“I’ve been thinking about getting a place here,” he said, after blowing his nose and throwing the tissue into a very full trash can beside him. “Maybe close by. Give you a little bit of space.”
I pictured him renting an apartment right next door to mine. I was sure that’s what he had in mind.
“Who says I’m staying here?” I asked, without looking up. He grunted a response. “You can stay in my living room as long as you like.”
“How’s Amy?” he asked.
“How do you know I wasn’t out on a date?”
He smirked. “Hotshot detective, remember?”
“Retired, I thought.”
Another storm of coughing took him, and I winced.
“Dying,” he said. “This is what a dying man looks like, Anna.” He sniffled, and then groaned.
“Want to go to urgent care?”
He scoffed at this. “Men don’t go to the doctor for colds. Men beat their chests and whine for their daughters to make them chicken noodle soup.”
I plugged in the mattress, and once it started filling, rose to fill his request.
“Men are such babies when they’re sick,” I said, hoping I didn’t sound worried. He rarely got colds. He was the strong one in our family. I sometimes wondered if he’d even tell me if he ever did get really sick. He’d probably just ride off into the sunset like in the old cowboy movies. He’d probably saddle up Mug. The dog was big enough.
“Your mom used to say that,” he said. I stared at the pantry, missing the chicken soup that was right in front of my face for a good thirty seconds.
“She told me it was a good thing she’d gotten the cancer. If it had been me, everyone would have abandoned me on the roadside because they’d get so sick of my bellyaching.”
“She had a point,” I said.
“Your mom was the tough one,” he said. “She was always strong. Even in the end.”
I blinked back the tears that had sprung up. I hated that she was gone. I missed her—how gentle she’d been, how she’d never once tried to pretend she was my birth mother, but proved she was my real mother by being a million times better in every way. But mostly I hated that she’d left my dad. He got on fine without her, but a piece of him was missing. He’d never be the same.
He’d never want to be the same.
Maybe it was shallow since Alec and I had had such limited time together, but I understood that now.
My dad’s cell phone rang, and I picked it up. The caller ID said UNAVAILABLE.
“Want me to answer?” I asked.
“No, I got it.” He motioned for the phone, and I tossed it to him.
“This is Ben,” he said, voice nasally. “Yep. She’s here. She’s . . .” I stuck my head around the corner. Was he talking to Amy? Mike? Unbelievable. Was my text not good enough?
Just let us, Amy had said. I pulled out a soup pot, not bothering to keep quiet as I banged it against the stove. A friend in therapy after an abduction, a kid who witnessed her father abusing her mother, a dad out sick on my couch, and who were they all worried about? Me.
“She’s doing well,” I heard my dad say.
“Who is that?” I tried not to sound snappy but wasn’t very effective.
Terry, he mouthed.
Oh. Terry Benitez. His friend on the Tampa Police Force. I’d been being paranoid. Stupid. Not everything was about me.
When my dad was settled, I retreated to my bedroom and kicked off my shoes. Still dressed, I lay down and stared up at the ceiling.
Mike’s voice echoed in my head. He’s taking a beating. Max Stein’s attorneys are tearing him up.
Maybe I’d been going about this wrong. Alec had been in touch with Amy, so it wasn’t like I was betraying her if I just checked in and offered my support.
I just wanted to tell him not to give up. He was doing the right thing.
Before I could think it through, I snatched my phone out of my bag and flipped to his number, still programmed as my first speed dial. It went straight to voice mail. It wasn’t even his voice, just a recorded message. I turned off my phone, and with shaking hands flung it across the bed.
Weak.
Talking about my mom, hearing that Alec was hurting, even hearing that he’d tried to help Amy, it had all screwed with my head. I’d made a decision, now I had to live with it.
