Secrets She Keeps

by Amarie Avant

  Chickening out is what I was made for. I was molded into a little punk the day my mom, her sister, and their tiny side of the family began to talk shit about my actually dead-deadbeat dad. The text message tactics places me on the same level as the ex-Suit. At least his email came with a customary business signature. All I had the nerve to do was add our parents to the equation to solidify my excuse.

  The server comes by with another round of shots. Jamie starts to hold his up in ‘toast style’ just as I take my double shot to the head. “Cheers, bitches,” he shouts.

  Jamie comes up with any old reason to salute the toxic drinks before us. The image of me impulsively writing the first message to Evan clanks around in my brain: “My mom looks happier than I’ve ever seen her… with your dad.” That part of the text was the truth.

  Like some teenybopper attempting to rid herself of a mediocre one-night stand, I had hastily sent the next message. “We’ve gotta stop…”

  “Damn, Reese,” Jamie scoffs, cutting into my self-torture. “It’s not water.”

  My lips are plastered in a cheesy grin. “Well, as watered down as these shots are, could’ve fooled me,” I joke, not the slightest bit drunk. Oh, but I need to be. I’m safe since Jamie and I will catch an Uber. Though I don’t understand why Maria isn’t drinking. Her boyfriend will be off work, as a nightshift security guard, so he’ll pick her up. Sandra’s leaving lucky tonight. I’ve technically only had three one-night stands since the ex-Suit, but she’s flown through teddy-bear hugs.

  “Oh shit, this is my song!” Maria pumps her fist to Pit Bull. Jamie gives me the eye, since he’s sitting at my left and at the exit of the U-shaped booth. He snatches up my hand. I, in return, grab Sandra’s hand and she grabs Maria.

  Though we’re a tight-knit group, Maria thrusts those hips in her tiny sequined skirt as if she’s aiming for more than a man to warm her bed tonight. Maria and Sandra are like a beacon to every guy in a ten-yard radius. They all turn to watch the model-type blonde and hot Latina. I grind back against Jamie, who’s wearing black skin-tight jeans with sexy see-through lace patches that make him look like Queen B. A chandelier blouse allows the eye to play peek-a-boo with his shimmery nipples. As hot as Jamie looks, it all makes me wonder how his man could leave him at the club alone. And my friend’s on a perpetual roller coaster tonight as far as emotions go. We're one-in-the-same, at least emotions mirror on his face, while my heart does what it does best. Freezes over.

  “Look at those two hoes,” he says into my ear.

  “Stop hating,” I reach around and punch him lightly on the arm. “We’re riding Dutch tonight, but you’re not kicking me in your sleep later on either. So go get out your aggression,” I coax.

  He bites his lip, almost pigeon-toed in his stilettos while standing there in thought. Then Jamie struts away. Now, I’m standing in the middle of one of the hottest urban clubs in Los Angeles, with a sense of longing. Like myself, Jamie has sparked a new relationship. I tell myself mine is so much more complicated, twirling around to plant myself right next to my girls.

  One minute Jamie was headed off for a quickie with the owner of Powerhouse. The next? He and I are standing in the kitchen of his Santa Monica apartment, damn near ransacking the refrigerator and cabinets. On the counter are the fundamental ingredients to bake a cake: flour, eggs, sugar.

  “Can you find the vanilla bean?” Jamie asks, stalking back and forth. I cringe. My feet hurt, and I took my shoes off as soon as we stepped inside his place.

  I open the window above the kitchen sink, just a bit wider. The chilly, Venice Beach sea-salt breeze sinks in more, but I’m tempted to wave the cold air toward Jamie as he says we’re making a brown sugar soufflé with crème anglaise at… my eyes scan toward the clock on the range stove. “It’s almost one in the morning!”

  Jamie stops before me. When he’s mad, every sentence is punctuated with multiple ‘damns’. He exclaims, “Damn, now ask me if I care! Find the damn vanilla bean, we are making the damn soufflé!”

  “Okay,” I nod my head at the deranged man. Palms out, I attempt to appeal at some underlying sanity, while imploring, “Let’s just eat ice cream, Jamie, you’re in no position to make a soufflé. Trying and failing will only make you more anxious.”

  “We are making it,” he barks.

