Secrets She Keeps

by Amarie Avant

  It's Tyrone.

  “Excuse me,” I arise and step toward the restrooms.

  “Evan, get your ass to my place now. Riker has been sighted. Ready to redeem ourselves with the Cap?”

  “On my way.” I slip the iPhone into my pocket and return to the table.

  “Just got a call, my apologies.” I look to Reese. Should we acknowledge the fact that we drove together?

  She barely glances my way.

  I smile and pat my father’s shoulder. “I know you two love birds are gonna want to head home. Reese, I’ll just take you now.”

  “Reese, how did you get here?” Lolita asks.

  “Uber.” Reese chimes in.

  Her mother scoffs. “Oh, you took an Uber. Reese, don't you recall that Lifetime movie you forced me to watch about young women taking just any ol’ ride home?”

  “Yes, but I'll survive.”

  “I can drop you off on my way.” I try once more. Fuck, I'm groveling here. An image of Riker spiking her drink flashes before my eyes. There’s no way in hell I’ll allow Reese to place herself in harm’s way.

  Finally, a smile brightens her face.

  “No worries.” She responds, then the flat affect is back.

  “Don’t mind my child, Reese can be rather–” Lolita ceases mid-sentence as her daughter turns daggers her way. An affable grin brightens Lolita’s already supreme façade as she tells Reese, “Tony and I will see to it that you arrive home safe and sound.”

  Tyrone and I make it to Hemet, the butthole of Southern California, in record time. One of Riker’s old ladies must have gotten tired of being cheated on. Her mug shot, boasts big sloppy breasts, a crater face and the twenty-two-year-old has missing teeth. I could only assume that they must’ve been together before she lost all her teeth to meth.

  Two cops on the beat brought her in, booked her on prostitution charges, possession with the intent to sell, and she quickly offered his location.

  If this isn't a setup, the woman's luck has turned. No more black eyes, and she'll have a new name, dentures, and a place to live. If she's lying, Tyrone and I are fucked.

  What the Jackals motorcycle gang calls a clubhouse is just a rickety, old, red wood farmhouse. It's placed smack dab in the middle of a field. The 360-view allows for his crew to observe the comings and goings, which I have to hand it to them. Most gangs use heavily wooded areas making it easy for the task force to sweep in and crack down on them.

  The element of surprise is not to be had. Since this isn’t our jurisdiction, we have the Hemet tactical defense unit. Having worked in tandem with them before, I know these men will be thorough as if they were my own team. Four Tahoe’s zoom off the terrain. The seat lurches, I've got one hand at the base of my assault rifle.

  The SUVs stop on a dime. In seconds, we’re out of the vehicle, moving in a single-file line. I put a finger to my lips, and quietly approach the doorway, lining up in entry formation.

  Glass begins to shatter. The silence is dead as bullets whiz past us, we’ve been made. One of our guys tosses a flash bomb into the window as three other officers begins to open the sliding wood door.

  I shoot my way in, eyes tracking for Riker, my sole target. Just the thought of him taking advantage of a woman like Reese Dunham makes my eyes see red. Blood boiling, my rifle goes off, two slugs pump into the chest of the thug before me. Then I continue on sweeping the side of the building. Parallel and at the opposite side of the building, Tyrone nods to me, as we signal to each other to move forward.

  All the goons at the front of the line are just workers or cookers. Petty criminals. None of the head honchos have crossed my line of vision. And then I see Riker’s number two, Cash, and his lanky frame slinking out the back door.

  “Fuck!” Where he is, Riker is. I can only bet, Riker is already safely outside.

  Tyrone’s rifle clicks. Empty. He’s got more than enough reinforcements, but there isn’t enough time to toss him an extra mag anyway. One big, hairy son of a bitch punches him square in the jaw. I take the shot, at the same time as the big guy bull rushes him. The man moves in the nick of time. A bullet thumps into the wood wall. And now I’m out.

  Chapter 8

  Reese

  The faint taste of copper peppers the dryness of my mouth. All evening long, my mind has been consumed with Lolita and Tony. Lolita and her new personal ‘banker’ of sorts. Lips tensed, I glance at the rainbow dots outside the backseat window as Tony zooms by.

  “Right up the block,” Lolita purrs, “My baby girl has herself a bakery.”