* * *
I slept in one-hour bursts, woken by the usual nightmares and my dad’s coughing in the other room, and when the sun finally rose I was already dressed and ready for the day. Work went by uneventfully, apart from Amy asking me forty-seven times who I was bringing to the CASA fund-raiser, and five o’clock found me in her chair, getting my hair flatironed into a soft wave that kept swinging in front of my eyes every time I turned my head. It was annoying, but Amy called it mysterious, which of course was a perfect look for an event that supported foster care.
I’d started dreading the evening. It might have been all right with Amy, but without her dressing up, going out, smiling, and pretending . . . it all seemed like an excruciating amount of work. If I hadn’t told Jacob I’d be there, I would have ditched.
Amy finally ducked out to go to the girls’ play. I promised I’d follow her out, and was just about to get my stuff when I heard male voices in the break room.
I stuck my head inside the small kitchenette, lined on one wall with lockers, and grinned at the two men sitting at the metal table.
“Your hair’s really long,” said Marcos, crossing his arms over his white V-neck T-shirt disapprovingly. He’d let his dark hair grow out a little himself in the last couple of months. No more military buzz. No more polo shirts either. I couldn’t help but think the second man at the table had something to do with that.
“She looks hot.” Derrick, Rave’s owner, was wearing a yellow tank top with black leather pants today. With his thick eyeliner and pouty lips, he looked like a runway model.
I pushed the smooth strands of hair back over my shoulder. “It just looks longer because it’s straight.” My hair was naturally wavy. Flat-ironing it had given it another three inches in length.
Marcos looked unconvinced. “You work at a barber’s. You could get it cut, you know.”
Derrick’s eyes narrowed to slits. “A barber? Excuse me?”
“Whoops,” I said. Marcos’s comment didn’t bother me. He’d practically been my big brother from the day he’d been assigned as my bodyguard. Saving my ass at the bridge had only served to solidify the role.
While Derrick educated Marcos on the difference between a barbershop and a salon, I grabbed my stuff.
“So, who’s the lucky guy?” asked Derrick.
“What guy?” said Marcos.
Derrick laughed, and patted his cheek, which immediately had him blushing all the way to the tips of his ears.
“You’re cute,” said Derrick. “A girl doesn’t get her hair done that nice unless she wants a man to mess it up.”
“Wait . . .” Marcos was frowning. “You didn’t tell me you were seeing someone.”
“I’m not,” I said, exasperated. “Not that I feel the need to run every little thing by you.”
“Then where are you going?” pressed Marcos. He did look handsome in his wrinkle-free white shirt, even with his serious mouth and thick eyebrows. They were sort of his trademark.
“A fund-raiser,” I said. “For CASA. Hey, what are you guys doing tonight?”
“Believe it or not, I own a business,” said Derrick. “Which I probably should be getting back to.”
I looked at Marcos. “Want to come to a fancy schmancy fund-raiser? It’s formal.” I might as well have told him they’d be serving rotten fish.
He glanced at Derrick, who smirked back at him. Wow. They were already to the silent-ask-for-permission phase.
“I’m not dancing,” said
Marcos.
“I wouldn’t let you even if you wanted to,” I told him.
“Then yes,” he said. “What time? I’ll pick you up.”
“Pick me up in an hour,” I said. We were all standing now, and though Derrick had already announced his exit, he had yet to leave.
Marcos glanced between us, and then shifted his weight to the other foot.
“Are you waiting to kiss good-bye until I leave?” I asked. “That’s adorable.”
Marcos cleared his throat. “We weren’t . . .”
“Yes, we were.” With that, Derrick grabbed his boyfriend’s face between his well-manicured hands, and kissed him right on the lips. Marcos, still uncomfortable with the whole out thing, made a sound like he was dying.
And then started to melt.
I turned, just as his eyes drifted closed and his hands came beneath Derrick’s elbows. It was too intimate to watch, and even if I was a little jealous he had someone to sweep him off his feet, I was genuinely happy for him.
“An hour,” I called, as I cruised to the door.
