the rampant knocking. Pushing myself off the bed, I stumble toward the wall and feel around for a light switch. With a quick flip, light floods the room, and I squint against the brightness.
“Open up,” I hear as I jog down the hallway and near the front door. I recognize the voice as Sam’s. Still, I feel cautious, my gut telling me to make sure he’s alone, and he is. Twisting the deadbolt locks, I open the door carefully. My eyes scan for anyone other than Sam, and I see the marshal positioned in his car on the street in front of the house.
“You going to let me in or make me stand out here?” Sam raises his hand to show me a six-pack of beer. I open the door and step aside, allowing him in. Sam isn’t one for social visits, so I’m curious as to why he’s here—with beer. Dressed in athletic shorts and a t-shirt, he’s definitely not here for business.
He steps over the threshold and sets the glass bottles down on the small table in the entryway. “How are you liking your new digs?” he asks, pulling a bottle from the small cardboard carrier.
“It’s not bad,” I say, closing the door and locking all three locks. “I take it you’re not here on business?” I eye the glass bottle in his hand as he raises it and presses it to his lips.
“Nope. We need to talk.” He pulls another bottle from the carrier and hands it to me, twisting off the cap first.
I take a pull of the crisp beer, the carbonation burning the back of my throat. “What do we need to talk about?” I ask inquisitively.
Sam walks around the living room, his eyes scanning everything—the windows, the doors, and the paintings on the walls. He finally stops; turning around to face me, then takes another drink of his beer, holding up the bottle as he finishes it off.
“A couple of things.” He grips the empty glass bottle, his jaw ticking, nostrils flaring. I can tell he’s upset, but I’m not going to ask him about it.
“What first?” I wipe the condensation from the bottom of the bottle on my t-shirt.
“Emilia.” He stares at me, his tongue wetting his bottom lip.
I hate the way he says her name, like he has a right to her.
“What about her?” I eye him suspiciously.
He swallows hard and takes a deep breath before he closes his mouth and looks away from me.
“Is she okay? Is something wrong?” My voice is aggressive as I dig for more information.
He nods, opening another bottle of beer as he holds my stare. “No. I mean, yeah, she’s fine. She had her follow-up appointment for her head. She’s been cleared, so that’s good.” He seems to relax slightly as he tells me she’s okay.
“Good. And the baby?” I swallow hard. Our baby.
He shakes his head. “She hasn’t seen the doctor for the baby yet.”
“Jesus, Sam, she needs to see the doctor.”
“I know this,” he says, frustrated. “I’m doing the best I can. She’s stubborn, and I’ve got you to deal with, and Antonio.” He sighs, visibly frustrated again.
I chuckle and shake my head.
Sam frowns. “What?”
“She’s stubborn, you said. I had to laugh, because if there is one word to describe her, stubborn just might be the word.” I laugh again, and he chuckles along with me.
“That’s the first thing we may ever agree on,” he says quietly and takes a long pull on his fresh beer. “So the other thing we need to talk about,” he says and rolls his neck, loosening the tension. “Look, this isn’t easy for me to tell you…” He pauses, taking another drink. “We need to use her to lure Antonio out of—”
“No fucking way. No!” I yell at him He watches my clenched fist nervou
sly as I yell at him. “It’s your job to protect her, not use her to get him. No. Fucking. Way. You promised me-”
“I know what I fucking said,” he snarls. “And we can’t find him. We need her to bring him out of hiding.”
“Over my dead body,” I growl. “Where is Andres? Use him.”
“Don’t know. Everyone magically disappeared after the shootout,” he grunts in irritation. “We can’t find anyone, anywhere. Every goddamn property has been seized by the feds or cleaned out by your associates. Every alias comes up clean. We’ve got eyes on houses of Antonio’s associates in six countries, and there is not one Estrada associate anywhere to be found. Anywhere!” He slams his hand on the wall behind him. “I’m running out of time,” he says. “Emilia is our best option. She’s our only option.” I can hear the desperation in his voice.
“Emilia isn’t an option. She’s out of the question,” I tell him coldly. End of discussion. “I made the deal to protect her. I turned everything over to you in exchange for protection of me—and for her. You promised me.” My breathing is ragged and I’m becoming dizzy from yelling at him and drinking half of a beer, clearly still weak from healing.
I take a seat on the couch and stare at Sam as he paces back and forth in front of me. “I don’t know what else to do,” he says helplessly. “You’re not the only one that cares about her, Alex. I care about her too, but I need her to catch Antonio.” He glances at me out of the corner of his eye.
“Care about her? You think you care about her? You want to use her as bait, you asshole. You don’t care about her,” I snarl at him. “You don’t use someone you care about… you don’t endanger a woman—a pregnant woman, to lure someone out of hiding. So keep your ‘I care about her’ bullshit to yourself.”
“I do care about her,” he sneers, narrowing his eyes at me.
“You want me to sign the deal? You want my testimony? You want those files? You will not use Emilia. Do you understand me?” I’m quick to stand up and stalk toward him. “If you use her, I will walk away from this deal. I will recant every statement I’ve given. I will say I was coerced into providing false statements. I will fucking ruin you.” I boldly tell him, anger seething from every bone in my body.