  Not for long. My eyes roll over to the right at the proudness of her voice.

  “Oh,” Tony glances through the rearview mirror, his fleshy face genuinely brightening into a smile. “I’ll have to come by during the day. Hey, can you make sporca—”

  “Sporcamuss is very easy,” I cut him off mentioning the Italian cream-filled pastry, and already have one foot out the door before he cruises to a stop.

  “Reese,” Lolita snaps.

  “Thanks for the ride.” I push the door closed and step onto the sidewalk.

  “Oh, no you don’t.” My mother is out of the car and closing the door in an instant.

  Though this is totally the wrong moment, she sways onto the curb, hips flowing from left to right. This woman is off her fucking meds, and not because she went from wanting to die—and I mean begging, praying, crying for her heart to stop after Milo died—to using her sexy looks as a form of manipulation.

  Hands up, shoulders tensed, the words slip out of my mouth, “Mom, are you taking your medication?”

  Caught off guard, Lolita licks her lips. She glances back, and I do too. Tony isn’t as domineering or invasive as the others. He’s allowing us to have our tensed little chat.

  “So you aren’t taking your meds? And he doesn’t know!” I place my hands on my hips. Her embarrassment about being bipolar doesn’t trump over my embarrassment for her latest, crazed episode.

  Lolita holds up a tensed finger, pointing it at me. She only reprimands me when I’m so fucking right that it hurts. “You are my daughter, Reese, I am not yours. No, I am not taking any sort of medication, there is nothing wrong with me, meaning there’s nothing to tell Ton…”

  I chuckle. “Mom, you’re so cute, too cute for your own good. Bat those long eyelashes, purse those plumped up lips and the old man with the bushy eyebrows gives you the keys to his throne.”

  Her eyes narrow. “Why can’t I be happy? You never allow me to be happy!”

  The words stun me. Do I have the only mother in the universe who puts her happiness over her child’s? Jamie always told me so.

  His aunt owned a beauty salon off Slauson, when my mother was between husbands and couldn’t afford her favorite salon in Beverly Hills, she’d go to his aunt’s place. And I’d be elated as a child, unless his aunt didn’t have to babysit. At the age of thirteen, his blunt ass leaned his chin against the broom and said, “I do believe that woman loves herself more than she loves you.”

  And I don’t think he declared as much due to hatred of my mom. Lolita’s nose always crinkled as he brought her a fresh towel or a glass of tea. She’d said he was a confused little girl. But he’d always been nice to me up until that point. The next few times my mom had to save money on her hair, I stayed home alone.

  “Yes, Mom, your happiness makes me happy,” I nod my head. It’s true. Honestly, after this evening I won’t be able to fall asleep and not worry over financial instability. Not at all. And she knows full well why I suffer from night terrors.

  Her plumped lips kneed together. “Then act like it.”

  “How about this,” I say, for a moment I bite my lip. Do I really want to grow a pair for the sake of myself and my mother? “If you love Tony enough to tell him about Milo, then I’ll believe you’re truly happy. I’ll be truly happy.”

  My heart is settled for the moment. If Lolita Dunham is dumb enough, or in love enough to tell Tony about my father, then I’ll be ha
ppy. But she won’t. She had ample opportunity with a few of the others. Actually, I suppose all of the others, because none of them had any connections to law enforcement. They’d probably shit bricks at the Bennincasa infamous name, but Tony Zaccaro? Telling him will terminate her cash flow.

  “Humph, maybe I will tell Tony about… him,” Lolita says, incapable of uttering my dad’s name. She almost ruined it for me, the many times she’d overdose on medication and scream his name to the high heavens as if he went up instead of down to the pits of hell. Then one day, she was unable to let Milo’s name float past those ever-puckered lips. With that, she saunters back to the car.

  I stand at the curb, lips set in a line. Behind me, the lights to Flour are off. There’s a quirky painting on the window of a flour sack like what one would see at flour mills in the 1950s. The sack is lying on its side, with a plume of the white powder puffed up around it. The words “FLOUR SHOPPE” are in a curlicued blue-silver font.

  The car doesn’t dash off. The driver’s side door opens, and Tony stands. He leans his elbows onto the hood of the car, with a friendly smile, he says, “Please, Reese, I’d prefer that you step inside and lock the door before we pull off. You’re much too beautiful and important for us to leave you outside, it’s almost eleven p.m.”