Five
“There’s a handsome cop at the door to see you.” My dad stuck his head into the bathroom where I was just finishing my makeup. His nose was red from the cold, and he’d succumbed to wearing his giant glasses rather than his contacts. “You can see how I’d find this surprising, given our lengthy discussions about dating cops.”
I blinked, checking my mascara for lumps. My dad had two rules when it came to dating: one, Don’t date, and two, Don’t date cops.
“We discussed it when I was seventeen, Dad. Anyway, that’s Marcos. He’s the one Terry assigned to my protective detail before . . .” Everything fell apart. “I thought you’d met him.”
He made an unconvinced noise. “I would have remembered.”
“He’s just a friend,” I said. “He’s dating a friend of mine.”
“Oh.” Dad’s face lifted. “Well, that’s good news.”
I followed him out to the living room where Marcos was waiting, looking somehow more comfortable in his formal police blues than in jeans and a T-shirt. A cop, through and through. It occurred to me I should have told him he could have just worn a suit, but I doubted he had one.
“You look nice,” I said.
He was staring at me with a scowl on his face. “Don’t you need a sweater or something?”
The dress I’d chosen wasn’t as sexy as you might have believed based on the concern in both men’s eyes. It was black satin, with ruching along one side of the waist, and a hemline just below my ankles. Though my shoulders were bare, the neckline was modest, and the back was only open over my shoulders.
The material was thin enough that I couldn’t wear panties, but I wasn’t about to tell them that.
My dad slapped Marcos on the shoulder. “I’m liking you more by the second, kid.” Marcos managed a smile, just before my dad followed with, “I think it goes without saying that if you touch her, I’ll kill you.”
“Don’t worry,” Marcos mumbled.
“Dad.” I reached for my clutch, and kissed him on the cheek.
If I’d known how the night would end, I would have told him I loved him, too.
* * *
The fund-raiser was held at the Savoy Hotel downtown. Marcos had brought his cop car, which wasn’t exactly easy to squeeze into wearing a fancy dress. The monitors and radio stuck out over the passenger seat, leaving me pressed against the door with a side view of the customary pump shotgun above my head.
“My dad used to drop me off at the mall in his patrol car when I was in high school,” I told him while we parked.
“Bet your friends thought it was cool,” he said.
I groaned. “Amy called it the birth-control mobile.”
Marcos smirked. It occurred to me that he had brought this car for the same reason.
When we got to the second floor where the event was being held, I gave the doorman our tickets, and we stepped into a bustling ballroom lined with enormous, half-draped windows overlooking the Bay. Men in suits and women in dresses that put mine to shame loitered in groups, taking appetizers from the waiters that passed by with trays. Along the walls on either side of the entrance were bulletin boards with blown-up quotes and testimonials from children and families who’d benefitted from the program.
“Wow,” said Marcos. “How much do they pay you again?”
I slapped him on the arm. He knew the day-to-day dealings of CASA were far less glamorous.
A woman I recognized from the courthouse smiled at me, and unconsciously I fiddled with the straps of my dress. Her white chiffon gown could have easily made a red carpet appearance at the Oscars.
Marcos glanced at me. “Stop it,” he said. “You look fine.”
“Fine,” I repeated. I never felt just fine when I was with Alec. I felt hot. Scorching. I felt like the most beautiful woman who had ever walked the face of the earth.
Marcos stilled my hand and gave it a squeeze. I looked up at him, seeing a sad sort of kindness in his eyes.
“You look really pretty.”
“Thanks,” I said quietly. I don’t know why it hit me right then, but I nearly told him I was going to be leaving soon. I hadn’t told Amy, or work, or even my dad really, but something about the moment made me feel like I ought to confess that secret, just so he’d know not to invest too much in our friendship.
I think he thought I was regretting my decision to come, because he said, “Can we eat first, or do we need to find your kid?”
I focused on Jacob. That was why I was here. To support Jacob. To support this important program. I would talk to Marcos later about things. When I had a plan.