  As if he's been crowned Queen of the South I yap my agreement, “Okay, sheesh! What happened when you went in search of…” Crap, an image of the sexy Argentinian flashes before my mind, along with a slew of ready and willing club dancers. Yup, I can already imagine what happened.

  “Fuck him, Reese, fuck him. All men are assholes. Even the one you love.”

  As my delusional friend makes the statement lumping every single person of his sex into a rather bigoted category, I lean back against the counter. A deep, cleansing breath rolls through my lungs. “Jamie, I’m not certain of much, but I know that we’re gonna try to make a soufflé, in this bad headspace, and we’re gonna fail.”

  “So, you aren’t denying being in love?” Jamie stands before me, sidestepping my question with an inquiry of his own.

  “What? Grayson,” I say the ex-Suit’s name aloud for the first time in so long. “We didn’t belong. He had a membership to one of the most elite country clubs, while I was more of a Costco type of gal. Grayson and I didn’t really mix. One day he was smart enough to heed reality.”

  Lips curled, and side-eyeing me, Jamie says, “Nobody is talking about Grayson! Fuck his pedigree, that doesn’t make him better than you.”

  “I never said it did but—’

  “Evan, girl. I’m talking about your stepbrother who you’ve got feelings for. Strong ones.”

  “Wh-what?” Though a Words with Friends type of hobby could work in my favor during socializing, my vocabulary has been diminished to just this one word.

  “I’m convinced we’re doomed to be two unhappy souls. You’ve been way over Grayson. Just crazy enough to lump all men in business suits into the ‘no-no’ category,” Jamie shrugs. “It’s our vice. Our self-preservation mechanism is to stay away from our deepest desires, because if the shit doesn’t pan out we literally shatter. Luckily, Evan pursued you–”

  Now my terminology dwindles a tad further with, “How?”

  “How’d I know?” Jamie cocks an eyebrow. “The moment you began to watch the news this afternoon, you were worried out of your mind.”

  “Jamie, you’re crazy,” I try. “He’s my friggen stepbrother.”

  Those long eyelashes and iridescent eye shadow begin to shimmer as Jamie rolls his eyes. “Don't play me, booboo. Your little forlorn face as the chick on Channel 5 mentioned the murdered cops was more than Oscar-worthy!” Jamie pauses to sigh. “There’s no fooling me. And just so you know, nothing happened at the club with that wannabe-man and myself. He’s almost as good to me as Chu. Do you see any clouds or flaws in these diamond earrings?!”

  I grin. “Not one cloud.”

  “So yes, my man does me right. He's just living proof of me running away from what I want.”

  Jamie plants his hands onto the countertop, and then pulls himself up into a sitting position. Kicking his shoes off, my friend reverts back to my relationship, saying, “I can’t fathom what went wrong with you and Grayson. You two were perfect for each other—goofy as hell. Got on my last damn nerve, finishing each other’s sentences, the whole nine-yards. But, Evan helped you get through that some way. You’re in love with Evan.”

  Jamie pauses. I want to scoff, but can’t move.

  “Are you listening to what I just said, Reese? You just can’t be with Evan,” he sighs, deeply. “You and I are in the same boat because it’s too late for me to be with Owen.”

  I sit on the counter next to Jamie, and lean my head on his shoulder. Jamie’s a hop and a skip past tipsy, but he’s right nonetheless. Owen was perfect. They were in love. Those glittery, dark eyes of Jamie’s were blinded by glitz and glam. Owen was a penniless poet. Jamie fucked up.

&nbs
p; With Evan and I, the story is vastly different. The outcome is the same. There is no future.

  “I’m gonna stop seeing him, Jamie. I texted Evan before we got to Powerhouse.”

  “Good.” His mouth is a thick line of tension.

  “Nobody will ever know what we did, Jamie.”

  “You mean what I did?” Jamie’s voice breaks just slightly. I’ve seen this man do many things in life, but only once, have I seen him cry.

  “We, Jamie, what we did,” I say, trying to search his eyes. I force myself not to blink.

  In my ears, screaming is loud. “Reese said STOP, motherfucker!” Eighteen- year-old Jamie, slammed a lamp across my mother’s boyfriend’s head. Blood trickled in his pale- green eyes. He fell to the ground, never to get back up again.