  Tony’s polite gesture would prickle my instincts regarding any underlying intentions, yet I’ve met his son first. There’s no reason to be kind besides the fact that he’s also a gentleman. I nod and walk away.

  My head dips so fast that my chin pierces my chest, before I become alert once more. Forcing my eyes closed and rapidly open, I stifle a nod. The purple, knit blanket surrounding me is pushed to the side. Dressed only in a Captain America pajama shirt that falls mid-thigh, I stand up from the suede couch in my living room. The empty bottle of Asti Spumante clatters on the wood floor, rolls underneath the coffee table, clanking and coming to a stop against the wrought-iron leg. Damn, I am a weakling, and the sweet, sparkling wine didn’t do the trick. Wish Jamie were here, he’d bring the good, hard stuff. The type of alcohol that would force me into a dreamless sleep.

  I reach down to grab the remote. The flat-screen TV before me has gone black from inactivity. With the press of a button, the light illuminates the room, and an infomercial comes on. The voice is so loud that it does the trick, I’m awake, perhaps for a short time, but awake no less.

  The DirecTV time is 2:42 a.m. I tap the remote against my leg. To call Jamie on a weekend night… or not to call…

  He is my longest, most loyal friend so I grab my cell phone and dial his number. The phone rings and rings. I dial again. Third time’s a charm. The call is answered, instead of his wrath, the phone seems to be clanking on something, probably the bedside table. Hushed cussing, and then Jamie whispers into the phone, “Bitch, you owe me, my silk wrap nail is broken.”

  “Hi, Jamie,” I say cheerfully as I hear the sound of his footsteps in the background.

  “Oh crap, you’re extra happy. Which could either mean, you’re so damn sleepy, that you’re halfway delirious, brain tapped out. Now I’ve had to leave the comfort of my International, to step into the living room of his suite. What’s up?”

  I cringe. Damn, his international lover is from Tokyo and hardly pays a visit. “I’m sorry, Jamie. Come over, I can’t sleep.”

  “Negative. We’re not at our favorite boutique hotel off of Rodeo this weekend. Chu chose a winery resort in Temecula, babe.” He pauses. The irritation from not being allowed his beauty sleep is left at the wayside as he inquires, “Is this because of Milo?”

  “Yeah…”

  “Alright,” his tone is heavy, “I’ll wake up Chu and tell him that I’ve gotta go.”

  “Oh no,” I sigh. “You’re over two hours away, babe. And if I’d known the International,” I smile, since Jamie always brags about his wealthiest conquests, “was in town, I wouldn’t have even considered—”

  “Girl, don’t even,” Jamie cuts me off, he sounds much more awake than before. “You are closer than blood, Reese’s Pieces. What’s wrong?”

  “Jamie, my mom married into a cop family.” Just uttering the words make my shoulders slump. I gave into a night of weakness with Evan, and honestly it didn’t start off with us jumping into the shack, but Lolita has taken the cake.

  “Wait, what did you just say?” Jamie asks, after I repeat myself, he’s shouting my words verbatim in my ear, and I have to pull the phone away. “I can’t stand that damn woman, what the fuck is she trying to do? Reese, I’m going to wake up Chu, and let him know it’s an emergency.”

  At the sound of his footsteps again, I try once more, “Jamie, don’t. Don’t do it. I woke you up from a dead sleep, and already incurred your wrath. Just stay up with me.”

  “No, I will be there soon. After I comfort you, we’re going to slap some sense into your mother. She is… oh my God, your mom. I am done biting my tongue, Reese, I’m going to tell Lolita about herself.”

  “No, no, don’t come.”

  “Stop holding her hand, stop allowing her to ruin your life. After her husband’s family finds out who Milo is,” Jamie stresses, his warning ending ominously.

  “We’ll figure that out later. But I… honestly it’s not the cop family thing I’m angry about.” I’m angry because I can’t bang the other Zaccaro just one more time! These are things that I can’t tell Jamie, he’d slap me silly since I’m being as brainless as my mother—nix the ring. “I’m not really angry about the cop dynamic.”