“Let’s meander,” I said.
It was actually kind of fun cruising around with Marcos. We tried strange, fancy hors d’oeuvres and champagne. We made fun of the donors who were clearly afraid of the children that ran between them. We listened to the welcome speech by the president of the local CASA chapter, and clapped for the kids who had graduated from the program. Jacob found me after a little while. He’d already lost his tie, and his shirt was untucked. He gave me a card he’d made with his foster mom. It made me cry.
While we were talking, Marcos had gone to say hello to some cop friends he recognized, and when Jacob bounded off to play with his friends, I found myself alone.
My champagne glass was empty, but I clung to it anyway, needing something to hold in my hands as I stared absently at the posted testimonials. The old familiar feeling was creeping back over me again. I was an advocate, a welcomed guest at this event, and yet the sense of belonging was somehow overwhelmingly uncomfortable. Jacob was okay now. He didn’t need me. If I stuck around too much longer I would become a burden to Marcos.
Amy and Paisley . . . well . . . I think we could all safely say that their lives would be a lot less exciting without me in it.
I didn’t like thinking this way. I hated it. It made me feel small. The way my birth mother had made me feel—like I wasn’t important, even with the proof otherwise all around me.
A new place would change my perspective. Open up new opportunities. I just needed a fresh outlook on life. Somewhere with a lot less drama. Somewhere with a lot less Alec.
“Anna.”
I fumbled with the glass as it slipped from my fingers. When I’d caught it, I held it so tightly I thought it might break.
He was right there in front of me as if he’d never been gone. Dark, wavy hair that curled at his collar. A small scar over the bridge of his nose. That piercing blue gaze that reached straight into my soul and ripped it to pieces.
He was wearing a black suit with a baby blue silk tie, and my eyes locked on the knot because it was the same one we’d used in the bedroom one night when he’d bound us together.
My heart was pounding so hard I could barely breathe.
He was gorgeous and he was perfect and he was tired—I could see the stress weighing him down like a physical thing. I wanted to hold him. I wanted him to hold me. I wanted to kiss him and fan my fingers over his broad chest and scream, What took you so long?
The memories shook through me, one after another. The first time he’d kissed me. His hand between my thighs in his Jeep. The tight feel of his grip on my waist when he pulled me down over him. The look on his face the night we’d said good-bye.
“Alec,” I whispered.
As his gaze lowered down my face to my mouth, I became aware of how dry my lips were and licked them. His jaw flexed and his eyes roamed again. My throat. My bare shoulders. My fingers, white with their grip on the empty glass. Every part of me came alive under his stare. My blood felt like fire coursing through my veins. My skin, so sensitive I could feel the air from the vents brush across it and raise goose bumps. I felt so alive in that moment I wondered if I’d been dead before, because nothing felt as real as I did when I was with him.
Clapping came from around the stage behind us, reminding me of our surroundings—reminding me that this was a fund-raiser dinner for court-appointed advocates and that Alec shouldn’t have been here. I blinked, trying to decipher if he was real, or if I’d just imagined him again. I hadn’t had a lot to drink lately; maybe the champagne had pushed me right over the edge into psychosis.
I couldn’t decide if I was more relieved or disappointed at the prospect of him being a hallucination.
Test: “What are you doing here?”
His gaze shot back up to mine, giving my pulse a jolt. It was too intense, too exposing, and I looked down at my glass. My hair swung over the side of my face, and in those seconds I was grateful for Amy’s flatiron work, because I was in serious need of a curtain to hide behind.
But then he had to go and touch me.
I was unable to move as I watched his hand move toward my face. His warm fingertips brushed my cheek, eliciting the tiniest of gasps that made him pause. Slowly, the back of his hand slid down the edge of my hair before tucking it over my shoulder.
As if he’d done something wrong, he scowled, and shoved his hands into his pockets.
The Confession Page 4