  I lick my lips. Voice dry, it’s hard for me to speak. “Jamie, we’re in this together…”

  It hurts my heart that Jamie would even consider the notion that I might tell Evan something so gruesome. We murdered a man and dragged his body into a major gang infested territory. No matter how trusting Evan seems, and, man, did he honestly compel me that one night while we meandered during the Downtown Art Walk, this secret isn’t mine to tell.

  Chapter 17

  Evan

  Two weeks ago is the last time I laid eyes on Reese. The office is swamped with paperwork, which the captain has threatened to cut off extremities if not completed. We aren’t to eat, sleep or breathe prior to the completion of this investigation. Once a month, a cold case is assigned to each unit, those too, have been placed on the backburner in order to give rest to the families of our fallen comrades.

  The 8 by 11 photos of The Jackals head honchos have been replaced with a post-mortem snapshot of Jackals prospect Derek Cooper and the Russian with golden-white hair, now deceased John Doe. The Russians have taken precedence, there will be no finding Riker and bashing his teeth in, at least I hope he forces my hand when I catch up with him.

  “Any more leads?” Just the thought of hearing any variation of that question shakes my head as I conclude the debriefing. A sea of eyes is looking to me for an answer, and Captain Raynor is leaning against one of the desks, arms folded, ready to tear myself and Tyrone a new one if we’re not able solve this puzzle soon. It’s not the first time Los Angelenos doubted their own, but people are expecting CSI television results where the case is solved in 60 minutes—including commercials.

  I finish up the pep talk and step out of the room just as Raynor stands to take over. I head straight toward the locker room. My hands slam against the door and it revolves. Inside, the room is empty since those who aren’t on the beat were just looking to me to be a savior.

  The perimeter is surrounded with red lockers, benches parallel from them, and a passageway leads to the shower room.

  Like a restless, caged animal I stalk back and forth in the center of the locker room, fists slicing through the air so quickly. SWOOSH. SWOOSH… Swoosh. It’s not enough to cease my racing mind, with the muddled thoughts of my fallen comrades. One of the rookies was a single-father, his parents are now caregivers of his three-year-old daughter.

  BLAM! My fist hits the tin locker door. BLAM! BLAM! BLAM! The other rookie was a newlywed. Though patrolmen went to give her the news, I still recall her crying at her husband’s funeral. Almost five hundred police cars escorted the fallen officer to the memorial service. Law enforcement from neighboring areas, to include police departments from around the states and the country, sent officers as a show of solidarity and support. The widow’s ear-shattering crying pierced throughout the entire procession.

  I pull my tie away from my Adam’s apple. Not one second later, am I punching the locker again.

  “I need a fucking drink,” I say to myself, sinking onto the bench before me. The skin on my knuckles is scraped and bloody. “Fuck a drink…” I laugh, and grab my cell phone from my pocket.

  I scroll through my contacts for Reese’s number, though I know it by heart in a world where nobody knows any fuckin’ body’s number, I know hers. Pressing the button, I recollect on her last text to me.

  It was the very night those Russians ambushed our investigation. She had to be scared. As the call connects, the widow’s unremitting crying echoes in my ears.

  But I need Reese. I fell in love with her the night before everything went to shit. She'd cried and I fell. I wanted to say the words but I'm sure she felt them. It’s all been too soon so I hadn’t the slightest idea of how to address them with her.

  This shootout off Wilshire and Fairfax made her skittish. Reese started talking that "stepbrother, stepsister" bullshit. But it’s not too late. There’s no such thing as too late, when it comes to the way I feel about her.

  “Evan…” her voice is a mixture of questioning and longing. “How are you?”

  “Could be better.” I take a deep breath. “And you’re busy baking a thousand cakes.”

  “Spring was last week, wedding season is among us. I told Tony there were three hundred, and joked that it might as well be a thousand, but I’m in my element and can handle anything. I’m wearing my Captain America apron, so… So… Hey, you’re keeping tabs on me?” She seems to be smiling from ear to ear.

  “Best I can under the circumstances. But I need to see you this evening.” I glare at my knuckles, selfishly placing my desire over her safety and her heart…

  The happiness caves for a reluctant quietness. In her silence, the widow’s crying gets louder. What the fuck am I doing? We have no future. I could’ve been the one buried six feet under…

  “Evan, I… I’m working on those wedding cakes,” she murmurs.