  “You’re not? Listen, Reese,” Jamie seems to be pacing around in circles, “Your mother spends cash like water. When we were kids, she took us to Disneyland! She took the entire projects to Disneyland because you befriended me. And that’s the extent to her generosity. She has spent millions of dollars on herself, and I don’t mean hubby number-so-and-so’s money! Blood money, Reese, blood money.”

  “As far as I know, mom doesn’t have any more of Milo’s money.” If she had, she’d help me with Flour Shoppe. Or is this wishful thinking?

  “Let me paint this picture for you, Reese’s Pieces.”

  I take a deep breath, there’s no stopping him. “Right now, Reese, you’re bat-shit worried out of your mind. You’re dressed in your Captain America pajamas as opposed to any of your other Avengers PJs because he’s your favorite and subconsciously he has always kept your safe.”

  I grumble. Since I was resistant to therapy while growing up, Jamie took Introduction to Psychology in high school. He forced himself upon me as a therapist, with quasi-effective methods.

  “I said am I right? Are you wearing the Captain PJs?”

  “Yes, Mr. Narcissist,” I respond through gritted teeth.

  “Mhmmm, precisely. Now, I had no problem coming over, to rub your hair and hold you like a mommy would—”

  “Jamie, must you be a condescending asshole?”

  “I’m not. Trust me, boo, I’ve spent years filling the mommy role. Back to the cop. What if they think you used some of the money the DA didn’t find for your bakery? She’s putting Flour in jeopardy. She’s bought the newest shoes, clothes, purses of the season every damn season. That woman has thrown away millions, but you’ve invested…”

  “Besides the uh… the uh… statute of limitations,” I pause, wondering if that’s the right term, “Jamie, I have proof that Flour Shoppe has a proper paper trail of investments.” Even if I’m wrong about this, good luck to the cops for seizing my bakery before the bank gets their hands on it.

  It took a while for me to calm Jamie down. Finally, I settle on logic, “By the time you arrive, it will be light outside anyway. I’ll manage.”

  “Okay,” he hesitates for a moment.

  “I love you, Jamie, get some rest.” I smile. As sure as I know, there’d have been no Evan and I if Jamie decided to go out with Sandra and I the other day. We can be with a group of people, and I already know just who I’m sleeping with that night. Jamie too.

  “Alright, my love.” Jamie pauses
reluctantly, “Have a dreamless sleep, my favorite Reese’s Pieces.”

  We hang up, and I sigh heavily. Damn, I do not want to fall asleep. Every instance my eyelashes touch my cheeks, Tony’s voice slither’s through my ears.

  “C'mere, doll,” Tony had said earlier this evening. My own father used to utter those very words.

  Milo would come home with a diamond tiara on his head. Not that fake cubic zirconia shit, but his black, curly head would be a bed of blinding diamonds. He'd pretend to not know he was sporting a princess crown. Then he'd hug me, jokingly using a funny tone since his resonance was too thick, Italian, manly to play dress-up with. But he'd do it all for me. Yes, he made sure his pretty little girl knew she was a princess. Then he'd teach me how to fight, and make sure I knew his blood was thick, strong and soaring in my veins.

  But that last morning I’d see my father alive, Milo had said “C'mere, doll,” all slurred and to the offbeat background of my mother cussing up a storm. Instincts told me something was amiss. Yet, this couldn’t be anything new in our dysfunctional family. Half the time mom talked crap was due to Milo the Magician and how randomly he liked to appear. Yet, this very last time I felt almost an out-of-body-experience.

  I didn't care. Lolita could beat my ass later on. It honestly didn't hurt. So at the age of ten, I sat up, slipped into my fuzzy shoes and clambered out of my canopy bed.

  “Dad!” I screeched in excitement. I didn’t need the diamonds, nor did I need any of the other frivolous gifts Milo brought home on the rare occasion that he did come home. All I ever needed was the love and attention he bestowed upon me.

  Unable to recall the last time I saw my dad, I bounded down the hall and almost slipped on the shiny marble floor. Just as I righted my footing, I could see my father waving a gun in one hand and pushing my mother’s chest with the other.

  “Babe, move. Now,” he ordered.

  “Get the fuck outta here, Milo.” Lolita said, in a silk robe.

  “I said move,” his voice held bite, almost enough to blow her away.