  “So, no tonight, then?”

  “Tonight won’t work,” she sighs. “My day started before dawn, and I...”

  I help Reese out in the excuse department by finishing her sentence, “And you're busy?” I let my long legs lean out, and cross my legs at the ankles.

  I could try harder to persuade Reese to my way of thinking but I've got shit to do too.

  “Tony's having the family get-together this Friday,” Reese says, there’s a mixture of optimism laced with pessimism.

  “Alright, that gives me something to look forward to,” I tell her. Shit, this case better be wrapped up by then, I rub the back of my neck. “You've only really met Isabella, so we should get our head in the game before you meet the rest of ‘em.”

  “Hmmm, like we had to do before our failed attempt at dealing with our parent’s perspective issues last month? Which by the way turned out to be the same problem,” her tone is full of laughter. “Sheesh, I’m never returning to that restaurant.”

  “You and me both,” I say in jest, as a few uniform cops walk into the locker room.

  There are orders being shouted in the background for various types of cupcakes. Reese takes a deep breath, “Alright, Evan. Look, I think we should…” Her voice trails off. “It’s getting busy, gotta go.”

  We hang up, and I exit the locker room.

  As I'm sliding the phone into the silk lining of my suit, the captain’s head pops out of his office. He eyeballs me, then slams the door.

  I cock my head for Tyrone to get up from his desk.

  “Nope, you're big boss, bro,” he shakes his head, chuckling under his breath. As I start around the desks to our captain’s office, my partner hightails it out of his seat and he jogs into the office in the nick of time.

  The instant the door meets its frame, Raynor points and shouts, “You, and you, have everyone that is somebody in Los Angeles eye fucking us under a magnifying glass, waiting for another incident. Dumb and Dumber, keep this shit up and I can't save your sorry asses. You all are gonna have to screw the mayor and that little redheaded bitch...”

  “I think I've got the hot, redheaded DA covered,” Tyrone laughs. “Evan, you handle the mayor. He’ll be more agreeable with your wavy hair.”

  “Knock it off.” He points to Tyrone. “That little fucker Cooper is dead. Two of our very own are dead!
We don't have shit!”

  “Cooper?” I inquire through gritted teeth. It was nothing short of a miracle to learn that Derek Cooper hadn’t died in the shootout. He was barely breathing when Emergency Medics finally got onto the scene. His surviving was also a bit of information not given to the press.

  I still don't know what the Russians wanted with Derek Cooper. Their connection to Riker and his band of redneck idiots is beyond me.

  The Russians and guys like Riker only have one thing in common, alcohol. Riker and his guys cook meth, they own a bunch of dive bars to legitimize their business. The Russians are a more cultured group, and that's saying a lot. Most of their smuggled alcohol becomes the ultra-rich’s bragging right. But the two can coexist because bars like Riker’s only sell cheap, non-Russian shit. And the Russians don't dabble in meth.

  “The warden just gave me the call,” the Captain huffs. “Cooper got iced by a big motherfucker named—”

  “Something Russian,” Tyron scoffs.

  “Winner, winner chicken dinner. The bastard who snuck his seven-foot, crazy-ass into the highly guarded infirmary’s name is Popov.”

  “Who is he representing?” Tyrone asks.

  “Everyone and no one.” Raynor sighs, pulling his flask from his side drawer. He uncaps it and places it to his lips before taking a large swig. “Popov was representing the entire Soviet Union as far as we know. Popov was a war dog, in it for the money.”

  “And being that capital is the almighty persuasion, there’s no way to pinpoint who funded this,” I conclude.

  “Yup, no amount of encouragement,” Raynor annunciates every syllable, ideas of torture flash before his eyes, “will amount to shit. Popov ain’t talking.”

  I rub the back of my neck. Cooper was one of Riker’s flunkies. Not high enough on the totem pole to even put the energy into swatting like a fly. Why would Popov go through so much stress to shank a nobody?

  “We've gone over this a gazillion times now, Evan. All the cops on the beat have their eyes peeled for Riker and his bicycle club,” Tyrone shakes his head. The day Reese came into my life, Riker has been MIA. I’ve been on thin ice for intervening before the meth deal. “And now we've added these motherfucking Russians to the equation.” Tyrone rubs at his temples.